by Jessica Roe
My breath catches and I laugh, pulling away an inch to look up at him. Normally his hair is a soft brown, with streaks of gold when the sun hits it just right. But right now, in the low lights of the bar, it's darker, just like his eyes. Shadows play over his face, and if it wasn't for his uncontrollable grin I'd have no idea what he was thinking. “Stop feeling me up, you big perv.”
He bites down on his bottom lip, then his hands are on the move again. They trail around to my shoulder blades, his fingers pressing down firmly into my skin as they travel back down to my butt. My whole body breaks out into goosebumps. “I can't help it,” he exclaims, like he's just an innocent bystander and his hands are two nefarious little demons in complete control of themselves. “I can't seem to stop touching you. When exactly did you get so hot, little Ivy?”
He's kidding, I know that, and so does my treacherous body – even if it does warm considerably at his words. But there's a. . .there's a heat in his eyes when he looks down at me. There's heat and there's honesty, and it's probably just the music and the atmosphere and the way we're dancing, but it does something to me. Something that is way too inappropriate a feeling when it concerns a friend.
Obviously I stomp down on that feeling FAST.
“You know, you're not exactly pulling away,” he points out in a low voice. He buries his face in my hair, but I know it's only because he's hiding another smile.
He knows what he's doing to me, the bastard. It's not like he's unaware that he's gorgeous – he always did have an ego the size of China – and he was never exactly shy about using his looks to get what he wanted. And what he wanted could usually be found inside a girl's panties.
And just because we're old friends, doesn't mean that I'm unaware either. Just because I've seen him at his worst – his sickest, his drunkest, his bloodiest, his maddest – doesn't mean that I'm immune to the guy.
Two can play at that game, I decide nefariously. “Maybe I like it,” I whisper into his ear, raking my nails through the back of his hair lightly with one hand and trailing the other down his chest and around to his butt. I slip my fingers in the back of his jeans, just half an inch inside the waistband, but it's enough to make him jerk in shock.
“Playing with fire, Ivy,” he growls.
He pulls back and we both try to keep our expressions serious, unwilling to be the first to cave. But we can only hold it mere moments before we're laughing again. Game over. We defiantly ignore the fact that I'm breathing extra hard and the definite stirring I feel in the front of Nash's jeans, because that's just what you do when you're best friends with a member of the opposite sex and things get tense. You ignore it.
Another song comes on, much faster and more up tempo. Nash's hands leave my body and I do my very best to ignore that inappropriate sting of disappointment – clearly I need to get laid. His hand grabs mine, and then he spins me out so fast my breath catches in my throat. He reels me back in again and I bash into his hard chest, giggling breathlessly. My hands cling to his gray t-shirt as he wraps his arms around my body, hugging me to him affectionately. He holds me so tight that I barely have space to move in his embrace, and when his eyes meet mine, there's something so deep in them that I find it impossible to look away.
“What?” I ask.
“You made me completely forget all about her,” he tells me, one corner of his mouth turning up. “for the first time in a long while.”
“You should've told me about her,” I scold, which is obviously highly hypocritical of me. Leaning forward, I kiss his chest, since it's the only part of him I can reach in my current position. “In a video message. Or when I got home.”
“I would have eventually,” he promises. “Just like you'll tell me eventually. When you're ready.”
I have to look away then, because there's something scarily knowing in his expression. I realize that I haven't been as good at hiding my own heartbreak as I thought I had. At least, not from him.
“Nash,” comes a gentle voice from behind us, startling us out of each others arms. We turn, and I can't decide whether to be pissed or eternally grateful that Bambi has chosen now to come over and say hey.
Nash stiffens beside me.
Bambi stares at the two of us, her eyes going from him to me and back again, like she's trying to figure out what our deal is. Because how dare Nash be out with another girl when he should be home, mourning the loss of her and her stupid, pompous butt.
Standing just behind her awkwardly, like he needs her protection in case Nash goes full on Hulk on his lanky butt, Bambi's date hunches his shoulders slightly, as if that's going to make him any less noticeable.
“Bambi,” Nash greets, after coughing a couple of times like something had caught in his throat. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She tilts her head and smiles. “It's good to see you.”
He nods too fast. “Yeah! Yeah, you too. It's. . .it's good to see you too.” Where did my best friend go, the smooth one that could charm a girl out of her clothes in less time than it took to run a bath?
“This is Anthony,” she adds as an afterthought, like she'd forgotten her date was even there.
Without any subtlety, Nash scowls at him. “Hey.”
Good old Ant holds up a long fingered hand and waves.
Silence.
I clear my throat pointedly, poking Nash in the butt cheek, then smile innocently when he jumps at the contact. “Oh, this is Ivy.”
“Hi there.” I hold out my hand, and she shakes it delicately, taking the very ends of my fingertips like she's holding a dirty tissue. “I'm-”
“I know who you are,” she tells me, and her sweet smile matches my own. It's that smile, the one two girls give each other in front of guys when they really hate each other but they don't want the guys to know that they hate each other because that would just make them look catty and bitchy. And we are not bitchy. No we are not. “Nash mentioned you a few times.”
She drops my hand and waits, so I say, “Oh, sure. You too.” That big fat lie comes a little too late, but I think Nash appreciates it. What girl likes to hear that she was never ever mentioned to most of her boyfriend's friends?
“You used to design clothes when you were a teenager, right? You had a website and everything. I remember checking it out.”
A wave of nostalgia rolls through me as I remember Ivy's Designs.
I'd been designing and creating clothes ever since I'd been old enough to hold a pair of scissors – things for my dolls at first, until I gradually started experimenting with my own clothes. Much to my mother's consternation I started off cutting up and altering what I already owned, but eventually moved on to making things from scratch. The girls at school noticed, and once Samantha Harper – a cheerleader two years above us which obviously made her the coolest person ever – had asked me to make her something, that had been it. Suddenly they'd all wanted me to make them things. Dresses, mostly, which was always what I'd been best at. I'd even gotten requests from girls in other schools in nearby towns, and it eventually got to the point where I'd had to get Nash to make me my own website – Ivy's Designs.
I'd shut it down once I'd left for college, unable to deal with all of the extra work on top of my studies. I'd considered picking it back up again when college was over, but by then I'd already gotten the job at Heikki Fashion and I no longer had time to design under my own name.
“That's right,” I say.
“And Nash showed me some of your latest stuff for Heikki.” She wrinkles her little upturned nose. “I usually like their stuff, but I guess your clothes just aren't my style.”
“Bambi!” Aaron objects. Or was his name Alex? Anthony?
Oh, nobody cares.
She glances back at him, then at me again before laughing if off. It's one of those fake, rich people laughs, the kind you expect to hear at fancy cocktail parties when they don't really think anything is funny buy they want everyone to see how whimsical they are. “Ivy's not offended,” she says brightly, poking my
shoulder, which I feel is sort of unnecessary but sure. “Are you, Ivy? Nash told me you're just like a guy – you don't get offended easily.”
“Oh no, actually I'm mortally offended,” I reply cheerfully, and Nash snorts. That he finds me amusing seems to piss Bambi off. Her eyes narrow, honing in on the very small gap between Nash and I like it's personally insulting her. Obviously I do not care. I turn to him and lift my eyebrows. “Shots?”
He glances at Bambi one last time, but he seems uplifted now. Much less lost puppy and a lot more swagger, just how I like him. “Shots,” he confirms with a nod. He holds out his arm in a very gentlemanly manner, and I curtsy before I take it.
I'm pretty sure I hear Bambi call me a freak as we walk away.
Chapter 4
Ivy
As I stare at myself in the mirror in my parent's hallway, my sullen reflection glares sulkily back at me. It's one of those old fashioned, antique mirrors; clunky and wide and huge. It's lived on this wall for as long as I can remember, probably because it's too heavy for my dad to take back down.
My face twists into a cringe¸ because there's no way I could look at myself right now and not cringe. Simply no way.
Mom creeps up behind me and wraps me up in a bear hug, swaying us from side to side. Her scent engulfs me, marshmallows and talcum powder and something flowery. It was the scent of my childhood, my youth, my teens. It's the scent that wraps me up in its embrace every time I visit and then stays with me long after, lingering on my skin and clothes and hair. It's the scent of home.
She looks at the pair of us in the mirror and grins happily. “We could be twins,” she jokes, but she's not half wrong. I mean, she's older and way taller than me, but she has the same long, wavy blonde hair and the same shaped mouth and nose and cheekbones and even the same peachy skin. It would be impossible to miss our family resemblance, though people who don't know us sometimes mistake her for my older sister. She was young when she gave birth to my sister and I – seventeen with my sister and nineteen with me – and she still has a youthful face. She claims it's because she lives such a happy life.
“Merry Christmas, Mom.”
“Merry Christmas, my little snuggle bunny.” Yes, she is the kind of person who uses names just like that and doesn't get embarrassed over it. “You look so cute in your Christmas sweater!” she exclaims. She's also the kind of person who exclaims a lot, in that upbeat, peppy way.
I stare at the bright red, strangely lumpy and very gross sweater that my mom knitted and then forced me into. It matches hers and dad's, and my sister's and my brother in law's and even their freaking baby's. We're like a Hallmark Christmas card. She's knitted a different thing on the front of each of them. I think mine's supposed to be a snowman, though the poor guy looks like he's melted a little – knitting has never been my mom's strong point. I guess I didn't get my design skills from her.
But despite being a complete and utter hopeless case, I love my mom more than anything and it's Christmas Day, so the sweater stays on.
“I'm so glad you're home for Christmas this year,” she tells me, kissing my cheek. I immediately feel bad for not having come home for the holidays in so long. My family visited me in San Francisco a couple of times and one year we all did Christmas in Australia with some distant relatives of Dad's, but I haven't been home in far too long. And not just for the holiday season, but at all. Not before moving back to Fortune, at least. I don't know why I stayed away. I think that deep down, a part of me knew the moment I came home it would force me to see what kind of a person I'd become back in San Francisco, the kind of person who cared more about her job and herself than anything else, and I'd known I wouldn't like it.
“Me too,” I reply, but I'm not even sure if it's the truth. It makes her smile though, so it's worth it.
She slings an arm around my shoulders and leads me back into the living room where my dad and my brother in law, Bailey, are having a very raucous and competitive game of Foosball. Usually the Foosball table lives down in the basement with the rest of my dad's junk – in his mancave – but Mom lets him bring it up here on special occasions because she thinks it's funny how passionate he gets over the game. It means that every Christmas we're constantly challenged to beat him, though none of us are ever interested in claiming his Foosball champion title. It must have been a dream come true for him when my sister married Bailey – finally, the son he'd never had. Not that he doesn't love my sister and I, but he's always wanted someone to do guy stuff with. I think it's why he was so pumped when I became friends with Nash all those years ago.
My sister, Heather, is tucked up in a corner of the big leather sofa, giving the baby her bottle. She named her Daisy, because I guess she decided to keep the plant name thing going – which totally isn't weird at all. Heather looks even more like my mom than I do; she even has the added height, but her blonde hair is poker straight, like our dad's.
Christmas carols play softly in the background as I flop down on the armchair, though I've no idea where the stereo is hiding beneath all the decorations. My parents are definitely of the merry persuasion and they have a tendency to go overboard when it comes to Christmas. Back at home, Nash and I had been somewhat less inclined. I mean, we'd attempted to make an effort – bought a tree and everything – but when we got home and realized we'd forgotten to buy decorations we'd decided we were too lazy at that point to fight our way through the Christmas shoppers. Nash had stuck an empty, upside down beer can on the top of our tree and drawn a face on it with a marker then called it a day. We'd named him Father Beermass. But then Felicia had visited and had been understandably horrified, so she'd gotten together with my mom while Nash and I had been at work. They'd let themselves in and turned our apartment into a freaking winter wonderland. I'd pretended to think it was lame, but secretly I'd liked it.
The air is filled with the smell of Christmas dinner cooking. It smells like spices and turkey and steaming vegetables and gravy, all thanks to my dad. He lets Mom attempt the cooking most of the year round, because she does so love to cook, but he takes charge on Christmas Day. Like the knitting, my mom isn't the best chef – and that's definitely something I got from her. After suffering through years of dry turkey and hard vegetables and impossibly lumpy mashed potato, we finally had a vote when I was ten years old and Dad took over. Mom had pouted, but deep down I think she'd been relieved.
She tries so hard, she really does. Not just at cooking and knitting, but all that other housewife stuff she loves so much – baking, sewing, mending, crafting. She's just not that great at it, but the fact that she never stops trying her hardest is so. . .endearing. It's one of the reasons I love my kooky mom so much.
Dad brightens when Mom enters the room behind me, just as he does every single time he sees her. They've been this way – so in love – for as long as I can remember. Sure, they've fought and bickered and Mom's sulked and Dad's slept on the sofa, but no one has ever doubted their love for one another for even a second. Most of the time, one of them will always pause in the middle of whatever argument they're having to assure the other that even though they're disagreeing, they still love each other very much. It's weird.
He abandons the Foosball game to pull her into his arms and they twirl to the jolly Christmas music. Dad's wearing a pair of sparkly antlers on the top of his blond hair, and I don't even think Mom made him. Obviously they're perfect for each other. She giggles and swats at his shoulder, but lets him spin her in circles around the room.
The two of them were high school sweethearts. Dad was the soccer star of the school, and Mom the beautiful cheerleader. He accidentally knocked her up with my sister when she was seventeen, then married her as soon as they turned eighteen. Everyone told them they wouldn't last, but here they are, twenty eight years later, still madly in love.
Suck it, doubters.
Most of the time I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body, but even I love their story.
Dad bends her backwards to kiss he
r dramatically, and like the teenage boy I've clearly turned into, I groan and throw a cushion at them. “Gross!” I call, but they ignore me and go back to twirling.
Clearly sensing their life or death Foosball match is over, Bailey sits down carefully next to Heather and Daisy, smiling lovingly at them. He kisses each of their foreheads in turn, then presses an extra gentle one on Heather's lips. It's such an innocent moment, but a private one, and I feel invasive watching them so I turn away.
Everyone in my family, they're just so. . .so sweet. Sweet and loving. And I turned out to be a bitchy commitaphobe – clearly I skipped out on a couple of the happy family genes. Or maybe the stork just dropped me off in the wrong nest.
“Thank you for our gifts, Ivy,” Heather says softly. Both she and Bailey have dark rings under their eyes; they look exhausted. My sister's usually soft and straight hair is lanky and frizzing at the ends, and Bailey doesn't seem to have shaved in days. My niece must be taking her toll on her parents.
Why do people even have kids? It seems like way too much work for such a squidgy, stinky little pink thing. I mean she. She seems like too much work.
It's possible that I skipped out on the maternal gene too. Perhaps I should have been born a guy.
“No worries, I hope Daisy likes the. . .uhm. . .dangly thing?”
“It's called a mobile.” She arches a thin eyebrow at me. “And you don't know this because. . ?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I just went into the baby store and told the girl to pick out something pretty. You know I'm no good with the kid stuff.”
“Either way, it's beautiful.” She gives me a look then, a knowing one. The kind all new mommas seem to have, like they've discovered the secret of the universe and they're just dying to share it with you. “You'll have a baby of your own one day, you know. It's so different when it's your own. All the kid stuff will just become second nature.”