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

by Lauren Campbell

  “Oh. Well, when are you coming back? I probably won’t damn remember, but I hope it’s soon, darlin’.”

  I squeeze her hand. She’s such a sweet old lady. “I’ll come back. Maybe in a month or two. I’ll fly next time so the trip won’t take me so long.”

  “Oh, I wish I could go with you. I hate this place. But I have Jesus with me. He’s always with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Granny.” Gosh, it feels good to say that. Maybe she was meant for me, and I for her. Bitch Grandma had to die so that Sarah and I could find one another. “I wish you could, too.” Crazily, I do wish she could. What would be so bad about her hanging around? She can’t have long left, so it’s not like it would be permanent. It could work so well. Really give meat to my past.

  “I’ll come back soon, I promise.”

  “Do what you said, and send me those pictures, okay? I want to remember you, but my dadgum brain doesn’t work.”

  “I’ll send them as soon as possible. You have my word.”

  “Bye now.”

  “Goodbye, Sarah.” I kiss her on her forehead, and place the tube of lipstick in her hands. “You keep this.”

  Tears well in her eyes, and I know we found each other for a reason. I know I’ve done some good.

  The drive home was torture. Brooks tried to chat more. He softened his tone, which made me feel a lot better about his asshole attitude and strange disappearance this morning. But the conversation was so stale and forced that I almost wished I’d had my own car so we could have driven separately. I love him, and I’d volunteer to talk physics with him while running a marathon, but I don’t want the cake of love we have made to gain a hole before it can be baked. I want a cake with layer upon layer of lust and love—not a Bundt cake.

  He stands behind me, waiting for me to open my front door. Thank God he’s coming in. If he didn’t get out of the car, I’d be really worried. Sex is a funny thing, I’ve learned. It does things to people’s minds. I’m sure that’s part of what’s going on. He’s absorbing everything that happened, utterly shocked at how fantastic it was. My cat got his tongue. Ha!

  Lucy barks from somewhere in the distance. I’m so excited to see my girl, but dogs are tons of work. I don’t know how people vacation all the time when they have pets. Always having to take them with them or board them. What a pain. Good thing I’m a loser and have no interest in going anywhere. I want to stay close to Brooks always.

  He needs to be watched.

  Emily zooms down the hall, excited to see her dog, and my heart stings at the thought of Janie. I can’t wait to get her back. Matter of fact, I will probably do that next week. I am ready, and the longer I wait, the more attached she will become to Deacon and the less she will be to me. And with the way Deacon has been going downhill lately, she doesn’t need to be with him, anyway.

  I don’t know why I followed Emily in her house. I can’t think about what I want to do if I’m around her. Of course, it is hard to resist candy if it is right in front of your face. I need to take a step back so I can objectively examine the situation.

  It is just so difficult to do that. It seems impossible. But I didn’t want to be rude. I was rude enough to her this morning by disappearing for two hours.

  The bedroom door opens and closes. I look down the hall, and Emily has shut herself inside, presumably because Lucy was going crazy. I hear her talking to her, Lucy’s low growls indicating her own excitement at seeing her human. Minutes go by, so I sit on the couch, tapping my fingers on it. When I shift to get more comfortable, something stabs me in the ass. I reach down into the corner of the couch, and pull it out.

  It’s a book. I toss it on the table before lunging forward and picking it back up, because something catches my eye. Huh?

  Being a Bitch: How to Trap Your Man for Good.

  What...

  I thumb the pages, my jaw going lax as I skim over step-by-step instructions on how to entice a man to be with you. And not just for a relationship … marriage. I try to explain this away in my mind, try to make an excuse that this book could have been something she read when she was with Deacon, but … why would it still be in her couch after all these months?

  I stare at it in disbelief, my eyes nearly detaching from their sockets as I find scribbled notes in the margins. Brooks called. Waited twenty-five minutes before responding. Worked.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck.

  The bedroom door opens again, and I quickly stuff the book back into the corner of the couch. I hurry across the room, and start pacing, trying to act normal, but probably looking anything but. Lucy trots around the corner, followed by Emily. I smile at her, then ruffle Lucy’s fur and rub under her chin.

  “You want to stay for a late dinner? I have stuff for tacos.”

  I do my best to conceal my astonishment. “Oh, I’d love to, but I promised my dad—I wish I could. Maybe later in the week.”

  She smiles. “Any day. You just let me know.”

  For good measure, I walk to her, wrap her in a hug before pecking her on the lips, contemplating the fact that I might be kissing the devil. She acts as if she wants more—her tongue sliding out to lick me again—and my cock stiffens. Physically, she drives me crazy. Emotionally, probably the same. But no fucking wonder, because she has been playing me all along.

  I need to get the fuck out of here. “Sure thing. See you later.”

  She is my shadow as I walk to the door, but I don’t look back at her. Instead, I walk to my car in silence, throwing my hand up in a lazy wave while mumbling “psycho” under my breath before I get in. I need to get home and download that book. I need to know what the fuck I have been dealing with.

  It is two AM, and I have finished reading the manual that she mistakenly thought would be a pathway to my heart. I chug another beer, and crush the can before throwing it into the pile that has accumulated on my deck.

  Fucking hell.

  What the fuck do authors think they are doing writing shit like this—fucking with people’s lives? Emily has completely and totally been playing me like a guitar with no strings. Everything in the book, every little fucking thing she has done. I noticed a total change in her demeanor with me after that day at the supermarket. Come to think about it, she seemed like a completely different person that day she showed up at church.

  I wonder...

  No.

  No, I doubt she would have gone that far. Or would she?

  Truthfully, I guess there is no way I will ever know for sure. After Eliza strung me along because she couldn’t have the man she wanted—or was too chicken shit to fess up to her parents that she was going to be with a poor man—I will be damned if I am going to be with someone who has essentially done nothing but manipulate me.

  I saw her notes. There is no explaining that away. I don’t know how I didn’t see any warning signs. I only thought she was playing hard to get. I thought we simply had a connection we were both struggling with.

  But she thought she could force me down the aisle? I simply can’t believe it.

  Obviously, I have terrible taste in women—two cheaters and a nutcase.

  One thing is for certain, Emily has done me a huge favor, because now I don’t have to choose between her and Deacon. I don’t have to subject my parents to any undue stress by straining the relationship between our families, because there will be no Emily and me.

  I crack open another beer, and gulp it down, then crush it in my fist and toss it aside. I wish I could hate her. I wish I could scream at her, shake her, ask her why she did this. She fucked with my emotions, made me care about her, made me do horrible things behind my friend’s back.

  I could never be with her now. I am definitely done.

  I stand on the corner of his street, shielded by lush trees and thick brush. I know if he finds me, he’ll be irate, probably question my sanity. But he’s to blame for my depression, my obsession.

  How could he disappear like this? Use me? Did he fuck me i
n the shower, lick my pussy on the counter just because he could? Because he saw the weakness painted in my eyes, the love I have in my heart?

  How very cruel that he won’t even be so decent as to return my calls like I’m nothing but a prostitute he discarded. Maybe Brooks is doing this because of the magic we shared. Maybe it scared the fuck out of him, and he couldn’t handle it. He just needs to know he can trust himself with me. I know not everyone would agree with the things I’ve done, but I’ve always had Brooks and his best interest in mind. I’ve always done everything for us and not merely for me. And I won’t sit idly by while he pushes space between us that’s so great we break apart from the unified person we became.

  No, I won’t let him abandon me. I’m under enough stress with that psycho stalking me. The car appeared on the surveillance video during our time at the beach. No stopping, just a slow creep past the house before driving away.

  I stretch my legs. Smile awkwardly at a passing jogger, and pretend I, too, am jogging. I’m convincing enough, in my spandex and trainers. And that’s what I’ll tell Brooks, too. I’ll play it cool. I approach his gate hesitantly. Quickly punch in the code. It opens smoothly, silently with ease, the parting of the iron strangely sending eerie chills over my body.

  I shake it off, do a little jog dance up the porch. Voices flow through the house—Brooks’s and a … woman’s. My heart sputters wildly, but I talk myself through my daytime nightmare. It’s just his mom or Isabel or maybe his fucking cleaning lady, who hopefully isn’t wearing a cute little black-and-white French outfit.

  But there are no other cars here…

  Peeking through the windows next to the door, I don’t see anyone, but I still hear those voices. The female sounds young, and regrettably sounds pretty. You know, attractive people have certain qualities to their voices. They carry with confidence and a light vein of arrogance running through. My head shakes. Gosh, I have a great imagination, don’t I? I should write a book. There’s no way Brooks could have sex with me, make love to me like he did, and then be in here with some other woman.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  My fist pauses before it meets the wood of his door. I won’t knock, I’ll just go in. He won’t mind, because he has feelings, and feelings mean you can do things like that.

  I try the knob. The door opens with a slight creak, so I pause, but then it disappears as I push it the rest of the way. My head pokes through the space, my eyes circling but not finding anyone. I contemplate calling his name, but no … this will be a great surprise! He surprised me, so that must mean he’ll like one himself.

  I step into the foyer. Quietly close the door. Carefully, I walk farther into the house. Cautiously round the corner into the living room, and spot something that instantly makes my knees grow weak.

  Oh fuck.

  A pile of clothes. Women’s clothes. Crumpled on the floor, next to the couch. I rush to them, my head darting around, still not finding anyone, the voices having faded in volume. I examine the pile. Almost vomit at the pair of panties I find in them. Oh my God, they’re fucking. He’s fucking. I was wrong about him, I was.

  My head spins, the room morphing into an amusement park ride as I try to stand up and steady myself. I grip the arm of the couch. Try to breathe.

  This can’t be. This just can’t be. My face grows hot as I determine Eliza fucking ruined him. Behind every player is a woman who broke his heart. Imagine how hard it is for a man, all steely strong with their lack of permission to show emotions. They fall in love, and express that love only to have the woman reach into their chest, yank out their heart, and crush it to bits. Then, boom—no heart left that they can love with.

  And dammit, it’s happened to Brooks, hasn’t it? That’s the reason for this. I’ve misjudged everything. His resistance wasn’t out of growing feelings. It was out of his inability to.

  “Emily?”

  I spin around, my eyes frantic as they land on him. He’s naked, dick shielded only by a towel. She comes out behind him. She—the homewrecker he’s fucking, the slut he just fucked. She peeks her head around at me, and there’s something familiar about her. She sees it in me, too. Holy shit, she sees something in me, too!

  “Emily, what are you doing here?” He steps forward. Grabs my arms, his eyes furious and violent.

  I can’t speak. No words will come out. The breath in me is gone.

  “Who’s this?” she asks. She. The slut.

  “Excuse me?” I muster, nearly gasping. “Who am I? Who are you?” And I do want to know. Not only because I want to know who he’s fucking, but also because I know her. I fucking know her, but I don’t know how.

  She comes out from behind him, her boring brown hair wet, her tits too small. “Do I know you...” Her eyes are peering, examining.

  My heart feels as if it’s about to burst. This can’t happen right now. How could this woman, whom I can’t even place, figure out my secret when he couldn’t? “Only because you’re having sex with my boyfriend,” I spit.

  Her head flies back. “Your boyfriend? Brooks, what is going on? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone else. What the fuck?”

  Seeing anyone else. Seeing. Anyone. Else. My worst fear is confirmed. Brooks is a cheater. He fucked her in the shower, didn’t he? We had something, and he ruined it, threw it away. Instead of picking up his broken heart and stuffing it back into his chest, letting himself love, he left it on the ground. He’s not the Brooks I thought. Not at all.

  He turns to her, holding his hands up in a show of impatience. “Kate, please.”

  “Kate?” The name leaves my tongue quietly. Kate. Kate, Kate, Kate. Think, think, think, think. I stare into her eyes. It is the Kate, only with darker hair. The Kate he lost his virginity to. The Kate he used to love, just like me. The Kate he betrayed me for then, the Kate he’s betraying me for now.

  My stomach rumbles. I’m going to vomit. “I … I have to go.” I break free of his arms. Run toward the door.

  “Emily, wait!” he shouts.

  I look back at him once I reach the gate. He stands there, his face one of anguish as he loses his fucking fuck buddy.

  I’m on my fifth drink, the burn a welcome sensation in a body that feels so dead. I’m a zombie, merely existing. The bartender sticks a lemon wedge on my glass, and I swivel away from him in my chair.

  I’ve never cried so much in my life, never felt so hurt—not even when I thought Brooks was done with me after that kiss. Not even when my parents died—well, Ivy’s parents. This has all been for nothing, all of it, because a cheater doesn’t deserve all the hard work I’ve put in. I didn’t go through all this for someone who would be perfectly okay with fucking someone else, and then letting me give him a blowjob right after.

  No. No, I’d rather be lonely, would rather have sex with my blow-up doll.

  A tear slides down my face as I swirl the ice in my glass. I just wanted the fairytale—just wanted true love. I thought it existed, but I guess I was wrong.

  “Are you okay?”

  My eyes flick up to see the man two seats to the left of me. I was practically staring at him, looking right through him. He is tall and lean, wearing a gray button-up with the sleeves rolled. His eyes are kind, but they remind me of Brooks’s, because they’re blue, so I look away from them.

  “I’m fine.” I say it politely, but firmly enough that I hope he’ll leave me alone. I swivel back toward the bartender. Stir my drink.

  “You don’t look fine. Guy trouble?”

  I cross my legs before smiling thinly. “Isn’t that why every woman ends up alone crying in a bar?”

  Peripherally, I see him smile. Is he amused with my pain? Sicko.

  “Let me know if you’d like to vent.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He shrugs. “Could help.”

  I say nothing.

  “What’s your name?”

  I roll my eyes. He’s not going to stop, is he? “Emily.” I fold my arms on the wooden bar, a big, sweaty
man to my right hitting me with his elbow as he laughs so loudly at his friend that I think my ears might burst.

  The man in gray motions to the stool next to him. He seems nice. If anything, he’s persistent. I sigh, and scoot over to it. Slide my purse and drink down. He holds his hand out for me to shake. I hate shaking hands. People are gross. But he looks clean, so I shake it like a woman—briefly and lightly.

  “Nice to meet you, Emily.”

  “And you are?”

  “To my friends, I’m Ron. To you? You can call me Mr. Ronderful.”

  I laugh. Nearly choke on my drink. “Mr. What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I guess I did. That’s quite the interesting moniker.”

  He smiles. “They call me that for a reason, you know.”

  “Who’s they?”

  He ignores my question. “So, tell me what’s bothering you.”

  I note the bracelet on his wrist—brown leather—and the ring on his finger, but not a wedding ring—a class ring.

  He holds up his hand. “West Point.”

  I nod, then clear my throat.

  “So?”

  I shake my head. “Oh, you know. Nothing other than finding out the man of my dreams wasn’t who I thought. I caught him with another woman today—a woman I knew a long time ago.”

  “Ouch.” He motions to the bartender for another round. “It’s on me.”

  “Yeah. Ouch.” I don’t want to tell this stranger anything. Don’t want to expose myself for him to scrutinize, but I find it impossible to stop talking once I’ve started. I tell him everything, every last detail aside from the surgery and the double life and manipulation. I give him the good parts, because that’s what matters.

  And he is patient. He listens closely, never interrupting, never mocking me or questioning my morals. I find myself smiling, even laughing, and most importantly, feeling completely at ease. Patrons come and go, and the hours zip by until we are the last ones. I’ve learned so much about him. He’s in construction management, has twin boys, a free lifetime membership to Match.com, and has an affinity for visiting massage parlors. I’m intrigued by him—his zest for life and his ability to see the good in everything.