Chapter 28
A Visit from Vlad
Dash
I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like I licked the bottom of a fishing cooler. Which, given last night’s activities, isn’t entirely out of the question.
Fragmented memories surface: Nick dealing cards. Titus telling stories about Dancing Ladies that I’m ninety percent sure were completely fabricated. Jack teaching me some complicated fishing knot that I’ll never remember. And beer. So much beer.
I sit up slowly, testing whether my skull is going to split open. It holds. Barely.
The bedroom is flooded with pale morning light.
I’m still wearing yesterday’s jeans and sweater, minus my shoes.
There’s a vague memory of Titus and Jack half-carrying, half-dragging me through the front door of the cottage and dumping me on the bed while Nick called out helpful instructions like “don’t let him hit his head” and “make sure he’s on his side in case he pukes. ”
I didn’t puke. Small victories.
I shuffle to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and avoid looking at my reflection. Then I make my way to the kitchen, drawn by the desperate need for something—anything—to make me feel human again.
My travel blender sits on the counter, exactly where I left it. I pull ingredients from the fridge for my hangover smoothie on autopilot: spinach, kale, frozen mango, almond milk, matcha powder. No wheatgrass in this one, but the secret ingredient: a shot of hot sauce. The routine is soothing.
As I’m setting the blender pitcher on the base, I spot the folded piece of paper on the counter, one corner sticking out from underneath the base.
I slide it out and unfold it. It’s a note in Ivy’s neat, precise handwriting, the letters slightly rounded.
Dash—
I’m at the flower shop. I have a delivery to the children’s hospital in the valley this morning. Good PR for you, and it would mean a lot to the kids if you came along. Meet me at Blooms by ten if you want to go.
—Ivy
I read it three times, searching for subtext. The tone is friendly but careful. Professional. Like we’re business partners, not whatever we were before I ruined everything.
No. Before she ruined everything. Or before my mother ruined everything?
Before everything was ruined.
I lean against the counter, thinking. She must have come back last night and slept on the couch. Must have woken up early and left before I stirred. I feel a pang of guilt imagining her sleeping in the living room while I sprawled across the bed, dead to the world.
I fill the pitcher with ice and dump in the ingredients. Press the button, and the blender whirs to life. I drink my green hangover cure standing at the counter, barely tasting it. My phone says it’s just past nine. If I hurry, I can catch her before she leaves.
I shower in record time, throw on clean clothes, and I’m out the door in under fifteen minutes.
The walk to Blooms takes seven minutes. The photographers are already stationed outside the shop. They perk up when they see me approaching.
“Dash! Any comment on your mother’s visit?”
“What does your mom think of Ivy?”
“What’s next for you after Mistletoe Mountain?”
I give them the practiced smile and the casual wave, and push through the door without answering.
Inside, Ivy’s behind the counter, wrapping a massive arrangement of red and white flowers in cellophane. She looks up when the bell chimes, and for a split second, her face contorts in—relief? pain? hope?—before she smooths it into a pleasant smile.
“Hi. You got my note.”
“I did. Thanks for the invitation.” I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” The lie is so obvious it hurts. “You?”
“Great. Totally great.” Another lie. We’re both terrible at this.
She secures the cellophane with a ribbon. “I just need to load these into the car. There are three more arrangements in the cooler.”
“I’ll get them.”
We work in silence, carrying the flowers out to her ancient station wagon. The photographers get their shots—me opening the back hatch, Ivy handing me arrangements, both of us moving with the practiced ease of people who’ve done this dozens of times.
When the last arrangement is secure, Ivy turns to close the hatch and I’m standing too close. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then she reaches up and cups my cheek with her cold hand.
The touch is torture. I want to lean into it, to pull her against me, to tell her we’re being idiots and we should fix this. Instead, I place my hand over hers on my face for just a second before she pulls away.
“Ready?” Her voice is rough.
“Yeah.”
The photographers get this shot, too.
The drive to the valley takes forty minutes. We make small talk for the first ten—the weather, the success of Santa Paws, whether Dancer the cat has been adopted yet. Safe topics that don’t require us to acknowledge the enormous thing sitting between us in the car.
Then a song comes on the radio. Acoustic guitar, a raspy voice, lyrics about home and longing and not knowing where you belong.
Daniel Lovelace.
Ivy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. She shifts in her seat, glances at the radio, then at me, then back at the road.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Fine. I’m fine.” She’s not fine. She’s agitated, restless, like she wants to climb out of her own skin.
“Ivy—”
“Actually.” She cuts me off, her voice too bright. “Would you mind handling the hospital visit yourself?”
I blink. “What?”
“There’s something I need to do. It just occurred to me. But the kids—they’ll be so excited to see you. You don’t need me there. I’m just the flower lady.”
“I thought we were doing this together.”
“We were. We are.” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “There’s something I need to take care of. It’s important. Can you handle this on your own? Please?”
The song plays on, filling the silence while I try to figure out what’s happening. She’s lying. Or not lying, exactly, but not telling me the whole truth.
“Sure,” I finally say. “I can handle it.”
“Thank you.” The relief in her voice is palpable. “The hospital staff is expecting us. Well, me. Just tell them you’re with Blooms. They’ll help you unload everything.”
She careens into the hospital parking lot, navigates to the main entrance, and puts the car in park but leaves it running.
“You’re not even coming inside?” I ask.
“I really need to go. I’m sorry. I’ll text you when I’m done and then I’ll be back to pick you up.”
I climb out, still confused, and she pops the rear hatch.
Before I close the door, I try one more time. “Ivy, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine. I just—I’ll explain later, okay?”
Her hands are shaking on the steering wheel. Something important is happening. And she won’t talk me.
“Okay,” I say, even though it’s very much not okay.
I unload the flowers and she gives me one more apologetic look. Then she pulls away from the curb, leaving me standing in the passenger loading zone with no idea what just happened.
Two orderlies push through the automatic doors, both grinning.
“You’re Dash Pine!” the younger one says. “Ivy said she couldn’t make any promises, but looks like she delivered. You’ll visit with the kids?”
“Yeah. I have the flowers arrangements, too.”
“Awesome. The kids are going to lose their minds.”
“This is so cool of you, man,” the older orderly says, carefully lifting an arrangement and placing it on a dolly. “It’s hard for these kids to be cooped up in here during the holidays. We try to make it as fun as we can for them. A visit from Vlad is next level.”
I walk in with them as they wheel the flowers inside, smiling and nodding and making appropriate responses. But my mind is elsewhere.
On Ivy, driving away. On the look in her eyes—like she’d just figured something out and couldn’t wait another second to act on it. What does she need to do that’s so urgent she couldn’t even come inside?
I can’t answer this question, so I do the only thing I can do: tuck it away and turn to the orderlies. “I could do a storytime for the little ones. Do you happen to have a copy of And Tango Makes Three around here?”