Chapter 9
Ivy
Parker's got a weird talent for making people laugh without being funny. Every single person sitting around the table tonight fuels his ego.
Except for Asher.
Punk vanishes to show her lover the rest of the house, and every so often, I’d catch Asher’s eyes on me any time Parker would be talking.
He knew my self-absorbed husband would be too caught up in his own tales and achievements to realize that Asher was barely focused on him at all.
His attention was entirely on me, even when it wasn't. He perfected this skill a while ago.
Crossing my leg over the other, I hit something beneath the table that feels like embers on my shin.
My eyes land on Asher, who is opposite, but he's engaged in conversation with Parker while chewing his food. I go to slide my foot beneath my chair when his collides with mine, stopping any movement.
My heart gallops in my chest, rattling my rib cage. Can everyone at this stable hear how heavy I’m breathing?
What the fuck is wrong with me? It's because he's ignored you for a year, so now you're strung out. Paranoia tastes awfully like guilt.
His foot disappears, and Asher rests back in his chair, using the cushion of his thumb to skim his lower lip.
Heat pulses up my neck. Is it hot here, or am I going through menopause?
I need another drink.
The sound of my chair scraping against the wooden floors is barely audible over all the laughter and chatter, mainly from Camille, who is doing her best to touch Asher at any chance she gets.
Why did I notice that? Shit. Was I watching him more than he was me? This is why you don't drink alcohol around strangers.
Tonight isn't the time to straddle my high horse, since I'm sure it'd trot me to Hell, anyway.
“Right, Ivy?” Lucinda's wiping her tears, her cheeks pinched red from laughing. It better not be from Parker. You know it won't be from Parker.
I drop a cherry between ice cubes, swirling the liquid in my glass. “Hmmm?”
“I was telling them about Asher teaching you how to snowboard last year! You learned from a pro!”
“He did ok…” Uncomfortable with any light shining on me, I make my way back to my chair.
Jord gives me a lopsided look, obviously sensing my unease, before shifting the conversation to Bitcoin. This is where I lose myself. I go through the motions that I always do when I'm trying to get through time faster.
I play with my hair. I drink. I watch. And I don't speak.
My father taught me at a young age that it's a power move to be the quietest in the room. Lucinda argues it only adds to my mystery, further drawing more attention to myself.
Silverware clinks around the table as Parker cuts into the roasted lamb. Buttered mashed potatoes, meat, and enough bread to raise Jesus from the dead.
I drink.
“What happened to your plane?” Camille turns to Lucinda. It's the first time I've heard her engage in a genuine conversation and seem interested. She's beautiful. It makes it worse.
Lucinda presses her leg against my thigh, and I use my glass to hide my smirk. She's looking at Asher, no doubt.
Classy.
Luce clears her throat and swallows a gulp of red. “The weather. We only did a few circles. Last year, Ivy's jet couldn't land her and Asher at all, and you had to drive from, where was it again?” Lucinda asks, batting her lashes at me.
The burn of alcohol catches in my throat, and I cough, leaning forward and placing the glass on the table.
Parker's eyes pin on me from the side.
Asher cuts in, bored. “A small airstrip on the other side of the island.”
Something collides with my foot under the table again, cutting my nervous laugh short. This time, it'll be he who can sit and wonder if I'm going to look at him because something tells me that if I do find him watching me, I'll fold. Burn.
Why the fuck do I care so damn much?
Because he was your friend.
Because he gave you a nickname.
Because you always want what you can't have.
Parker's awkward laugh pulls us back into the now as he continues to carve the meat into thin slices, placing them on the platter between us. Music plays softly in the background, and the lighting is low enough to be intimate, perfect for the table.
“Ah, yes. My young love, ever the over shooter, even when it comes to time.”
The man wasn't lying when he said he'd drop me at a nice place. It is nice. But it doesn't have my father.
I follow, careful not to touch anything. Had I misread the burning man? I should have ran.
But he was so kind. Daddy always said to follow my mind and not my gut because the gut is always hungry, or whatever. My mind said to trust him because he knew things. He was also very kind. So kind.
I find the smallest room and lie down.
Every day moves slower than the last. No one comes.
On the fifth day, the sound of tires over gravel crunches outside the door, and I rush forward, desperate to see anyone human.
Peeping through the hole, I watch as a man dressed in a suit steps out. He isn’t the burning man. My mind says to open the door. My gut says to run.
My feet move before I think. Backward. Away. Far away. I don’t like this one. I don’t like this one at all. But I’m alone. I’m all alone.
He opens the front door and I stumble backward. “Morning, young love. You and I are going to be great friends.”
My laugh vibrates in my throat. I douse it in alcohol before I say something smart. Like how is it my fault our plane had to circle? Or why the fuck are you such a piece of shit?
“So, Camille,” I turn my attention to the new girl, “how long have you and Asher been together?”
She places her silverware down. “Truly, Ivanya? He's never spoken about me?”
The room falls silent. I feel like the stranger in the room.
I lean to the side, resting my head on my hand. Keeping my attention focused on her. “Truly. He hasn't.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Well, I guess that shouldn't be so surprising.”
“Mm-hmm.” I swing to Asher briefly, in time for him to answer, and hate how anytime I look at him I forget everything else.
“A year,” Camille answers casually.
It's a punch to the gut. Why didn't he ever tell me?
I exhale and cross my legs. “Impressive. Truly.”
“What she means,” Luce interferes, “is that Asher hasn't had a girlfriend for longer than six days?”
Yes. That's what I meant.
I roll my eyes and push myself up from the chair. We’re in the heart of winter. I'd much rather be eating alfresco. In the storm of snow, surrounded by nothing but ice.
I find the bar, pour another finger of whiskey and kick off my heels.
The dress I'm wearing is practical, but it's not something I wear often.
In the city, I'm in jeans and shirts, or leather and suits.
I hate dresses. But of course, I find it the perfect time to wear one while on the coldest island off the coast of the USA.
My fingers trace circles over the small stereo in the corner. I stop outside the large window overlooking the back of the house. That's where we should be eating.
The cabana stands beside the pool, its fireplace commanding the center, surrounded by a dining table that could seat twelve. We'd freeze our asses off between courses, but at least the cold might numb the spreading ache in my chest.
Beyond the sunken firepit, the mountain shadows over us. Cable lines scar its face, climbing into the clouds. Private fucking access. Everything on this island exists to keep reality locked outside.
I press my forehead to the glass, the cold seeping through. Asher's voice echoes in my mind. Mount Crow and the folklore of the three mountains. “Probably protecting you.”
“Right, Ivy?” Punk's voice cuts through from behind.
I pivot to respond when my reflection grabs me. Dark auburn waves spill around my shoulders in an untamed mass of curls. My eyes a shade of moss.
My mouth parts to answer. I spent years resenting my lips.
Too full. Too much. I can still see the fish doodles kids scrawled across my notebooks, can still hear the whispers that followed me down hallways.
I grew into them, but every glance in the mirror drags me back to that girl.
The one who learned at an early age that most people only used you for target practice.
I finally shift back to them. “What?”
Punk giggles. “You took me to pierce my nipples when I was fifteen.”
I cringe. Jesus. What happened to keeping that one under wraps? “We got matching, so it’s not like I let you go through it alone.”
The side of my face burns when I realize I just announced to a few people, most I would rather not announce to, that I have pierced tits. Great.
Luce’s arms fly up. “Ah! I am supposed to be that aunt, not her! She’s the one that bails you out of jail!”
Jord snorts. “Hell no! I know you ain’t talking about Ivy. She’ll be in the cell beside her.”
Parker remains absorbed in his phone, disconnected from the conversation. It’s perfect. It’s what has made this marriage so bearable.
My frown slips when I land on Asher. He towers over everyone else at the table by a few inches, his body tight and trained, kept lean from his athleticism.
Why is he staring at me like that?
He catches the corner of his lip with his thumb, shifting his attention back to Camille, pulling her in and kissing the top of her head.
I'm happy for him. I am.
So why does it taste like soured milk?
***
Sleep is a lost cause, so I peel myself from the sheets at four-thirty.
My robe drops, and I do my best to hurry, squeezing into a bodysuit that chokes every curve. After tugging a beanie with its stupid pom pom over my hair, I sling my white goggles and ski mask around my neck.
Gear stacked in my arms, I drift through the hallway and down the stairs. Thankful that I didn’t wake Parker. Honestly, I’d rather not explain to him that the reason why I’ve become so reliant on that mountain is because it’s comforting to know that someone has folklore as lonely as my own.