I know in my last life I believed none of us held any control over where we’re at, that it wasn’t up to any of us, but I decide to at least try to make the right decisions, so that in the end if I did have control, I used it correctly.
At the insistence of my father, I enroll in Seattle’s finest art school and begin classes the following fall.
And I gotta tell ya, it’s a fuck ton better learning shading techniques and brush angles than painting some same old home décor piece in front of thirty drunk moms.
There was a little more involved than me just moving in with Rome, but it didn’t take long for either of us to get into the swing of being brother and sister.
As for my love life or social life, I don’t possess one. I stick to my family for the most part. Rarely do I speak to anyone in my classes and even more seldom do I speak in public.
I tried to live a life with romance and deep rooted friendships, and I stayed on the razor’s edge of suicide or drug abuse, so maybe this time…I should pass.
I pour myself into my painting, every tear, every sorrow, and every old ache and pain I have at night while I lie awake thinking of Ryker and our daughter and our could-have-been, every morning after, I bleed it out on canvas until there’s nothing left, then I rinse and repeat the next day.
It’s the end of my first year when I finally snag my dream job as a bike design artist for one of the top marketing firms in Seattle. Harley Davidson was my only account, and I was perfectly accepting of that.
Keeping up with work and school meant I was running almost nonstop. I usually woke up before the sun rose, burned the midnight oil almost every night, and losing a weekend was not a rare occurrence, but shit, did it piss my mother off.
I jolt awake from another nightmare including Ryker, his whore, and her child. After swallowing a few times to clear the lump lodged in my throat, I lick my dry lips and look at my phone.
5:45.
It’s dark out and my sleepiness has me at a disadvantage, I can’t remember when I fell asleep. If it was early morning or evening.
A knock is the only introduction I receive before Rome walks in to my room. He flips on light after light as he explains, “Mom called. Today is the second day she hasn’t heard from you this weekend, or some shit. And if you don’t want her feelings getting hurt, you better get your pale ass up, shower and get dressed because we’re going to meet them for dinner tonight at grandmother’s favorite, Jaque’s, at eight p.m.” He glances at his watch. “We’re leaving in an hour and a half, I’m going to mix myself a drink, you.” He points towards the bathroom. “Shower. You want a virgin something or some tea?”
He stops on his way out the door and tilts his head to the side before smirking and looking over his shoulder at me.
“Fuck no, I don’t want a virgin. I’ll grab a Red Bull.” I shoo him off and close the door.
I don’t know why my mother is so sensitive, but if it’s a cage my brother avoids rattling, I’ll follow suit.
I appreciate Rome and the distance he seems to keep between himself and others. So much so, that I adopt many of his ways. Or as many as the ones we don’t already share.
Rome and I are a lot alike. It’s almost eerie. So much so, I’ve caught myself thinking the exact words he’s speaking more than once.
After I shower and dress in some loose fitting dark gray linen pants and a black cowl neck top, I comb my mousse covered fingers through my short hair and smear on some red lip gloss, grab my wallet and head downstairs.
Rome is pouring vodka in his Red Bull when he looks up and gestures at the bar, “Virgin Red Bull. On the rocks.”
I chuckle, “What is it with you and virgins, tonight, Rome?” I look over his attire, a wife-beater and some basketball shorts, and when my eyes land on his bare feet, I ask, “Are you ready?”
“Don’t know about the virgin thing, hopefully that’ll pan out later. And what do you mean, ‘Am I ready?’ Of course I’m ready.” He swallows the remaining liquid in his glass before setting it on the bar. “Be right back.”
And literally, five minutes later he saunters from his room and into the main area dressed to the nines in Michael Kor slacks and a form-fitting, probably tailored t-shirt, adjusting his watch band. When he looks up, he asks, “Ready, lil sis?”
I down my virgin Red Bull before standing, “Big sis. Remember?” And off we go to appease our mother.
On the ride to Jaque’s, Rome and I are our usual quiet selves until he turns his Range Rover left onto Fifth street. “Ives, have you asked what happened to Blythe? I know it had been several years since you two spoke, but still…ya know?”
Without thinking, I speak truthfully, “I don’t fucking care what happened to her. What…where in the hell is this coming from, Rome?”
As he pulls into the parking lot under the neon sign flashing Jaque’s, he smiles and shrugs, “I don’t know. Sorry, I was just wondering, Ivy. Lighten up, batter down the defense. I promise, I come in peace. Shit, little sister.” He chuckles, but the question is stuck.
What happened to her?
I never asked, they never told. I assumed she went to jail, but I never heard of a trail. Surely my parents wouldn’t have just brushed it off, called it a whoopsie daisy and set it all right. Right?
Maybe they didn’t know.
Maybe they wanted it the same way I did—clean, and without questions.
Gather the knowledge you want and leave the rest behind, for we call it the tree of knowledge and then arm ourselves with the tools it supplies to help aide us in our own self-destruction. Forgive my philosophical thoughts, as you remember, I do digress…
With full intentions of ‘letting sleeping dogs lie’, I smile before speaking to the hostess, “Party of four, the other two may already be seated, the Paynes?”
The sweetheart faced blonde hostess smiles and gathers two menus at the exact moment my brother declares under his breath, “There she is, I have found the aforementioned virgin I was subconsciously searching out earlier, Ives. And Jesus Christ had to’ve made that ass. Mmm.”
I cut my eyes at him and shake my head, “God, Rome. Seriously?” I hiss.
When we spot our parents, out of forced habit I smile and greet my mother first, “Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “It’s been a crazy week. Sorry.”
As I go to sit after hugging my dad’s neck, she waves her hand while sitting across from me, “Don’t be sorry, Ivy, that’s silly, and week? Honey, haven’t you slowed down enough to see that the week is over, hell the weekend is almost over.” She glances at Dad, “Roman, tell her to slow down.” Then averts her attention quickly back to me, “I don’t like you working and going to school, Winter Ivy. I told you I didn’t like it at the beginning of the year, and now I’m telling your father, Roman, I don’t like it.”
The conversation continues without my reply, and I follow my thoughts like the white rabbit down the hole of thought and wonder.
Do I care what happened to Blythe?
I’m able to smile and keep up the façade of being mentally checked in while handing the menu to the waiter and ordering promptly on cue as the wheels in my head spin.
When I ran away from Blythe’s the night after graduation, I ran smack into a bitch I swore I’d detest until my dying day, Delilah Foster, and when I say smack, I mean smack. Like there was a smacking noise that ricocheted off the asphalt when we both hit the ground after rounding the same opposing corner and crashing into each other.
The baggies that fell from her purse were all I needed to see as we quickly whispered our apologies and scooped up her belongings, shoving them into her bag while looking as inconspicuous as possible.
It was fate that night making sure I saw Delilah as the twin broken soul she was when her other bag fell down her shoulder causing her sweater to hang open, slightly revealing the pale pink scars crossing her ribs identical to the pale pink scars carved up my outer thigh.
I didn’t know varsity cheerleaders had so many of the sam
e proclivities as I during high school, and later that night, I would learn just how far away high school is from reality. I didn’t know shit about the real world. Not shit.
When my teary eyes met Delilah’s swollen ones, she handed me a joint, and as we smoked we shared stories.
I told her about mine and Aunt Blythe’s fight earlier that day.
I told her about how I came home and found her in another splitting rage yesterday afternoon and ended up taking the brunt of her pain in the form of my own, as she cursed her brother/lover Sebastian in between her random physical outbursts, screaming out her own rage and hurt. I told her how I finally snapped when she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about Ryker, a man named Roman, and how much they looked alike and how little of a man Roman was compared to her brother/lover, her Sebastian.
I smoked shit out of paper, I smoked shit out of pipes, hell I smoked shit out of coke cans, not one inhale did I ask what it was, we just talked and got high.
Me.
The loner with a few friends and Delilah fucking Foster, Valedictorian, class president, and head of the varsity cheerleading squad, cut out our hearts and bled them dry, without once judging the other.
The next morning, when the sun came up, I stumbled a bit, but once I got my footing, I hugged her neck and told her, “Delilah, I wish I’d have known years ago how wrong I was about you. Friends?” I’d never asked a girl to be my friend before, so I’m sure it was as awkward for her as it was for me.
“You didn’t have me any more wrong than I wanted to be seen as, Ivy bean.” She looked me in my eyes, “And fuck friends, we’re sisters now, bitch you’re stuck with me. Stay with me. I live in my mom’s apartment downtown now, you can sleep on the couch. Just don’t go back to Blythe’s. I have a feeling, and…I don’t like that bitch.”
And that was that. I stayed.
I stayed because it was easy.
See the common thread yet?
Easy.
I prefer easy.
I always have.
I glance from Mom to Dad then to Rome.
Rome doesn’t cause rifts. He keeps it easy.
I follow suit and let sleeping dogs lie.
“Actually, a really good friend of mine called today. He’s going to be in town in a few weeks on business, and I thought he could join us for a Saturday brunch at The Elk’s if that’s alright?” I ask.
“He?” Both father and son ask in unison.
Immediately, I staunch their concern and my mother’s blooming hope, “No. He’s not a ‘he’ like that. His name is Reese Bonacci. I grew up with him. He and I have been best friends since grade school.”
After they nod and mother’s face falls, I continue, “Daddy, you and Rome will like him. He’s big into bikes and politics and still enjoys his fine whisky. Mom, you’re going to love him. He talks like Matthew McCaughey and could probably out dance him on stage, it’s sickening, really,” I joke and warm nostalgia for Reese settles around my heart.
Maybe I can ease the easy parts of my old life into my new one.
It can’t be counter-productive to build new onto old, right?
I can combine easy and productive relationships from one life to another. I can. I know I can.
And I will.
Chapter 12
In the two weeks leading up to Reese visiting, I barely can catch my breath much less plan and make accommodations for my old friend. So when it’s nine-thirty and I’m dead on my feet, dragging ass into the empty parking garage on the night I’m supposed to pick him up thirty minutes earlier, I’m relieved when I look up and see Reese Paul Bonacci standing outside, leaning against his polished black Porsche.
“There she fucking is. Damn woman, you just get more fucking hot the older you get.”
Without thinking, I drop my canvas carrier and bags and run towards him, “Hey, my Reesie!” I hug his neck tightly as the tears well in my eyes.
I didn’t expect the smell of Reese to remind me of who isn’t here. I didn’t expect to hug my best friend’s neck for the first time in years and miss my first love, but shit happens. You move forward. You breathe and get through it, one day at a time.
After setting Ryker aside in my head and trying like hell to cut him out of my heart for the hundredth time, I tell Reese, “Come on, drive mynew Cooper, take us home, I’ll tell Rome to send Andrew for your car.”
Just as I thought, Reese is easy to slide into my life. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s Reese.
My family loves him, I love having him around, and he obviously likes Seattle, because his four day vacay in Seattle quickly passes and turns into two weeks. But on the night I drive him to the airport, he takes that easy and fucking hammers it into a bloody oblivion with his words, “Ryker and I talked yesterday while you were at school. He called in the morning right after you left. The bankers agreed, they gave us the loan to open our fifth LP’s.” He nods to no one as traffic passes the passenger window he looks though.
I briefly wonder if he’s nodding to himself, it’s almost as if he’s talking himself into saying something.
Then he finishes speaking.
“I don’t see any reason why it can’t be opening here, instead of Northern Cali, can you?” His words are placed more precisely than usual and masked in friendly tones, leaving me to believe they mean as little as they do to me.
“Not if Ryker doesn’t,” I tell him truthfully.
As we pull under the airport awning, he stutters, “Ives…I—I want you to not think about Ryker anymore. He’s…busy. And probably, it’s probably for the best that y’all are out of each other’s lives. You and him…you two went different ways. Y’all tried. But he’s moved on, and I really want to see you move on too.”
I turn in the driver’s seat towards Reese, my best friend and smile, telling as much of the truth as possible, “I am, Reese, I have.”
He hugs me tightly and whispers, “I’ll keep you posted, it’s still too early so don’t start ordering stationary, but…”
I kiss his cheek. “I’ll talk to you then. Mmkay?”
His hug tightens before releasing me, “Okay, Ivy bean. Till then.”
Four weeks and five days later, Reese Bonacci became a resident of Seattle Washington, and the elite Seattleites welcomed him and his booming bike business with open arms. It seems Lucky Pipes luck ran further than the Florida, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Oklahoma borders leading one of its co-owners straight back into my life, and I couldn’t be happier.
I won’t lie…
Reese and Rome did have a hard time getting along in the beginning, but once Reese stopped making advances towards Roman’s new virgin of the month, the tension settled and they became the closest of friends—not that Rome really had a choice, as Reese bought the house around the corner, three houses down from us.
It’s midnight and I’ve had to play beer bitch for them and their poker night buddies all night. But it’s cool, because in between grabbing beers for Rome’s friends and making sure the ashtrays were empty, I got to play poker with the boys.
I love poker. I love poker night. And I love being around the guys, their comradery makes me wonder, maybe it’s time I quit fishing for besties in my family pond. Don’t get me wrong, my family’s the best, they are—I just don’t see me and my mother being best friends. I don’t.
So, I make friends with Rome’s friends, I listen to them talk about work, friends, family, and I envy what they have.
“Pair of aces, pair of kings, gentleman.” Vick nods at Reese, then winks at me. “Lady.”
Amateur.
Out of six guys at the table, this is the idiot that keeps making me rich. Every time I want to place a bet, he thinks I’m bluffing and hones in, drunk as hell and upping the ante.
This is why I don’t drink.
This Freudian, feminist bastard, right here.
“Four of a kind.”
I lay out all four queens.
Like I said, amateur.
As most of the guys
whine and moan and then go to leave, Reese, Rome, and I laugh and pick fun while cleaning up the mess.
“I think Vick has it bad for our girl here, Ivy, don’t you, Reese?”
Reese mutters something over his shoulder, but I can’t make out what he’s saying until he turns and smiles, continuing, “Vick can go fuck himself. Hey, is it cool if I just leave in the morning?” He looks at his watch, stumbling slightly, “In two and a half hours?” He chuckles.
“Sure.” Rome and I don’t care. This isn’t the first time Reese stumbled to the couch instead of his way home.
It’s almost two in the morning by the time we’ve finished cleaning and I’m finally alone and showered. After applying some face lotion shit Rome bought me, I dress in a t-shirt and some boxers and head from the bathroom to the bedroom.
As I flip out the bathroom lights, Reese speaks, startling me, “I’m not gonna fuck you by the way,” he says.
“Yeah, well I’m not going to fall in love with you.” I tell him, laughing off my mini panic attack.
“You wanna bet?” He smirks.
I briefly wonder why he doesn’t have a shirt on, but my ADD/ADHD kicks in when my eyes land on his wide broad shoulders covered in tanned skin and freckles and my mouth waters.
“What are you doing, Reese?”
I’m frustrated with his constant little innuendoes never leading anywhere. What’s he doing? Where is he going with this shit? And it dawns on me. I haven’t been kissed in almost two and a half years.
Two and a half fucking years?
But before my mind can spiral out of control and into dark, desolate, depths of sorrows unknown, both of Reese’s hands are clamped down like a vice on my upper arms and he’s standing nose to nose with me.
He pauses.
He smiles.
He breathes.
“I’m letting the drinks talk for once. I’m telling you the truth, Ivy, instead of constantly trying to read your mind, I’m saying, ‘fuck it’, and telling you what’s on mine. I want you, Winter Ivy, all of you.”
Where the Ivy Hides Page 8
