The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2)

by Lauren Campbell

  Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Campbell

  All Rights Reserved.

  Without restricting the rights reserved under copyright, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored, scanned, photocopied, recorded, or distributed in any manner via any method, whether electronically or manually, unless given written permission from the author, other than brief quotations for the purpose of writing reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, mention of actual places, name brands, and all other content within this book are fictional or used in a fictitious manner as a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or anything else is coincidental.

  Any band names, television shows, song lyrics, etc. are property of their copyright owners, and were used fictitiously.

  ISBN-13: 978-1976416514

  ISBN-10: 1976416515

  Editor – Madison Seidler

  Cover Designer – Murphy Rae of Indie Solutions

  Interior Formatting – Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Connect

  For my dad, from whom I only got half of my craziness.

  And to my boys. Always to you, buddies, even though you’re forbidden from reading my books until you’re adults.

  March 17, 2016

  We settle into a corner at the nearest Jansen Brewing, the cleansing smell of coffee beans filling my nose, my fingers running absentmindedly through the ends of my hair. I’m nervous, an unfortunate combination of sickness and elation. He seems rushed—not at all how I hoped he would be, not considering our history.

  He licks his lips, his tongue gliding over them like icing on a warm cookie. I can’t help but yearn for the past, even though the past is gone. Before we’d arrived, I’d thought there was a chance between us, but now I’m unsure.

  “I’m sorry if this is awkward,” I say, because it is. It’s not the magical reunion I’d expected it to be. He’s tense, fingers lightly tapping on the wooden table in a show of boredom. Am I boring? Did I say something wrong? He didn’t even order a coffee in his own chain, though I’m sure he’s had enough in his life to form an aversion.

  “It’s not,” he assures me, though his baby blues are lying.

  I buy myself some seconds, savoring a sip of their most popular roast. “It’s okay. You can admit it.”

  He shrugs. I’m blowing this, and I don’t even know where things went wrong.

  He clears his throat. “It’s not that,” he says. “It’s just something sort of came up … just something I have to do, and I’m kind of running late.”

  Screw it. “Brooks...” I want to reach out for his hand, but I stop myself. It isn’t the right time. “I don’t understand. You seemed happy about seeing me, but now I feel like you wish you hadn’t agreed to come. Did I do something?”

  His knee bobs up and down, he rubs the back of his neck, and his forehead has become slick with sweat since we sat down just moments ago. “No. It’s not you. It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I’m just not sure I was ready for this.”

  My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. I was so sure that things would go well. I never imagined seeing him today would resemble another breakup. “I see.” I push my coffee to the side of the table. Play with my hands.

  “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know a date was your intent.” His eyes pierce through mine, burning me with every word.

  I’d thought we were on the same page, but it’s clear I was terribly wrong. I’d thought, when we stood in line, and I hooked my arms through his, he would pull me closer to him, would welcome the physical contact. I hadn’t expected him to stand there, rigid, until I sheepishly released him. I knew in that moment that I’d misjudged him … misinterpreted his friendliness. I’d mistaken his offer for coffee for lingering feelings. Had jumped into the pool of romance entirely too soon—clothes, shoes, and all. I had screwed up.

  “I understand. I’m sorry, I … I misjudged.” Shame. I should have handled this more delicately—should have waited for him to make the first move. Now, I’m short of words, and I fear I won’t see him again.

  “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have led you on.”

  “You didn’t.” I want to cry.

  “I did. I should have made it clear this wasn’t a date. It’s not your fault.”

  I want to hate him for this. I want to tell him to fuck off, throw my coffee in his face, something. But then I’d be burying any hope that may exist, and I’m not willing to do that. I’d be a fool if I did that. Brooks is damaged goods, fresh off the train of love that crashed into heartbreak. I can’t expect him to be ready for me yet. But, if I’m patient, I think he’ll come around. I simply must go about things the right way. I need to play my cards right, maybe even tell some white lies.

  I need to play hard to get.

  I smile. “Okay, so perhaps this is slightly your fault. But I think you’re not the only one who misjudged.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “I didn’t think this was a date. Honestly, I thought we’d have some coffee, and then have a little fun. Nothing more.”

  He laughs, quick, but light. “Oh,” he says, his head moving in one long, slow nod.

  I bite my lip. “It’s been a really long time for me. I don’t know about you.”

  He blushes. “It hasn’t been on my priority list since I called off the engagement,” he admits. “It’s not that I don’t miss sex, but most women want strings.”

  I lie. “Not me. Not right now. Definitely not ready for that. I don’t think anyone could tie me down again at this point.” Men love women who are unavailable. I don’t know why I keep forgetting.

  “Interesting.” I can see his gears turning. I’ve saved myself. His phone chirps. He looks at it, then stuffs it back into his pocket. “Listen, uh �
�� it was great seeing you, but unfortunately I gotta run. Maybe we can finish this conversation another time.”

  “I’d love to.”

  We both stand, and he pulls me in for a hug, his strong arms pressing me briefly into his chest.

  “Good seeing you, Kate.”

  The sound of the doorbell startles me. I stand, then quickly return the vase containing my parents’ ashes to the mantle, and give them a quick kiss. I glance in the fireplace at Ivy’s notebook—the girl I once was but am no more, and dust off my hands.

  Gliding to the door, I tousle my hair, and blot my face with the sleeve of my shirt. The doorbell rings again, and I jolt. Fill my lungs with a calming, deep breath, before slowly releasing it.

  This is it. My first date with my future husband. I am going to be Mrs. Jansen. I am, I am, I am. And one day, I can look back on this and tell our children just how nervous and excited, but how very ready, I was.

  When I open the door, my smile fades.

  “Wanna hit up some Irish bars? Eat some green eggs and ham for the ol’ St. Paddy’s?”

  I sigh, looking past Jared for any sign of Brooks on the barren street. “Since when do you knock?”

  “Since you apparently started locking the door,” he quips.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I … I have a date.”

  “A date? He squints at first, but then he smiles—the bronze of his cheeks turning berry. “Well, look at you, getting out there.”

  I pull the door shut behind me, and step onto the porch. “Anyway, uh … I hate to kick you out, but I don’t want my date to get the wrong idea. He should be here any minute.”

  He shrugs, his hands rising in defeat. “Guess I’ll call Kim, then.”

  “One of your new playthings?”

  He reaches his car. Turns around and shakes his head. “Nah. She’s been around awhile.”

  I laugh. “Be careful.”

  I go back inside, staring at the clock on my phone impatiently. Eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes late. I want to text him, ask where he is, but I decide thirty minutes will be less needy. Emily isn’t clingy. But he better not be blowing me off, or I’ll make him wish he were still with Eliza.

  But he isn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t, because we’re meant to be, and nobody fucks with God’s plan.

  Two years ago, it wasn’t even a possibility to me that my parents could both be taken from this Earth, courtesy of a drugged-out driver. And, just over a year ago, I’d have never guessed I’d be waiting for Brooks to show up at my house. Never would have expected my estranged bitch grandmother to also die, after winning the lottery—twice—and leave her millions to me. Wouldn’t have dreamed I’d have the balls to go through near total-body plastic surgery, transforming me from grotesque to hot. That I’d actually succeed in breaking up his engagement to Eliza, the bitch who tortured me as a teen after breaking my nose on purpose, and then latched onto Brooks.

  Eliza—the reason I was ugly and not the content Plain Jane I was born to be. The weight loss, blonde hair, new teeth, big tits, new chin, liposuction, lip lift, fillers, blepharoplasty, and most importantly, rhinoplasty, were all for Brooks, but because of her. Playing bestie to his girlfriend and girlfriend to his bestie worked, so I suppose I should thank her.

  But, where the fuck is my prize?

  I didn’t spend the last four months walking my dog in the park, hoping to run into him, only to have him ghost me today. After an awkward haven’t-seen-you-in-forever chat, he’d agreed to fix my garbage disposal that I then hastily broke for him. So, I’m holding him to his commitment, just like I plan to hold him to the promise he’d made in fifth grade to marry me someday.

  Twenty-two minutes. Close enough.

  I just pulled up at my house. Totally forgot the time. Hope I didn’t miss you.

  He replies almost immediately. On my way. Had to get supplies. Glad you weren’t waiting around.

  Sounds good.

  I smile, hugging the phone to my chest. Everyone always envies high school sweethearts. But Brooks and I—well, technically Ivy and Brooks, but whatever—were elementary sweethearts, and that is infinitely more special. But who cares about Ivy. Every shred of her memory is now a casserole of memories in the fireplace. I don’t need her past holding me back.

  Forget her.

  I’m sitting on the porch when he finally arrives, painting the final coat of emerald polish on my nails. It’s the only green I’ll be wearing today as I associate it with Eliza—who reminds me of vomit because she makes me fucking sick.

  I’d imagined being inside when Brooks arrived, the gust of fresh air as I opened the door to his perfect face playing out all romantical and shit. But the plastic fumes from the binder of the notebook started to get to me. I coughed. Hacked. Then decided I needed to go outside and air out the place, so here I am.

  I stuff the polish in my pocket, my heartbeat indecisive as his car turns in my driveway. I can’t see his face due to the glare on the windshield, but I stand. Walk to the bottom of the steps, and wait. The driver’s side door opens, and in a haze of euphoria, he’s approaching me, million-dollar smile, muscles showcased under a tight, green T-shirt with a clover on the front.

  He reaches me, bag of tools in hand, still smiling. I want to hug him, but then I’d probably rip off his clothes, and my nails haven’t cured yet.

  “Sorry I am late. Long line at Home Depot.”

  “I’m glad you were, since I was too.” I smile. Lead him inside to the house I’ve scrubbed sterile for him.

  I shut the door behind us, and Lucy barks from the bedroom. Sometimes I think she senses my thoughts, so I think: Quiet down, bitch. Then, I feel bad, so: Sorry, just kidding, love you, bye.

  Brooks sniffs. “You smell that?”

  “What?” Oh, my God, did I put on deodorant?

  “Smells like … burning plastic or something.” His eyes move to the fireplace.

  “Oh … yeah. Old house,” I shrug.

  He smiles, then moves past me to the kitchen, and sets his tool bag on the counter. He turns on the water and watches the sink fill. “How long has it been clogged?”

  I hover behind him at a distance, but close enough to smell the scent of a fresh shower on him. “Couple days.”

  He flips the switch to turn on the disposal. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t hum. It is D-E-A-D, dead. Whew! My eyes are glued to him, memorizing, as he gets on his knees to tinker beneath the sink. His shirt rises amid all his shifting, revealing the shallow dips of two dimples above the top of his jeans.

  “Hmm,” he says. He gets up and looks through the bag he brought. He stretches some gloves over his hands. Reaches into the disposal. “Well, there is definitely something down here.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  He struggles a bit, the muscles in his arms rising and falling with every jerk. I wonder if that’s how they’d look if I watched him jerk off from behind—a real voyeur, I’d be!

  “I don’t know, but...” he grunts. “It’s almost like it’s a part of the damn thing.”

  Finally, he pulls something out, his back still to me. Then, he flips the switch, and the disposal is up and running again. Dammit, that was too quick. I wanted to see that ass all day.

  “What was it?” But, of course, I know it’s a hunk of toothpicks and melted candle wax.

  He flips off the disposal, then turns. Holds the chunk of waxy, wooden shards closer to me, wearing a look of what the fuck on his face. “Looks like an army of termites threw up in your sink.”

  “Oh my God.” My eyes bulge, and I open the trashcan for him.

  He chucks it inside before tossing his gloves too. He laughs. “You know you aren’t supposed to put toothpicks down your disposal, right?”

  “Obviously.” I roll my eyes playfully. “Must have happened when I watched my neighbor’s kid.” There really is a little girl named Everly, and I really did see her outside during my clogging efforts, so yay for basically telling the truth!

  “Kid
s.” He smiles, then gathers up his tools and zips his bag.

  I move back into the living area, not knowing what to do or say next other than, “Thank you. I really appreciate you fixing it.”

  He follows, closing the distance between us. “Hard to resist a damsel in distress.”

  Is that what he likes? Come to think of it, Eliza was a fucking mess. Is a mess.

  We stare at each other, the seconds ticking into an uncomfortable silence. If I didn’t know him, I’d be afraid. He’s intimidating in the dingy light of this room, bag of potential murder weapons in hand. The blank expression and dark hair only softened by the bright turquoise of his eyes—eyes that make you want to hold their gaze, while their owner fucks you senseless.

  His lips curl into a half-smile. “Well, I would say we could catch up over a drink since it’s St. Patrick’s Day and all, but I’m sure you probably have plans.”

  “I don’t!” I blurt, and then try to fix my eagerness. “I mean, St. Patrick’s isn’t really a big deal to me, hence the very little green I’m wearing.” I hold up my hands, showing him my nails.

  His free hand grabs for one of them, and I shiver. “Cheater,” he says, releasing his grip. No, pretty sure that’s your cunt ex-fiance, I think. “Put on a green shirt. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  Oh my God. He’ll wait for me. In the car. His car. A drink. A date. My dream. I roll my eyes. Lift my shoulders. “Well, I’m not one to turn down a free drink.”

  My heart punches my ribs with every clack of my wedges against the porch steps. My white jeans and crop top are demurely sexy—enough to tempt him, but not enough to say, “Hey, I’m a slut. Come eat this pussy!” Sunlight is still bouncing off Brooks’s windshield, hiding any reaction he may be having to how hot I look.

  He climbs out of the car, and beats me to the passenger side, the cool breeze ruffling his hair.

  Brownie point for opening the door!

  I tuck myself into the seat, delighting in the stiff black leather and chemical smell of newness. The door slams, its thud bringing along a sense of imminent dread. My body trembles with nervousness, because I’m in his fucking car. Going to get a drink. Just us. I begin to panic and contemplate bolting for the house. That, or sucking him off right here—a little road head with a side of swallow. I can’t decide.