About That Night

by Beth Andrews

  Oh, to be so young and innocent in the ways of the world.

  Ivy almost envied the teen.

  “It’s possible,” Gracie insisted. “Who knows? Maybe he’s your soul mate. And if you don’t go back there, you could miss your chance with him.”

  “Honey, I believe in soul mates as much as I do Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” She softened her tone, squeezed Gracie’s arm. “But, to go along with your soul-mates-and-fate theory, we’ll just say if it’s meant to be, then it’ll be. I could ignore him for the rest of the night, and it wouldn’t change anything. We’d still end up together.”

  As long as they ended up together on her terms. Not his.

  “I just find it sad,” Gracie said with all the melodrama of a soap star, “incredibly, momentously sad, that you’re so...so...”

  “So...pragmatic?” Ivy asked when the teenager struggled to find the right adjective. Which was unusual as Gracie typically had no trouble with words and loved using as many as possible. “Practical? Reasonable? Realistic?”

  Gracie’s sigh was a work of art. Long-suffering and heartfelt. Ah, to be seventeen and a master of sarcasm. And a slave to emotions. “Cynical.”

  “Well, that cuts deep, doesn’t it?” Giving her coworker a thoughtful frown, Ivy kept her tone somber. “But I’ve now seen the error of my sensible ways, thanks to your amazing grasp of syntax and the perfect amount of pathos in your tone.” She lifted the champagne flute in a mock toast. “Pink lacy hearts, huge diamonds and chocolates for everyone.”

  Tucking one leg under the other, Gracie turned and studied Ivy with her too-intense gaze. “Molly says sarcasm is a defense mechanism used when someone hits too close to the truth.”

  “Molly has six sons under the age of eight, one of them a newborn. It’s obvious your stepmother is a few kale leaves short of a pound, so we’re not going to take anything she says to heart.”

  Another sigh from Gracie, this one just a few notches below resignation. At least all those heavy exhalations were warming up the car a bit. “Don’t worry. Someday, you’ll get over it.”

  “If the it you’re referring to is my common sense, then sorry, but you’re going to be majorly disappointed. If a woman doesn’t have her wits about her, she has nothing.” Ivy dug out a pen and crumpled napkin from the console. Handed them to Gracie. “Write that bit of wisdom down so you remember it.”

  Gracie didn’t even glance at the offerings in Ivy’s hands. “It being your broken heart. Someday, when you’re ready, it will mend, and you will be able to live your life free of all that anger and pain you carry around.” She tipped her head, her ponytail bouncing, and studied Ivy some more. “I’m surprised you don’t know this. You should have better self-awareness.”

  Ivy laughed. She got such a kick out of this kid. “Honey, there’s not a woman alive who is more self-aware than I am.”

  Gracie meant well, but she was way off base. Ivy had gone twenty-six years without suffering from a broken heart, and she planned on keeping that streak alive for...oh...forever sounded good.

  She already knew the damage heartbreak could cause. It wore you down and stripped you of your pride, leaving you angry, resentful and so hurt, you never got over it.

  She may not have experienced it firsthand, but she’d heard about it plenty, had witnessed its effects up close, thank you very much. Her mother had spent her entire life jumping from relationship to relationship, happily swallowing the lies men fed her, believing their promises only to be let down again and again.

  So, yeah, Ivy knew all about the frailty of emotions. How they tricked you into believing foolish myths about happy endings and forever after. No other person could complete you or make you happy.

  Give away your truth and you gave away the upper hand. Share your secrets, your hopes and dreams and desires, and you lost all power. The idea of true love looked good on paper, but in reality, it was complicated, often messy and, in many cases, downright ugly.

  Loving someone made you vulnerable. Weak.

  And any weakness led to pain.

  * * *

  GRACIE WATCHED IVY pick up the empty champagne glass, lift it to her mouth and tip it back. When nothing came out, Ivy held the glass out and glared at it, as if she’d expected bubbly wine to magically appear.

  “Are you okay?” Gracie asked. She tucked her hands under her legs to warm them. Her nose was starting to run. She sniffed. “You’re acting...” Weird. Flustered. “...not like yourself.”

  Ivy was not only possibly the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen in real life, she was also the coolest. Always in complete control of her emotions. Her actions.

  Gracie knew her well enough to know it was a defense mechanism of some sort, a facade she kept up in order to keep people at bay. Still, she couldn’t help but admire Ivy for it.

  “I’m fine. Come on. Let’s get back inside before we freeze to death.”

  “Thank goodness.” They climbed out and crossed the parking lot, their steps quick, the click-click of Ivy’s heels ringing. Pressing her hands to her aching ears, Gracie hurried to keep up, though how Ivy could move so fast in those high heels—let alone how she wore them during her entire shift—was beyond Gracie. “Do you think there’s a correlation between low temperatures and hearing loss? I mean, the cold can affect blood circulation. Extreme heat can affect brain function.”

  “I have no idea. I’m sure you could find out, though.”

  That was the thing about Ivy. She never got frustrated with Gracie’s questions, was never short with her when she started talking, never interrupted her and told her to condense what she had to say and wrap it up already.

  She listened. Really listened. And she believed in Gracie, in her ability to seek out her own answers. To find her own way.

  Ivy opened the door, and they stepped into the blessedly warm hallway.

  “I have a few more minutes left on my break,” Ivy said. “I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”

  “Okay.” Gracie took the one-hundred-dollar bill from her pocket. “I suppose I should give this back to the hot cowboy.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “He asked me to get you. I didn’t.”

  “He asked you to deliver his message to me. Which you did.”

  Gracie bit her lower lip. She could use the money, no lie. At the rate her parents kept having kids, they wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for her college tuition until she was sixty. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  Ivy looked as if she was about to argue, but then she smiled. “It’s up to you. Follow your heart.” She picked a tiny silver piece of heart confetti from Gracie’s sleeve and handed it to her. “No pun intended.”

  They parted ways at the end of the hall, Ivy heading into the kitchen, Gracie going back to the main room. The band was playing a slow country song long on melody and short on substance, repeating how love had saved some poor guy.

  Gracie wanted to kick the lead singer in the shin. Get him to just stop already.

  She was sick of love songs. Yes, it was an engagement party, so she supposed they were fitting, but add the songs to the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, and it was all just too much.

  V-day. It was so dumb. All that pink. All those hearts and the sappy commercials telling you the only way you were worth anything was if you had a significant other.

  It was ridiculous. Being single wasn’t a bad thing. You had to be comfortable being alone before you could fully be with someone else anyway.

  And she’d keep telling herself that until she finally believed it.

  The cowboy was still where she’d last seen him, but now he was talking to a beautiful blonde in a clingy red dress. The woman turned, gestured wildly with her hands, and Gracie realized she wasn’t a woman, but a girl around her own age.

  A girl with the body of a twenty-five-year-old swimsuit model and the face of a beauty queen. The dress showed ample amounts of toned, tanned thighs and above-average boobs. Her hair fell,
thick and straight, to her shoulders, the strands glossy and smooth.

  Gracie touched a coarse, loose curl at her temple, tucked it behind her ear.

  Nothing like seeing perfection standing effortlessly in a pair of four-inch heels to make a girl feel inadequate.

  Gracie frowned. That was just silly. A person’s worth should never be based on their looks. So what if the blonde was one of “those girls,” the kind who probably never went anywhere— including gym class or a quick trip to the grocery store—without full makeup and high heels. Who rolled out of bed with nary a snarl in their hair or a pimple on their chin.

  It took all kinds.

  A dark-haired guy tapped the blonde on the shoulder. Something about the color of his hair, the shape of his head seemed familiar. Before Gracie could figure out if she knew him or not, the blonde turned and squealed as if he’d spent the past ten years on a deserted island with only a volleyball for company, then threw her arms around him. Hugging her back, he turned, giving Gracie a clear view of the huge smile on his face.

  His handsome, lying face.

  Gracie stumbled and rammed her hip into a chair, bumping it so hard against the table, the glasses on it wobbled. Her face flamed. “Sorry,” she mumbled to the cowboy, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Andrew Freeman’s head jerk up, felt his gaze on her.

  The cowboy motioned for her to join him by the large window overlooking the front lawn. She went gratefully. It was better to have that bit of distance between her and where Andrew embraced the beautiful girl.

  Better, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Couldn’t you find her?” the cowboy asked.

  Gracie pursed her lips. He didn’t seem angry. More like he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t done what he’d wanted her to do. Ivy’s words about him being willing to pay to get his way floated through Gracie’s head. Yes, he was nice. And no, he wasn’t yelling at her—like some other guests might have done. But he was obviously used to getting his way.

  Maybe Ivy had been right to keep her distance.

  “I found her,” Gracie admitted. “I told her you wanted to speak with her, but she declined.”

  He raised his eyebrows as if that was a turn of events he’d never expected. “Excuse me?”

  “She declined. It means to politely refuse an invitation. But that’s just in this case. Decline could also mean to become smaller or a gradual loss of strength, numbers, qual—”

  “I know what decline means,” he said, exasperation edging his tone.

  She got that a lot.

  “You looked totally confused, so I wasn’t sure.”

  He rubbed his forehead, bumping the edge of his hat. “Did you tell her I wanted to see her?”

  Hadn’t she just said that? “Yes. I was very specific. She said you weren’t used to being turned down. That this would be a good life lesson for you. So here—” Gracie held out the money. “You can have this back.”

  He flicked his gaze from her hand to her face. “That’s yours.”

  “But I didn’t earn it. And it doesn’t feel right, keeping it. Plus, now that I’ve had time to think about it—” and time to let the excitement of that much money fade “—I realize it’s sort of icky, a middle-aged man—”

  “Middle-aged?” He looked pained. “I need another drink.”

  “Giving a teenage girl that much cash. I mean, you don’t look like the kind of guy who’d try to bribe young girls to do, well, things—if you know what I mean...”

  He shut his eyes. “I wish like hell I didn’t.”

  “But then, everyone said Ted Bundy didn’t look like a psycho serial killer, either, so I think it’s best if I just give it back. Trust me,” she continued when he just stood there. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”

  He finally took the cash, and she hurriedly turned away before he decided he was willing to double or triple his offer. She loved Ivy, but Gracie was only human. And if the price were right, she just might be tempted to drag Ivy over here by her hair.

  “Hey, Gracie,” Andrew said, having disentangled himself from the blonde. “How’s it going?”

  Gracie pulled up short. Darn it. Why had Andrew approached her? Why was he talking to her?

  She wanted to hate him for giving her that lopsided grin of his, especially after bestowing the same smile on another girl not two minutes ago. Wanted to hit him for looking nervous, as if he was scared she was going to start ragging on him. Or worse, ignore him.

  She wished she could. But that would make him think he still had the power to hurt her. That she still cared about him.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, shooting for cool and polite but coming across as uptight and possibly deranged. She tried to work up a smile but figured it would only make things worse. “How are you?”

  “Uh, fine. Good. Really good.” Andrew cleared his throat, flipped his head to get his stupid floppy dark hair out of his eyes. “I, uh, didn’t know you worked here.”

  Why would he? It wasn’t as if they’d had long, involved chats about their lives. Or anything at all. They were neighbors. Not friends.

  Even if she had naively believed otherwise not so very long ago.

  “I started here a few months ago,” she told him.

  “Cool. That’s...cool.”

  Thick, uncomfortable silence surrounded them. Which was weird, since the party was still going on, the band still playing, people still talking and laughing.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He was wearing a dress shirt, too, a light blue one that brought out the color of his eyes. She tried to ignore how cute he looked, but she’d pretty much have to take after the cowboy and stick a couple of forks in her eyes for that.

  “So, uh, are you doing anything for Spring Break?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Me and my mom and Leo—uh, Coach Montesano. You know him, right?”

  “Only by sight.” Which wasn’t a bad way to know the firefighter-slash-high-school-football-coach. He was one beautiful man. And Andrew’s mom, Penelope Denning, was dating him.

  Lucky woman.

  “Right. So, anyway, we’re going skiing in Colorado,” Andrew said. “Have you ever been?”

  “The only places I’ve been are Pittsburgh and Erie.”

  He shook his head. “I meant have you ever been skiing?”

  “No.”

  “It’s fun.” He took his hands out of his pockets. Put them back in again. “Maybe we could go together sometime. I could teach you.”

  “Why would you want to do that? And why on earth would you think I’d ever agree to it?”

  Color swept up his neck and into his cheeks. She refused to feel bad about it.

  Not after what he’d done.

  He shrugged. Dropped his gaze. “I thought maybe we could, you know...start hanging out again. Like before.”

  She went cold all over, a deep freeze that chilled her to the bone. She couldn’t breathe through it, couldn’t move for fear that she’d shatter into a million pieces.

  “You want to hang out?” she managed to say through stiff lips. “Like before? God, you must think I’m an idiot.”

  She turned, but he caught her arm. “No! No,” he repeated, more softly this time as he glanced around. “Not like that. I just meant...you know. As friends.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend.” Her voice was even. Dismissive. A miracle as there was a scream building inside her, one she was terrified would escape if she didn’t get away from him. “I thought I made that clear the last time we spoke.”

  He flinched and dropped her arm. “Sorry. I thought...” He sighed. Ran his hand through his hair, leaving it all messy and, yes, sexy. “I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.”

  She clamped her teeth together to hold back the ugly words in her throat. She didn’t owe him anything. Refused to justify her feelings or explain her thoughts.

  “Andrew,” the blonde girl called. “Come
here. I want you to meet my uncle.”

  He gestured he’d be a minute, then turned back to Gracie. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you in school.”

  She didn’t respond. Just walked away.

  Of course they’d see each other. She could hardly avoid it in a school the size of Shady Grove High, especially as they shared a few classes.

  But she wouldn’t acknowledge him. Wouldn’t make eye contact or speak to him.

  I thought maybe you’d have forgiven me by now.

  Her fingers curled, her nails digging into her palms. She’d already forgiven him for pretending to like her, sleeping with her and then treating her like dirt. She’d had to. Hating him hadn’t made her feel better. Hadn’t stopped the pain or the tears that had come when she’d thought about how stupid she’d been. How gullible.

  In the weeks after his betrayal, she’d spent countless hours imagining ways she could exact her revenge. Things she could do or say to humiliate him. To hurt him.

  The way he’d hurt her.

  But being angry at him had only given him even more power over her—over her thoughts and feelings. So she’d forgiven him and moved on. But she hadn’t forgotten.

  And she never would.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IVY HAD THOUGHT about the cowboy all night, like some hormonal teenager in the throes of her first crush. Or a stalker with a new obsession.

  She jabbed the elevator’s button with her knuckle, tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for it to arrive. Worse than thinking about him? She’d sought him out. Had caught herself scanning the ballroom, the bar—even the hallway for God’s sake—more than a few times, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

  There had been plenty of good-looking men there tonight, an abundance of pretty faces for a woman to ogle, but had she stared at any of the Montesano brothers—a trifecta of dark-haired, dark-eyed, handsome men? Or taken a few minutes to appreciate the beauty that was Kane Bartasavich, with his long hair and that hint of danger in his sexy grin?

  No and no. She’d skimmed her gaze right over all of them in search of one green-eyed cowboy.