Burning Ivy (The KORT #1)

CHAPTER ONE

IVY

S ome say time is our most valuable commodity, the only thing we can never get back. For me, time is a storm in which I am forever lost.

Others view this as my downfall—the way time slips through my fingers like a breeze-blown dandelion.

Wishes adrift. How the measurement of moments passing is nothing but grains of sand and shooting stars and butterfly kisses.

Fleeting and intangible. Perhaps. And yet it’s terribly difficult to be shackled by that which eludes me.

Those who see it as my weakness don’t understand all I hold in its place.

The stolen moments, the fantasies, the forbidden secrets.

Shadows swallowing golden rays.

All mine.

Reality is so often a pretentious bore. I far prefer the storm.

Freshly manicured acrylic nails, dressed in an elegant and glittery opal, float in front of my face. Snap. Snap.

“You in there, Ivy?” Celeste Carver—my best friend. And in so many ways, my polar opposite. She’s proper yet secretively wild and one of those stunning Elizabeth Taylor-curvy girls.

“Oh, I’m here, Lettie.” Her terribly improper childhood nickname rolls off my tongue in jest, causing her head to tilt with the quirk of her dark brow while I serve up a teasing dig. “I merely got distracted while you were checking out the waiter’s ass.”

“Touché.” She flaps her hand, accepting defeat, her gaze seeking out said waiter with a wanton pout. “It can’t be helped. I’m in a dry spell.”

That nearly sends the lemonade I’m attempting to swallow across the table. I cough a garbled laugh, the sweet and tangy beverage stinging my throat. “You broke up with Nelson ten days ago. It’s not that dry.”

She sighs, clutching an imaginary strand of pearls and showcasing a less-than-stellar Southern accent. “Why, Ivanna Kingston, how droll. You can’t get off properly to a man named Nelson. The dry spell has been simply treacherous.”

Celeste has a way of making life lighter, which is why sitting here at the airport Chili’s, preparing for her to venture across the globe for a daredevil six-continent journey, has me off-balance. Her butchered accent is endearing though, so I chuckle at her animation.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should.” She leans forward, a serious divot marking the space above her slender nose. “In fact, you should rip off that chastity belt and find someone to thrust some excitement into your life while I’m gone.”

Not willing to battle this argument for the five thousandth time, I choose to ignore that line of badgering and distract her. “I’m going to miss you so much. Send me pictures so I can live vicariously through you in both your death-defying adventures and your sexcapades .”

“I am excited.” She smiles. “It’s exactly what I need before some sort of real-life nonsense is expected of me or I finally bag the coveted role of a politician’s wife.”

We graduated college just shy of four months ago, neither of us with a clear direction. Well, Celeste’s directionless approach to life could very well be a destination in itself. She’s mastered the art of making nothing look fabulous and is certain to nail her role as first lady of something.

“It’s unbelievable the spot opened up at the last minute. Wish there had been two.” A frown creeps down her chin, one I refuse to allow her to cart on her expedition.

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I never applied, so they would have given it to someone else.”

She scoffs. “I’m sure there’s a dollar amount that would have convinced them you’d applied.”

She’s probably right. In our world, money is superior to facts, but this was so out of the blue that I couldn’t find the motivation to take it on—not with how unsettled everything at home feels.

She shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t remember filling out the application either, and blocking things out is more your hang-up than mine.”

Her jab is as old as time, not offending me in the least.

“Hey,” I balk in mock indignation. “I do not block things out. I choose which moments are worth taking up brain space. Totally different. It frees room for my creativity.”

“Well, I can’t argue with your brilliance.

Paint a masterpiece while I’m away, bestie, and we’ll open a glamorous gallery when I return.

” She slides the strap of her crocodile Gucci purse onto her shoulder, a heavy breath falling with the movement.

“But right now, I need to get through security, or I’ll miss my flight. ”

My stomach clenches. I hate how much this feels like an ending—like everything I’ve ever counted on is about to change. It’s a temporary trip, a few months. No need to freak out. “Right. So, communication will be—”

“Sparse.” Guilt coasts over her features.

She didn’t want to leave me, only caving after I relentlessly insisted she seize this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“I promise I’ll be in touch when I can, but the travel, time difference, excursions, and the director’s belief that the best experience arises device free ”—her eyes roll in bewilderment since she tends to view her phone as an appendage—“will make it a challenge.”

Leaning in for a hug, I smooth my hand over her back in reassurance. “It’s okay. Enjoy every jump, climb, flight, and fling. I’ll see you in three months.”

“Three months,” she parrots with a slight quaver. “But, Ivy, if anything happens with your dad—”

“Let’s not.” The words are a choked plea.

She squeezes me with a quick nod. “Okay. I’ll be on the first plane home if you need me. If you’re going nowhere—”

“You’re coming with me. I know.” My chest trembles against her at the exchange of our promise to always stick by one another, metaphorically anyway. “But go now because there’s a lump in my throat that’s about to make this very awkward.”

“You can rock anything, girlie, even awkward. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

After one last embrace, she turns and walks toward security without looking back—a gift to me—her dark brown tresses bouncing with her stride.

Swooping my own ginger mop into a messy bun, I bolt out the automatic doors, running all the way to short-term parking, attempting to distance myself from the stark realization that I’ve never felt so alone.

Fleeing the airport doesn’t leave the feeling behind though.

It hooks into my skin, like a bur refusing to be uprooted.

On the drive home, the foreboding loneliness sinks its teeth deeper because I know the emptiness that awaits.

My father, my favorite person in the whole world, won’t be there.

He’s lost inside his own brain, living at Shady Pines Stroke Rehabilitation Center for severe stroke victims, which in itself is a tragic, poetic irony.

One of the world’s most renowned neuroscientists and neurosurgeons, who dedicated his life to freeing those with brain trauma, is now a prisoner of his own.

My speed slows as I enter the limits of Royal Oaks, my northern Ohio town.

The trees stop blurring and enliven to a vibrant, tunneled canopy, welcoming me with all the charm of stepping into a Monet painting—choppy, flirtatious brushstrokes of petals and growth and light.

These quaint, picturesque streets once felt warm and inviting with the scents of fresh-cut grass and Dum Dums lollipops, asphalt and sweet corn.

Now, they’re glazed with the chill of loss, but my heart still thumps with a longing for what was. That which can’t be held.

Grains of sand.

Being Labor Day weekend, there’s the added ache of barbecues and bonfires wafting in the air—a reminder of happier days tucked away. And just like that, my hour drive is over. Wallowing is a sure way to suck the time—a conquering shadow.

The guard waves me on, my silvery-blue Ferrari Roma easily recognizable.

As I pass through the iron gates, a neighbor waves with a bright, plastic smile.

Wealthy people, who live in grand ten-thousand-plus-square-foot mansions, are never home.

Except on rare holiday weekends when socializing and entertaining are expected.

There will be countless gatherings over the next three days, none of which I’ll be attending.

Without Celeste or my father as buffers, the idea is ludicrous.

My mother will most certainly make an appearance, and while I adore her, hanging with the society ladies isn’t for me.

I park the car in our six-car garage and enter through the mudroom door, passing through the butler’s pantry and into our kitchen.

Dropping my purse onto the island, I wash my hands and make myself a cup of coffee with the Keurig attachment on the fridge.

Two tablespoons of vanilla creamer and a pumpkin-flavored coffee pod later, I’m inhaling the scent of fall.

Tiny blossoms among the thorns.

My mother rounds the corner. Her bright blue eyes catch me—our only shared feature, which is precisely why Celeste and I completed one of those ancestry kits last month.

Unlike Celeste, my appearance doesn’t favor one parent over the other, but falls somewhere in the middle.

While my mother is a fair-haired beauty—her bleach-blonde strands currently swept into a polished updo—my father has brown hair, speckled with gray now, and hazel eyes.

None of that matters though. It seems you can have one parent who is one hundred percent Italian and one who is one hundred percent Irish and still end up eighty-five percent Irish and ten percent Italian with a sprinkling of confusing other nationalities that no one can ascertain who they originated from.

I’m currently waiting for my results. Sadly, it’s the most exciting event on the horizon.

“How did everything go with Celeste?” my mother asks, her mouth slanted with both curiosity and concern.

“Good. She’s really excited. I’m a little envious.” My eyes flit to hers, and I know she sees the lie in my words. “A lot envious, okay? But still happy for her.”