3. Ivy
“Table for two. Under Brooke Everly,”my best friend says, rescuing me from a birthday dinner for one of mac and cheese.
“You reserved a table?” I ask as we’re seated, surprised because we never get a table. We always sit at the bar.
“The strongest they have ... so we can dance on it. It’s your birthday!” She squeals loud enough that absolutely everyone is looking. “And just because your boyfriend has to work doesn’t mean we celebrate less. After this, it’s karaoke time.”
Her elbow nudges mine, and I know she’s serious. My throat dangerously tight, I choke down the ball of fear with a few sips of the chilled water our waiter has placed in front of me.
Brooke instantly demands two tequilas. Both for her. “And keep them coming,” she tells the waiter.
We’ve plowed through our first basket of chips as she tosses back her second shot.
“So, let me get this straight,” Brooke says as she taps her lip with her index finger. “Some mysterious good-looking guy books a tour with you just to deliver mail and check out your ass?” She slurs the word ass and motions for the waiter. “Tell me he at least offered you a lap dance.”
“He did not.”
“Fucker. So, what did the letter say?”
I shrug. “It’s still in my pocket. I got busy, and?—”
Her eyes widen. “You didn’t want to open it in front of Derrick in case it’s a dick pic.”
I deadpan. “Who would print out a dick pic?”
“A man who fills the page. You can’t open it until after dinner. Birthday present number one.”
Laughing, I shrug and dunk another chip into hot, gooey cheese. “Good-looking, yes. But more than twice my age, at least. And we all know twice my age is my hard limit.”
“Really? I’ll bet he’s still hotter than Derrick. You rarely spend the night at his place, and we both know he’s never at yours. Plus, he never takes you out. Ever. What kind of eighty-year-old boyfriend is he?”
“For your information, he’s thirty. And I’m trying to be supportive as he builds his career.”
“For a year? And when’s the last time you’ve had sex?” she shouts, trying to be heard above the lively Mexican music.
Our waiter refills my water, grinning broadly. Sweltering heat rises up my face as I melt into the seat and die of embarrassment. Brooke roars with laughter, planting herself facedown along the bench.
“This coming from a woman whose face is kissing an area where someone’s ass has been. After they’ve eaten their weight in Mexican food.”
I ball up my napkin and toss it at my drunk friend’s head, which does little good. If anything, it eggs her on, as she moves on from laughter to a perfect whale-song combination of howling, raucous heaving, and silent squeals.
She rubs the flood of hysterical tears from her face before pointing a finger straight up, conveying how she needs a moment to catch her breath.
Hushed, I lean over. “I’ve had sex,” I say, arguing with the giddy drunk girl. “For your information, I have it regularly.”
“Like as regularly as when the salmon swim upstream?”
The waiter brings our food—two shrimp quesadillas for me and a taco salad the size of my Honda Civic for Brooke. I glare at her over the rim of my water glass as she orders a margarita.
“Virgin?” she shouts, having lost all control over the volume of her voice.
I scowl at her until I realize she was talking about a drink. Which actually sounds good.
Turning to the waiter, I ask, “Can you do a pineapple margarita with no alcohol?”
He nods and heads off.
“And more nachos,” Brooke hollers after him.
In an instant, her elated happy face drops. Despite the fact that she’s a champion lush who can usually out-shot or out-chug any man, I’m almost afraid she’s about to be sick.
“You okay?” I ask, ready to rush her to the ladies’ room.
She merely points past me, and I turn to see whatever zapped every last drop of happy-go-lucky from her face.
Lo and behold, it’s Derrick.
I’m elated that he made it to my birthday celebration after all, until I see he’s not in the professional button-down shirt he was wearing earlier at work. And he’s not alone.
This version of Derrick looks freshly showered, his hair still damp and curled in a pretty-boy style that actually makes him look younger. Wearing his faded jeans that are my favorite, he’s seated at the bar, relaxed as his spread-eagle legs give easy access to let a sloppy blonde slide in between them. She’s made herself perfectly comfortable, smoothing her fingers against his chest and shoulders and pretty much all over his lucky fucking polo.
I square my shoulders, and before I know it, I’ve crossed the length of room, vaguely aware of Brooke huffing, “Shit,” as her footsteps stumble behind me. I’m seconds from yanking the blonde by the hair—southern style—when I come to my senses and realize it’s not her I’m pissed at.
“Oh, fuck,” Derrick says like a dumbass because that’s what he is. A worthless, dickless dumbass. He fumbles his way from behind the body of a woman whose perfume smells way too familiar because, like the man she’s draped all over, that’s also mine.
“Is ‘oh, fuck’ all you have to say? I guess she’s your destiny, too.” I frantically search the bar for the biggest drink within reach to toss in his face.
“What’s going on?”
When his companion turns to face me, I realize it’s none other than his accountant. Which explains all those closed-door and after-work meetings.
“Hey. Iris, right?” she says with the charm of a pole dancer, and now I’m searching the bar for two of the biggest drinks I can find—preferably crammed full of ice.
“Don’t make a scene, Ivy,” Derrick says calmly like a total idiot. “We’re hardly exclusive.”
“Excuse me? You’re the one who was talking marriage and kids. You’re the one who’s always asking what cut of diamond I prefer and where our honeymoon should be.”
His lips tighten, and his words come out cool. “You can’t pin this on me. I need passion. Spontaneity. A woman who will throw caution to the wind. The most I got out of you was your toothbrush.”
He means a girl who will throw condoms to the wind. “And that’s my fault? You’re the one who wanted to keep our relationship on the down-low, and now I know why.”
“Grow up. You don’t want exclusive. You want to roam fast and free and with whatever guy rolls up. Like Limo-man this afternoon. What was in that envelope he gave you? Cash? A hotel room key?”
“What the fuck, Derrick? No.”
At least, I don’t think so. Besides, Derrick’s so-called accountant is two seconds from sucking him off at the bar, so why am I the one on trial?
Derrick crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah? Prove it.”
He casts an arrogant glance at the pocket of my cardigan because, unlike him, I didn’t have time to shower and change clothes before going out. I was actually working.
“I have nothing to prove.” Which now looks like I have everything to prove. Dammit.
When I feel a tug at the envelope, I whirl around.
Brooke waves Exhibit A suggestively in the air. “And what if she hasn’t been cheating on your sorry ass, Dare-dick? What are you willing to wager?”
At least my ride-or-die has my back, though I feel a bead of perspiration trail down the nape of my neck at her suggestion. And since there’s no backing down now, I square my shoulders and pray to God that Derrick is wrong.
Derrick waves her off. “It’s not like you didn’t already destroy the evidence.”
“It’s still sealed,” I say, not certain if I’m making the situation better or worse but not willing to let my friend hang in the wind.
His expression sours. “Fine. What do you want if I’m wrong?”
“Your fucking car, jackass,” Brooke says.
Wow. Her balls get all kinds of big after that much tequila. And when my bestie dives in headfirst, demanding his shiny new Mercedes convertible, there’s only one thing to say.
“Yeah, Dare-dick,” I say, repeating her insult because it’s kind of catchy and totally spot-on as he plays fast and loose with Sluts-R-Us over here.
That’s not jealousy talking. That’s his accountant’s cherry red lips now printing a path up another guy’s neck before her tongue lands in his ear. It sickens me to remember that you’ve had sex with everyone your partner’s had sex with. Perhaps a few weeks of no action with Derrick is just enough time to avoid a collision course with a round of STDs.
“Fine,” he says, bellying up and stepping into my space. I anchor myself in place, ready for whatever he’s got. Until he says, “Then if I win, you quit.”
“Quit?” I squeak out.
I can’t quit. What I do isn’t just a job. It’s my life. For years, I’ve cared for every single person in the center. Working evenings. Weekends. Christmas fucking morning. And now he wants me to quit?
Derrick is going too far. I’m not quitting my job over a stupid bet or even a breakup. No way. Not a chance.
I’m about to tell him so when Brooke cracks open the seal of the envelope and pulls out an old-looking photograph. Who in the world has photos anymore?
She flips it around and trombones the square to and from her face in the booze-filled hope of reading it. “Who’s Olivia?”
“What?” Carefully, I take the delicate photo from her hand, staring at it hard, as hard as I can. My heart pounds wildly against my ribs, and I stand there, stunned. I blink before I regain my senses and can move.
Brooke slaps the empty envelope on Derrick’s chest. “Ivy doesn’t need your job. She’s an overqualified badass who’s tired of taking your shit.”
Oh. My. God.Brooke really needs to stop talking now.
“Fuck both of you,” Derrick spits out. “I’m not giving you my car.”
As Derrick storms off, Brooke shouts after him, “Way to be a bad loser, Dare-dick.”
It isn’t until she wipes my cheek that I realize I’m crying.
“Hey, don’t cry. He doesn’t deserve you,” she says, stroking my hair.
“It’s not that,” I say, staring at the image of my mother. At least, I think it’s my mother. It’s as if Angie’s magic wand has brushed alchemist strokes across her image. Her dark curls are thick and full, framing round cherub cheeks and a big, beautiful smile I’ve never seen her wear. I almost didn’t recognize her.
Next to her stands a man I don’t know. His dark wavy hair is the perfect crown to his tall stature and confident stance. His lips are a line that barely tips up, and his dimpled chin could have been molded to form mine. But it’s his eyes that draw me in. Instantly I want to know him, and it bothers me that I don’t.
On the back is a riddle, one I reread again and again ... and again.
For
Olivia Ann Palmer.
“What is it?” Brooke asks with a side hug that wraps me tight and squeezes out my reply.
“It’s me. I’m Olivia Ann Palmer.”
* * *