Chapter 3
Sawyer
Turns out Reeve was right. Wuthering Heights is a pretty good book, if not a little fucked up.
Take the main guy…Heathcliff. He’s adopted off the street as a little kid and taken to this nice house in the country (called Wuthering Heights like the book) by this well-intentioned man, Mr. Earnshaw. From the get-go, the Earnshaw’s daughter, Catherine, loves him…and not like a brother.
For the next ten years or so, Catherine and Heathcliff go horseback riding and walk around the moors picking flowers and kissing and being wild. Eventually, the nice father dies, and the mean son takes over the household, demoting Heathcliff from adopted brother to stable boy. Meanwhile, Heathcliff and Catherine are going at it secretly, spending every second together, super intense and super in love. Like, so in love, they say they’d rather die than be apart, although it turns out Heathcliff means it more than Catherine does.
Because one day, Catherine and Heathcliff are running around the countryside, making mischief, per usual, and Catherine gets injured. She’s rescued by this local rich guy, Edgar, who owns this really nice house nearby. She stays at Edgar’s house to get well, and when she goes home to Wuthering Heights, she’s all superior and hoity-toity. Like, she’ll barely give Heathcliff, who’s supposed to be her one true love, the time of day. Eventually, Edgar proposes, and Catherine accepts. She says some really mean shit about how being with Heathcliff would “debase” her. He overhears it, and it fucks with his head, and he runs away from Wuthering Heights. ( I felt for the guy. For real. It sucks when you think someone is into you only to find out that they’re not. It fucking hurts .)
A few years later, Catherine’s married to Edgar and, like, seems pretty happy, even though she always said that she was madly in love with Heathcliff. Guess who returns to town? Yep. Heathcliff. So, it turns out he went to the city and made his fortune, and then he bought Wuthering Heights’s mortgage from the bank. So Heathcliff is back, and Catherine is married, but Heathcliff is still trying to make a play for her.
Eventually Catherine has a baby, which she names Cathy ( ten points for originality there, folks ) but the pregnancy weakens her so much that she dies. As she’s dying, Heathcliff rushes to her bedside, and he’s all pissed at her for dying because she is his life and his soul, and he can’t live without her. He begs her to haunt him for the rest of his life as long as she never leaves him alone. ( Not gonna lie, it was a totally bonkers speech, but it pushed my buttons. What can I say? I have an actual heart. ) So, she does. She haunts him. Then, he dies, like twenty years later, and they can finally be together.
Whew.
It’s weird and dark and angry and passionate, and you have to wonder a little bit about the woman who wrote it. She couldn’t have had a real happy love life, but it’s still a compelling story almost 200 years later, so there’s that.
I read Wuthering Heights in three days, during which time I felt a lot like Heathcliff to Ivy’s Catherine and Clark’s Edgar. I mean, Ivy never pledged her undying devotion to me, but we fooled around every summer from the time we were sixteen, and I’ve always had feelings for her.
Not to mention…the summer we turned twenty-one, between her junior and senior years of college, when she and Clark were on a “break?” We did a lot more than fool around. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. We could get enough of each other. We spent hours and hours in her bedroom over the Kozy Kone.
And then the summer ended. Ivy texted— texted!— me goodbye, like three months of passionate fucking was nothing, went back to UAF, and almost immediately got back together with him .
The next time I saw her in May, she was engaged.
Now, I didn’t fly into a rage and move to Anchorage to “make my fortune” ( but for the record, I’d like to know how that works ) and buy the mortgage on Clark’s Juneau mansion so I could kick him out, but I still related to Heathcliff’s feelings as I was reading. I loved Ivy Caswell. I probably always had. How did I figure that out? Because knowing she was engaged to someone else and lost to me forever was… agony.
I spent the summer avoiding her, nursed a bruised heart with beer and scotch, forced myself to start dating again and thought I’d seen the last of her in September. But now, she’s back in Skagway. My gap-toothed best friend. My teenage dream. My twenty-one-year-old lover. And even though I haven’t laid next to her for more than a year, I couldn’t help how I felt when I saw her in the IGA last Saturday. I wanted her. I want her so badly, it hurts. It aches. I wish I didn’t have these feelings, but there’s no denying that I do.
So here I am, walking into the Fraternal Order of Eagles building in downtown Skagway on a Thursday night in October to audition for “ Wuthering Heights ”…all for propinquity, so that I get more time with Ivy. So that I can figure out—once and for all—if what I feel for her is love…and if there’s a possible us in the history of yesterday and the dream of tomorrow.
“Sawyer Stewart!” booms Bruce from the stage. “My god! Are you actually here, or am I dreaming?”
My cheeks flush hot from his attention, and I’m grateful for the dim light of the theater. I make my way down the aisle to where a group of a dozen folks are sitting in the first few rows.
“I’m here,” I say, sliding into an aisle seat on the left side of the theater. “Thought I’d check this out.”
I recognize everyone else in the theater—a couple of teachers, some friends of my dad, and Vera, the police dispatcher. I nod hello to this Australian guy, Wyatt, who’s in his 30s or 40s, and his girlfriend, Layla, who’s Neena’s older sister. Besides me , I think they’re the youngest two people—No…wait! Correction—besides us . In the middle of the third row, scrunched way down in her seat, I spy a redhead who—unlike everyone else in the little theater—hasn’t turned around to look at me. Ivy . She’s here. My stupid heart leaps.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Bruce clapping his hands with excitement, “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I believe our Heathcliff may have just stepped into the room!”
I don’t know about that. I’ve never been in a play before. Honestly, I don’t want a big part. I just sorta thought I could be a tree or something.
Bruce continues a speech he was making about how community theater is just for fun, so no one should be nervous about auditioning, but that every part matters, and every rehearsal is important. I hear his words, but I’m mostly just staring at the back of Ivy’s head, wondering what she’s thinking. I know she likes theater. She did a few plays in college, and she once told me that she loved attending concerts and plays during her time in Vancouver.
“…so without further ado, let’s get started!” Bruce gestures to someone off-stage, and I’m totally shocked when two familiar faces step into the limelight beside him. “Meet my assistants and your stage managers, McKenna and Reeve Stewart!”
My eyes connect with McKenna’s first. She grins at me with a wink. When I slide my eyes to Reeve, she’s too busy basking in applause to wave at me.
I had no idea I’d be running into family tonight. To be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about it.
“Keep that applause going for our set designer, Aaron Adams!”
Joe’s deputy, Officer Adams, steps onto the stage beside Reeve, who glances at him with thinly-veiled disdain before taking a step closer to McKenna. Aaron, on the other hand, looks wistful, then hurt, then a little pissed. Huh. Reeve and Aaron. I hadn’t noticed before now, but there’s definitely something going on between those two…I wonder if Aaron’s reasons for doing this show are similar to mine.
“Now! Reeve, I’m going to have you pass out the audition scenes and rehearsal schedule. McKenna, you go take a seat in the sixth row with your notebook and pencil. I’ll be right there. And Aaron, can you be a lamb and turn up the house lights? Thank you, crew.”
Reeve hops off the stage to distribute scripts, her expression all sassy when she gets to me.
“I didn’t realize you were so interested in the theater.”
“I didn’t realize Aaron was so interested in you.”
“Shut up, Sawyer,” she snaps, turning away to give out more scripts with noticeably rosier cheeks.
“Be nice,” says McKenna, passing me as she heads back to the sixth row. “She almost backed out of helping when she found out that Aaron would be here.”
“Really?”
McKenna nods. “Really. She does not like him.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
“I didn’t take you for an Alice in Wonderland fan!” she exclaims.
“I’m not. But Parker loved the Disney movie when we were little. I’ve seen it about a hundred thousand times.”
McKenna chuckles. “Break a leg up there.”
“Thanks.”
As she steps away, I’m nailed by Ivy’s emerald green eyes. She’s been staring at us. Caught, she gives me half-wince/half- smile before facing forward again. Yeah. I’m here, princess. And you can’t do anything about it.
I take a peek at the scene on the printed handout I’m holding. There are three audition scenes: one is between Catherine and Heathcliff, another includes Edgar, his sister Isabella, Catherine, her brother Hindley, and Heathcliff, and a final scene includes Nelly, the maid at Wuthering Heights, and Joseph, a servant. In Bruce’s version of the story reads a note at the bottom, we begin the story when Heathcliff and Catherine are in their late teens.
“First,” calls Bruce from where he sits between Reeve and McKenna, “let’s have Ivy Caswell read for Catherine, and…hm…Sawyer Stewart read for Heathcliff.”
I stand up right away, but it’s not lost on me that it takes Ivy a second or two to do the same. I wait for her on stage, watching her slow progress to join me. Finally, we’re facing each other.
“Hi, Sawyer,” she says, her lips unsmiling, and her eyes sharp.
“Hey, Ivy.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Yeah. But—”
“Does it matter?” I ask her, my eyes sliding to her engagement ring, then back to her face. “It shouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t!” she insists, looking down at her feet in bright white tennis shoes. “It’s just a surprise.”
“Alright, then!” calls Bruce. “Now, Ivy, we’re at the part of the story when Catherine has met Edgar Linton and is breaking away from Heathcliff. She feels superior to him. She thinks she wants more than he can offer her, and it’s making her mean.” He turns to me. “Heathcliff is still devoted to Catherine. He loves her utterly. He notices that she’s spending more and more time with the Lintons, and it’s hurting him. He’s frightened of losing her.” He looks back and forth between us. “Got it?”
Ivy nods. “Got it.”
“Yep,” I answer.
I turn to Ivy, watching as she closes her eyes, clearing her face of emotion before opening her eyes and lifting her chin all haughty. She narrows her eyes, staring at me for a long moment with a disgust bordering on contempt, then looks away from me, at the audience. Arrogant. Irritated. Like I am well beneath her notice, and she can’t imagine why she has to stand across from me on this stage. I’m about to nudge her and ask what the hell is going on when—
“Excellent, Ivy!” cries Bruce. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for! Now, Sawyer, take it away!”
Oh! Oh. We’re doing it. She’s…acting.
I look down at the paper, flustered that everyone’s waiting on me to get started. “Um…Cathy…um…yeah, okay.” I swallow and start again. “Cathy, are you busy this afternoon? Are you going anywhere?”
“No,” she says, looking at me like I’m an idiot. “It is raining.”
“Why…um, why have you that—that silk frock on, then? Nobody coming here, I hope?”
“Not that I know of…” She gives me another one of those frosty, scathing glances, then turns away from me, pretending to brush her hair in a mirror. “But you should be in the field now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinnertime. I thought you were gone.”
I stare at her profile. I want her to look at me. I try to catch her eyes, but she’s so committed to her pretend brushing, I almost see a brush in her hand.
“Your line, Sawyer!” calls Bruce.
Right. I look down at the script. “Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence. I’ll not work anymore today. I’ll stay with you.”
She grimaces, pursing her lips like she’s taken a big gulp of milk gone sour.
“Oh, but Joseph will tell,” she says. “You’d better go, Heathcliff!”
“Joseph is busy with chores; they will take him till dark, and he’ll never know.”
She scoffs, pretending to place the brush on a shelf and finally looking at me. Her eyes are so cold, a chill runs down my spine.
“Heathcliff, please go. Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this afternoon. As it rains, I hardly expect them, but they may come, and if they do, I don’t want you here.”
I don’t want you here.
She looks away from me again, like I’m a mosquito buzzing in her ear, of no consequence, of no importance. I’m tempted to reach for her wrist and yank it, to make her look at me. Instead, I glance down at the page.
“Cathy! Don’t turn me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I beg you!”
“Oh, Heathcliff—”
“Look at the almanac on that wall!” I demand, pointing off-stage at a pretend wall. “There is a cross or a dot on each day. The crosses are for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons and the dots for those spent with me. Do you see? I’ve marked every day. And there are so many fewer dots than crosses.”
“Dots and crosses!” She scoffs, and it’s a hollow, brittle, mocking sound. “How foolish! As if I took notice! Where is the sense of that?”
“To show that I do take notice,” I say, reaching for her elbow.
She yanks it away and steps back, narrowing her eyes at me. “And should I always be sitting with you? What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be dumb or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me or for anything you do either!”
I feel helpless, like she’s pulled the rug out from under me. “You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you disliked my company, Cathy!”
Her face hardens before my eyes, into a veritable mask of haughty condescension. “It’s no company at all, Heathcliff, when someone knows nothing and says nothing.”
We stare at each other, her chin raised and nose in the air, and me with my fists balled at my sides. I want to shake her—not hard enough to hurt her, just to remind her of who we once were to each other.
I’m good enough, I think. Remember when I was good enough for you?
“Bravo!” yells Bruce. “I have chills! Who else has chills?”
His cries of approval are enough to jolt me to my senses. I unfurl my fists and pivot forward, surprised to find Bruce standing up and clapping for me and Ivy. Feeling a little bewildered, I slide my eyes back to her, and see that she’s smiling at him, all hint of snobbishness gone and a lovely flush of pride pinkening her cheeks.
“Ivy,” I whisper.
“Good job!” she says, grinning at me. “I really believed you!”
“Yeah,” I say, frowning back at her. “I really believed you, too.”
***
Ivy
Electric.
There’s no other word for it.
Reading Catherine to Sawyer’s Heathcliff made me feel… electric .
I beam at him, seeing him in a new light—seeing Heathcliff, the furious, frustrated, devoted orphan, who loves Catherine more than his own soul. My god, what a rush.
Bruce tells us we can take our seats and calls Wyatt, Layla, Vera, and two other people up to the stage to read another scene. As they get started, I peek at Sawyer over my shoulder to find him burning a hole in the back of my head with his eyes. I don’t let the intensity of his gaze fluster me this time. I stare back until he rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to the stage.
Two can play this game , I think. I can be just as intense and brooding as you.
Wyatt and Layla are no match for Sawyer’s and my Heathcliff and Catherine, but with some coaching, they’ll be able to pull off siblings Edgar and Isabella, and Vera reads a surprisingly excellent Nelly, which is an important part, as the whole story is told from Nelly’s point of view. All those years answering the phone for police dispatch give Vera a clear, resonant tone that works well in the theater.
I’m surprised to realize that this could actually be a pretty decent show. In Skagway. Who knew?
Bruce claps for the group on stage with enthusiasm, whispering something to McKenna Stewart, who’s taking notes beside him. Asking Wyatt and Layla to shift gears to Edgar and Isabella, he invites Sawyer and me back on stage to reprise Heathcliff and Catherine.
Sawyer’s more subdued in his reading this time, although, in fairness, the scene mostly calls for him to look betrayed by me and pissed off at everyone else, so it works. And Wyatt, with his broad Australian accent, nails the part of Edgar Linton, charming me with winks and grins while Layla looks suitably disapproving as his sister.
After a few more audition scenes, Bruce confers with McKenna and Reeve, telling us all to “take ten” while they finalize the cast list. Sawyer stands up and stalks down the aisle toward the exit, and I find myself jumping up from my seat to follow him outside. I’m positive we’re about to be cast as Heathcliff and Catherine, which means we’re going to need to figure out a way to work together over the next two months. I need ( to at least try ) to broker some peace with him.
I find him outside on the boardwalk, staring up at the sky.
“Stargazing?”
He looks at me over his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
I take a step closer to him.
“I bet we get cast as Heathcliff and Catherine.”
He shrugs.
“I didn’t know you were such a good actor.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning back to the sky. “That’s because you’ve never seen me act. I’ve always been real with you.”
My heart skips a beat, memories of the summer before last making my toes curl inside of my sneakers.
“Sawyer…”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands with his back to me, staring up at the stars.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
After a beat, he turns to look at me.
“For what, exactly? Pretending to be into me that summer? Texting me goodbye after you left? Ignoring my calls once you were back at school? Or—Oh! I know!—coming back to Skagway engaged to your douchebag fiancé without giving me a head’s up?”
Okay. Let’s go.
“I wasn’t pretending to be into you. I was a coward for texting you goodbye, but I couldn’t bear to do it in person. Same with ignoring your calls. And last I checked, you’ve never met Clark, so keep your nasty opinions of him to yourself.”
His eyes widen at my quick-fire answers, various emotions passing over his face as he processes my words.
“You…weren’t pretending?”
“ That’s your takeaway?”
His lips tilt up, but only a tiny bit. “That’s the most important part.”
“No. I wasn’t pretending,” I say softly. “But come on, Sawyer…I think we both knew it was just a summer fling. We agreed to that.”
“Yeah, well, things changed that summer,” he says, his eyes sliding to my lips and holding there for an agonizing beat. When they meet mine again, they’re black and angry, almost…wolfish.
“We were always a summer thing,” I remind him. “Paired up at summer camp when we were kids. Hanging out on the Fourth of July when we were teenagers—”
“Because summer was the only time we ever saw each other. We could’ve been more,” he mutters.
I don’t know if he’s right or not. He’s blaming the fact that we didn’t stay together after that summer on the fact that I left for college in September. But we could have agreed to a long-distance relationship while he stayed in Skagway and I went back to college. We didn’t. Despite our friends-with-benefits status during most of my summers in Skagway, I’d never really considered Sawyer a contender for a serious relationship. I cared about him, yes. I may have even been a little bit in love with him that summer. But Sawyer and I always existed in a place of finiteness. There were boundaries to our time together, and that time started in May and ended in September. Four months a year. That’s all we’d ever known, and it wasn’t enough to build something serious, no matter how much we liked each other.
He sighs loudly, looking deeply annoyed with me before changing the subject.
“You’re a good actor,” he says. “I really believed you. A few times I even…”
“Even what?”
“Took it personally,” he admits. “The way you were acting felt…personal.”
I’m about to tell him it wasn’t—that it was one hundred percent an act for the sake of the part—but suddenly, I’m not so sure. And frankly, I don’t like all of this uncertainty. I’m not used to it. I don’t like questioning things; it’s easier to ride out the status quo than to question it. Questioning it can lead to change, and change—like my mother leaving, like my aunt getting cancer—can hurt.
“It wasn’t personal,” I say lightly, hoping I sound more convincing than I feel. “I did a lot of plays in college. I was just using that experience to sell the part.”
“Gotcha,” he says, but his expression says he’d love to call me out on my bullshit. “Whatever you say.”
“Listen…” I stare at my feet as I try to get my thoughts together. “If we’re cast as Heathcliff and Catherine, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together and I just…I just want…”
“What do you want, princess?”
My eyes snap up to meet his. He hasn’t called me “princess” in over a year, and it brings back raw memories.
“Don’t call me that.”
“You used to like it.”
“Please, Sawyer,” I say, starting to feel tired. “Please can we just play nice and get along?”
He stares at me for a long beat, then smiles acidly and looks away.
“Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“You got it.”
“Hey, guys!” Reeve sticks her face out of the theater door. “Come back inside, okay? Bruce is going to announce the cast list.”
His sister disappears, and Sawyer takes one last look at the sky before sliding his eyes to my face. The way he looks at me makes me feel naked and vulnerable, seen and judged, cherished and despised. A shiver runs down my spine.
He reaches for the door and holds it open.
“After you, Catherine.”
And so it begins, Heathcliff.
***
“So, you got the part? The starring role?” asks Uncle Alan. “That’s amazing, Ivy!”
He and my aunt are sitting side by side across from me while I rock back and forth in a rocking chair at the foot of their bed. I love the casual intimacy of their bedroom, but even more, I love that I’m welcome here. I love that I’m comfortable here. Walking into their bedroom and sliding into the rocker at the end of a summer day became a habit so many years ago, I can’t even remember when it started.
“You were so good in King Lear ! I’m not a bit surprised,” adds Aunt Priscilla, pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. Her eyelashes are gone. It breaks my heart. “Who’s playing Heathcliff?”
My cheeks get hot. In fact, I’m positive they’re crimson.
“Is that right?” Her eyes widen knowingly. “Huh. I didn’t even know Sawyer Stewart was interested in theater!”
It’s crazy how well my aunt and uncle know me.
“How do you feel about that?” asks Uncle Alan. “Working with your old flame?”
“Well…I was surprised when he walked into auditions,” I tell them honestly. “But he was good. Really good. A natural actor. He’s going to make an amazing Heathcliff.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” my uncle points out.
I take a sip of the decaf coffee I’m holding and think for a second before answering.
“I don’t want it to be awkward,” I say. “But I tried to talk to him tonight, and…”
“Not so good, huh?”
“He agreed to play nice and get along for the sake of the play, but…I don’t know. Still felt really awkward after talking.”
“That was a pretty intense summer you two had.”
“It was over a year ago.”
“Ivy—”
“And it was just a fling!” I insist, quickly adding, “Besides! I’m engaged to Clark!” I hold up my left hand, the diamond on my fourth finger catching whatever dim light is filtering into the bedroom from the adjacent hallway. “So, it really doesn’t matter what happened that summer. It’s in the past. Ancient history.”
“Why does your ‘ancient history’ feel like today’s headline?” asks Uncle Alan. I’m about to protest when he continues gently, “You had feelings for each other. You know you did. And feelings don’t just die—ignoring them won’t make them go away. In fact, ignoring them, in my experience, can sometimes make them hold on harder.”
I remember Sawyer’s eyes, bright with tenderness, his face close to mine, our bodies naked and entwined. Though we never declared them aloud, our feelings for each other that summer had been deep and intense. Even now, I can’t deny that I feel something for him that goes beyond friendship. Maybe I always will. But I remind myself that I didn’t choose Sawyer Stewart. At the end of that summer, I walked away from him and went back to Fairbanks. I let him go.
“Just some food for thought,” says Uncle Alan, his voice gentle.
I hop up from my favorite chair, fold the blanket I was using and grab my almost-empty mug from the bedroom floor. “I’m going to turn in.”
“Goodnight, sweet girl,” says Aunt Priscilla. “We love you.”
“We love you tons,” echoes Uncle Alan.
“Love you, too. Light off?” I ask, pausing by the door.
My aunt nods. “Yes, please.”
“Goodnight,” I say, flicking the switch and pulling their bedroom door closed behind me.
I cross from their room to Vicky’s, which is mine for now, and lie down on the bed.
My mind goes back in time.
Junior year at UAF. Early May.
I’d driven the twenty minutes home on a Sunday evening to have supper with my father, only to discover we’d crossed wires. He was headed out the door for a business trip.
“Damn it!” he’d said, standing under the front portico with his suitcase. His driver, Curt, waited in a black limo to take him to the airport. “Did we have a plan for tonight?”
“Your secretary scheduled dinner,” I’d reminded him.
“The new girl?” He’d muttered a curse word. “She’s still learning the ropes.”
Curt had taken my father’s suitcase to the trunk, then slammed it shut.
“So…” I’d said. “I’m guessing we’re not on for dinner?”
“Big deal happening right now, Ivy. You understand.”
Always a big deal happening.
“Sure. I understand.”
He’d glanced at his phone. “But I should be free in…two weeks? Three? When do you head to Skagway again?”
Curt opened his door for him.
“Three weeks.”
“Fine. We’ll plan a dinner just before you go. And bring Clark! He’s a great kid!”
I’d stood there under the portico, watching the car drive away. When I couldn’t see the red taillights anymore, I’d gotten back into my own car and driven back to campus.
Feeling a little down, I’d headed to Clark’s apartment instead of my single dorm room. Clark loved to party, but Sunday evenings were quiet at UAF. Maybe we could make some popcorn, turn on a movie, and snuggle. I sure could use a little TLC tonight.
Finding the parking spot next to Clark’s car free, I’d parked there and used the key he gave me to let myself into his apartment. Finding it dark and quiet, I’d assumed that he and his roommates were at the dining hall having supper. I’d turned to leave…when I heard noise coming from the bedroom over my head. Clark’s bedroom. Well, I’d reminded myself, Clark and his roommate, John’s bedroom. Except John spent almost every night with his girlfriend. He was barely ever here.
Creeping up the stairs, I’d tried to come up with alternate reasons for the creaking springs, heavy breathing, grunts, and moans I heard coming from Clark and John’s room. Maybe John was spending a rare night over here? Or maybe John was cheating on his girlfriend with someone else? Or maybe Clark was… My heart had stuttered. Maybe Clark was cheating on—
I flung the bedroom door open.
Me.
My boyfriend of seven months was lying naked on his back, and straddling his waist, fucking him with abandon, was a taut, tiny, very naked freshman named Mandee.
“Clark?”
“What the fuck?” he’d yelled.
“Oh my god!” Mandee had screamed, scrambling off his cock and squatting on the floor, covering her breasts with her hands. “You said…you said she’d be gone!”
“I thought—” Clark had sat bolt upright and covered his glistening, erect penis with a sheet. “Babe, I thought you had dinner with your dad!”
I stared at my boyfriend, flicked my eyes to Mandee, and then back to Clark.
“He canceled.”
Mandee was scrambling for her underwear and bra, which had been discarded on the floor. I leaned down to pick up her dress and offered it to her.
“Sorry, Ivy,” she’d whispered, grabbing the dress, sidestepping past me, and rushing down the stairs.
I’d crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for Clark to say something, but he stared back at me, his cheeks bright red, but his expression defiant.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he’d finally muttered.
“That’s a shame,” I’d murmured. “Because we’re over.”
Then I’d turned around and left.
He’d chased after me, down the stairs and outside to the parking lot, with a sheet wrapped haphazardly around his waist as fellow students looked on.
“Baby! Ivy! Come on! Talk to me!”
“Screw you!” I’d bellowed back, getting into my car and slamming the door.
For three weeks, I’d avoided Clark like the plague, despite a ridiculous number of texts, voice messages, and floral arrangements delivered to my dorm room. The day after exams were over, I’d jumped on a flight to Skagway and headed south to my happy place, my safe place, my summer heaven.
A week later, I slept with Sawyer Stewart for the first time.
That summer everything changed between me and Sawyer.