I shrug. Nod toward Sarah. “It’s just sad.” And it is. It’s sad what I’ve done. His thumb rubs against my cheek, and subconsciously I know he’s softening again, the hardness of his emotions thawing out beautifully. But somehow, in this moment, it doesn’t even matter to me. Here I am, in this 200-square-foot room of lost memories, lost time, and I have taken advantage of this woman.
I stand, breaking free of his hands. Wipe away my tears. “I can’t stay any longer.”
“Okay,” he whispers.
I look at her again, the blankness in her eyes back. I walk to the bed. Touch her hand. She looks at me, and squints her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asks, but I don’t worry about Brooks questioning our relation anymore.
I swallow, intent on not breaking out into a sob. “I have something for you. Two things, actually.” I walk around the bed and pick up the Jesus figurine. Place it in her hands once more. She regards it the same way she did the first time. Asks the same question about Asian Jesus. While she’s still turning it in her hands, studying it from all angles, I walk to my purse. Pick something out of it. “Can I put this on you?”
“What is it?”
“It’s lipstick. Red lipstick. I thought you’d like it.”
Her eyes sparkle as her smile appears. “You know, back when I had my first kiss, I wore that. My sister, Mary, and I had gone to the roller rink...”
When she finishes her story for the second time, I ask her to hold still. Carefully, I trace her lips with the red stain and grab my compact for her to look at it.
She smiles. Fluffs her hair. “Well, I look older now than back then, but I still got it!” Her laughter dries the salty rivers spilling from my eyes. Maybe even in one of my most selfish moments, I’ve done some good.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m not too far gone.
We stand on the dock together, sun beating on our necks, Emily’s arms crossed as she stares out at the water. The leather-skinned man selling me the boat I promised to buy sight-unseen shows me a secret compartment for storage.
We had left Sarah and headed straight here. On the way, I didn’t press Emily. I didn’t ask her questions, didn’t bring up the visit. I gave her space, because that is what she needed. It was obvious during the visit she wasn’t prepared for the severity of Sarah’s condition. Alzheimer’s is a complicated disease, one I watched eat away at my great-grandfather’s memories until he passed. I empathized with her, with the helplessness she must have felt, her desire to fix something that can’t be fixed.
And I also grew even more enamored with her. As I sat across the room and watched her weep at the shell of her grandmother, I would have bargained with the devil if I could make her mine. When she looked at me with tears filling her eyes, devastation dripping down her face, I would have given anything to see her smile, or laugh … anything other than tears.
So, I also needed that silence in the car, because just as she was processing the fact that her grandmother is not much better than dead, I was processing that I have been falling for her. That I would drag her along on a trip, invite myself on hers, spend sixty-thousand on a boat I don’t need yet as an excuse to be near her. That I would abandon my morals for her. That if I could be with her without anyone finding out, I would.
“And that’s it,” the man says, patting the side of the boat, his drawl particularly thick, the hollows of his eyes lighter than the rest of his skin, thanks to sunglasses.
We sign the bill of sale. I pull the check from my wallet, quickly fill in the information, then work out the shipment details with a boat transport company. People would think I am nuts if they knew the ulterior motive behind this purchase, and Emily would likely be thoroughly creeped out.
But sometimes lies can be good. Even sixty-thousand dollar ones.
We feast on Southern food at a place called Big Mike’s for a late lunch/early dinner. It is small, but welcoming, with its red-and-white picnic-style tablecloths and a clear view of the cooking being done. Emily has lightened up a little. She doesn’t look as melancholy or stiff, though her eyes are still puffy from crying so much. She picks at her barbeque chicken, unconcerned about her fingers getting messy, and it makes me like her even more. Eliza would have used a fork.
I reach past her, and swipe a piece of cornbread from her plate. For the first time since the nursing home, she smiles.
“Were you gonna eat that?” I ask, my tone playful.
She shakes her head. “I don’t do carbs. Except when cute boys take me to Italian.” She smiles at me again.
I take a bite of the cornbread and hold it out to her. “Come on. You deserve it.”
She laughs. “I deserve cellulite?”
I pop the rest of the muffin into my mouth. “More cushion for the pushin’.” I shrug and wink at her, and she blushes.
“Except there won’t be any of that, right?” She picks up her fork, and stabs some green beans.
Ouch. “Emily, I’m—I’m sorry for the way I acted last night. I want you to know that. You didn’t deserve it.”
Her eyes flick to mine. She seems receptive, but I won’t feel better until she voices it. She doesn’t respond, and excuses herself to the bathroom. It feels like forever until she comes back, and when she does, her eyes are puffier than when she left.
“Hey—” Without thinking, I am up from the table, sitting next to her, my arm rubbing her back. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
She shakes her head in protest, her eyes squeezing shut, face falling into her slender fingers.
“Is it your grandmother?” She doesn’t answer. “Is it ... me?”
She shrugs, and that’s the only answer I get. I’ve clearly opened a wound, and I decide not to keep talking. My apology must have come too soon, lit her sadness all over again. When our lively waitress comes, I mouth to her that she can take my plate. Finally, Emily drops her hands, and slowly continues eating tiny, lazy bites while I hold her.
She needs a distraction, something to take her mind off today. I take the check to the counter and pay. When I return, she seems a bit better, but still a mess.
It’s upsetting, seeing her like this.
“Let’s go back to the house so you can get ready. I have a surprise for you tonight.”
Everything is dark, the soft silk of a scarf Brooks purchased shielding my eyes and keeping his scent close to my nose. He pulls me from the car, my shoes skidding on pebbled pavement. The salt is heavy in the air, and I determine we’re very close to the ocean. I love surprises, but my excitement is marred by the experience of today—the beginning of my descent into shitty personhood. The realization that, just like Eliza, I might not deserve his goodness. Maybe I should sacrifice my own happiness so he can have someone who deserves him.
“Okay,” he says, shutting the car door and guiding me about twenty steps. “Open your eyes.”
I pull the fabric up onto my forehead, and open them, my pupils taking a few seconds to adjust to the bright lights of the Ferris wheel.
“Surprise!” he murmurs, the word blowing into my ear, waking my pussy, even in my sadness.
He spins me around to him, his forehead creased, lower lip bitten in uncertainty. “We can do something else or go back to the house if you want, but I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“No, I’m excited! I love Ferris wheels!” And I do. As a kid, I rode one once when my parents took me to the zoo. It was a small one, but I had such fun with them.
We wait in line forever, it seems. He stands behind me, his hands rubbing my arms to keep me warm in the ocean breeze. When we finally get seated in a car, he sits next to me instead of across from me. His arm stays around me, thumb rubbing circles over my skin. Even though I’m a depressed bitch right now, I almost feel like we’ve taken an important turn on this road—one to love. The ride begins, the Ferris wheel rotating us toward the sky, the lights of the nearby carnival spectacular and bright. We watch people getting on rides, holding their cotton candy, their hot dogs, their
popcorn. I sigh, not believing this is real. Wanting to pinch myself until Brooks looks at me, our eyes connect in a jolt of passion.
His smile is life—it’s happiness, it’s everything right. In the happiness of the moment, I don’t worry about the book. I hook my arm around the hardness of his bicep, to which he responds by rubbing my knee. Though I don’t deserve it, I can’t help but soak up this moment, cuddled against him as if he could save me if our car detached and crashed toward the ground. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel loved, even through his rejection, even through his lack of telling me those coveted three words.
“Look!” he points.
I trace his finger to a clown on giant stilts, groups of kids crowding around him. It reminds me of when we were young. I lean my head against him. Suck his smell into my lungs, that earthiness of a god filling me. His fingers slide under my thighs, my pussy throbbing in response.
“It’s beautiful up here.”
“You’re beautiful … you know that, right?” He locks eyes with me. Brushes a finger through my hair. Presses his lips quickly to mine, as soft and smooth as the untarnished skin of youth.
My heart splinters into infinite pieces, floating into his lap, ready for him to reassemble and claim as his property.
When our ride is over and we’re stepping from the cart, he rubs my back—such a simple, loving thing to do. Gosh, I love him. I love him so fucking much that I’ve become someone else, someone I’m not sure I’m proud of.
And I hate myself, because I’d do it all again.
We’re winded once we get back to the house, but apparently neither of us are tired.
“You wanna have a drink and talk or something? If you’re tired or if you’d rather not, I totally understand.”
“Talking sounds good. I’d like that.”
“Cool.” His hand is poised on the vodka on the counter, and I nod. “O.J.?”
I shake my head. “I’ll take it straight.”
He raises his brows. Pours less than he would have if he were going to add juice. I take it, throw it back—the sting in my throat making me feel alive. Human. It settles in my stomach, and I ask for another. Hesitantly, he refills it. Passes it to me. I gorge on it, getting off on the fire sliding down my throat, like I’m scorching the devil inside, burning away her bad deeds.
I slap it on the counter. Slide it toward him.
“More?”
I nod. I see worry in his eyes, because maybe he knows where this is going. Drunk girl equals horny girl in almost all situations. Of course, I’m horny all the fucking time for him, but that’s irrelevant. Drinking gives you the courage to do something about it.
If he’ll give it to me, I’ll take it.
Fuck the book.
Fuck.
The.
Book.
It may have sped things up, may have been a catalyst for the present battle inside his heart, but perhaps it isn’t a good thing. Perhaps this was too fast for him. Maybe if I’d taken this slower, he’d be more certain I’m the right woman for him. The only woman for him. Then, maybe I wouldn’t be fucking with the vulnerable mind of a granny. Maybe I’d still have some good in me.
My hand points to the glass. “More.”
The granite between us separates the inevitable. He rests his hands on the counter, leaning over it a bit. He smiles. Licks his lips before crossing his arms. “I think that’s enough for now.” Then, he downs two shots himself. I watch his throat as it rises and drops dramatically in one sharp jerk—and wonder … would it look like that while he sucked me?
When he sets down the glass, he turns. Searches through a plastic bag that’s on the counter, and pulls two chocolate bars from it.
“I bought these when I got the flashlight … that we didn’t really use.” An apologetic smile appears, and disappears just as quickly. His head nods toward the living room area, and once he brushes past me, I immediately follow like a pesky child, unable to take my eyes off the broadness of his shoulders, the harsh lines of him.
He sits on the couch. Spreads his arms across the back of it. I sit on the other end, my left leg curled beneath me, other foot on the floor. His eyes stare at the ceiling, fingers drum on the fabric. I prop up my elbow, and rest my cheek in my hand. I’m starting to feel it now, that prickling dizziness that emboldens even the most reserved of people.
I have no idea where this road to Brooks’s heart will take me now, but I’ve decided to be at peace. It’s too late to turn back. This is the bed I’ve made for myself. And fuck yes, I’m going to sleep in it tonight.
He turns his head, our eyes staring, mouths pulled back in the slightest of smiles.
They’re smiles of guilt, both of us knowing where this is going, but neither of us doing what would ordinarily be the right thing—going to bed. Instead, he inches his body closer to mine, and urges me closer, too. Now, we are sitting against each other, his arm around me—the touch natural and effortless. I always see this in movies—two people fucking each other’s brains out amid their buzz.
I don’t know what to do or what he wants me to do, so I hold his gaze until I can’t take it anymore. If I keep looking into those brilliant blues, I’ll move too quickly—straddle him in a bold panic of need.
And I don’t want that.
I want him to lead us. Want him to pull me to his lap, unzip his pants, put his cock inside me, without me having to beg, because I can’t take another of his remorseful moments. I need him to crave me so desperately he can’t help but cut through his fucking moral obligation to his best friend.
I think we are about to kiss, but he interrupts our gaze with, “You never talk about your parents.”
In an instant, bile crawls up my throat. “What’s to say?”
“Do they ever visit you? Tell me about them.”
Quickly, I state their middle names. “Evelyn and Lewis.” I shift on the couch. “They’re just busy like anyone else. We don’t see each other much. Half the time they’re across the world.” The words roll off my tongue in convincing honesty, but I can’t help but feel like there’s a giant “L” for liar on my forehead. Evelyn and Lewis will have to die sometime, if Brooks and I do have a future together. They’d be expected at the wedding, the birth of the first grandchild—unless I hire someone to portray them, but it would be a long-term job until I could kill them off.
Actually, maybe that’s a great fucking idea. I already have a fake grandma, what’s a couple of fake parents? I’m already three-quarters of the way to hell, anyway.
“It must be tough being an only child.”
If he only knew. Being an only child sucks. I had to handle everything myself—the funeral arrangements, the grief. The only relatives I have are an aunt and uncle on my dad’s side, and a cousin named Joe, who’s in jail on murder charges. And fuck them, because they didn’t even care that Dad died, or Mom. They sent a card and were done with it.
“It’s hard sometimes. I always wanted a sister I could share secrets with.”
“But … the plus side is their company will be all yours—no will to fight over.”
Before he can ask me any slippery questions, I turn the questions to him. “That’s definitely a positive. Any money battles in your future? Are you and your brother close?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Sometimes. We have our disagreements. We weren’t close when I was younger. I resented him for a long time because he got to stay in the States when I was hauled to another country. But as I got a little older, I realized it wasn’t his fault.”
“So, you didn’t like being away, is that what it was? You were jealous?”
His eyes fall to his lap now, his thumb beginning to draw circles on my knee. I want to skip to the good stuff, which is the fucking, but this experience is one to be savored. It mustn’t be rushed or sped through.
“I guess you could say that. And I missed my best friend, Ivy.” He turns his body toward mine. Reaches up to run his thumb over my cheekbone. “You know what? I just r
ealized you have the same eyes.”
My pulse speeds up in an instant, heartbeat drumming loudly in my ears. Jesus, not now. “As who?”
“Ivy. They’re almost exactly the same. I don’t know why I didn’t notice before.”
I try to consume the frog that rests in my throat, but it’s no use. I’m worried any second he’s going to put two and two together—that suddenly everything will click to him. He said he would never forget my eyes. Well, what if he decides they are the same?
“They’re nothing extraordinary. Just typical blue eyes.”
“No. Everything about you is extraordinary, Emily. You’re one of a kind.”
Oh my God. Swoon. I love when he expresses his feelings. I want to reach inside his mouth and pull out all his words and slather them on my skin. Stuff them into my ears like they’re gold-spun Q-tips.
I smile, but not too big, and he adds, “Don’t ever forget that.”
His addition stirs something in my stomach. My eyes begin to burn. “Sounds like parting words.” I play it off as well as I can, a quick laugh leaving my mouth.
“Don’t read into it. Neither of us knows what will happen tomorrow or a year from now. I just think it’s important you know how amazing you are.”
“Thank you.”
At that very moment, his fingers trail up my thigh and briefly interlock with mine before they move to my chin. He gazes at me, and I bite my lip as his tongue slides over his own. His head moves close to me, and he presses his forehead against mine. His eyes close as he leans against me. His breath quickly becomes ragged and labored, like he’s about to step onto a crowded stage and is suddenly panicking about it.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t say it.”
The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2) Page 18
