Chapter 12 #3
“I visited Ace, my friend from home, at his college sophomore year. Him and his frat brothers dared me to drink a handle of rum, and so I did. I blacked out instantly. Woke up the next morning in their backyard with I LOVE DICK written on my forehead in permanent marker, and I spent the rest of the day puking in his dorm room. I vowed never again.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Wes, that’s an awful story. How long did it take to get the Sharpie off?”
“Ages.” He reaches up to touch his forehead, cringing at the memory. “I’m surprised I don’t have permanent scarring on my forehead from how hard I scrubbed at that marker. I practically scraped off a layer of skin.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“Alright. Your turn. What’s the story?”
I open my mouth to protest and then close it.
As much as I’m afraid to admit it, a part of me wants to let him in.
A part of me wants to tell him the things I’ve never told anyone.
To bare my secrets. Expose my scars. I want to trust him with things that matter, because I have this weird, inexplicable feeling that he’ll cradle my faults with careful hands and embrace them with an empathetic heart.
But despite how much I want it, I’m not ready. I may never be ready.
So I tell him a version of the truth, leaving out the darkest details—the reasons for my actions and the fucked-up consequences of them—because I, Ivy Combs, can’t handle them. And if I can’t, how the hell can I expect him to?
“I was pissed at my parents,” I tell him, staring down at a pull in his comforter, “so I raided their liquor cabinet and drank way too much whiskey. In my room. Alone. I blacked out and couldn’t stop throwing up.
It was so fucking dumb. They ended up taking me to the hospital instead of attending my brother Noah’s super important baseball game.
They were so angry. It was...bad. The worst night of my life. ”
Lie. It was the second worst.
When I glance back up at Wes, he’s frowning at me, regret swirling behind his eyes. “Jeez, Ivy,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you to tell that story.”
I manage to give him a sad smile. “It’s okay. I’ve never told anyone about that before.”
“What were you pissed at them about?”
“Mom, something happened.”
“What?”
“Last weekend I…Last weekend I went to this party with Farah and Alexis and—”
“You WHAT?”
I shrug a shoulder. “My mom overreacted to something I did.”
LIE.
You tried to tell your mom what happened to you, and she wouldn’t listen.
She didn’t care that you couldn’t get out of bed.
She didn’t care that something was seriously wrong.
She punished you for skipping school and compared you to your “angelic” brothers and when she heard that you went to a party with your friends she refused to hear the rest of the story, even though you’d just been r—
“Where’s your bathroom?” I blurt.
You needed her, and she wouldn’t even listen—
“Right there,” he says, pointing to the door next to the dresser that I assumed was a closet. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
I nod. And then I keep nodding because sometimes that’s all I’m capable of doing. The lie clanks behind my teeth before breaking free of my lips. “I’m f-fine, thanks. I’ll…be right back.”
I dart into the bathroom before he can say anything further and shut the door. Bracing my hands against the sink, I take a deep breath. Exhale. Take a deep breath. Exhale. Leaning down, I flip on the tap and splash cold water on my face, counting backward from ten.
You’re so pathetic, says that voice in my head.
I can’t help but agree.
After a while, there’s a hesitant knock on the door. I turn off the water, feeling off balance.
“Everything okay, Ivy?” comes Wes’s strong and steady voice. I latch onto it, and the floor stabilizes beneath my feet. “The food’s here.”
“I’ll be right out!” I call, wincing when my voice shakes.
“No rush. I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready.”
I don’t respond, listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps.
When they’ve disappeared, I stare at myself in the mirror and tell my reflection to get a fucking grip already.
The idea of Wes thinking I’m some kind of unstable freak who had a breakdown in his bathroom snaps me out of it.
Doing my best impression of a normal, well-adjusted person, I dry my face and head down the stairs.
Peeking my head into the kitchen, I find Wes and his roommates gathered around the table. Last night it was covered with liquor bottles and beer cans, but today it’s stacked with pizza boxes and soda.
Kaden is leaning against the far counter with a slice in his hand, while Ben looks worse for wear, slumped at the table with his head down, forehead resting on his arms. Wes is piling food on a plate, his back to me.
“You’re kidding me,” he’s saying. “They can’t track that back to us, can they?”
Kaden shrugs. “Don’t see how. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, we did host a party where people were drinking underage.”
“True, but Rich isn’t underage. It won’t be a problem.” Noticing me hovering in the doorway, Kaden dips his chin in my direction. “Hey, Ivy.”
Wes turns, smiling when he sees me. He hands me a paper plate. “There you are. Take your pick of toppings.”
“Thanks,” I say and grab a Hawaiian slice from the box on the top because it’s most convenient. “What were you guys talking about?”
Kaden rolls his eyes. “Rich. That fucker.”
I look to Wes for clarification, and he explains, "He crashed into a campus bench last night driving home from the party.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, wow, is he okay?”
“Who gives a shit?” mutters Kaden.
“He’s fine,” Wes assures. “Well, besides fucking up his bumper and getting in trouble with the school.” I nod and take a nibble of pizza. “Good?”
“Delicious,” I say and take a less tentative bite. I glance at Ben, who hasn’t so much as twitched since I entered the room. “Is he, um, alive?”
Kaden snorts. “Hey, Ben. You still with us?”
With his head still down, Ben gives a thumbs up.
“He’s still deciding if he should eat the pizza,” Wes explains, before devouring half of his slice in a single bite.
“You need something in your stomach,” says Kaden, “though to be fair, sauce and cheese might not be the best option.”
“At least eat the crust, bud,” says Wes. “Bread will soak up all that J?germeister.”
Ben groans at the mention of alcohol. “Don’t—say—the J-word,” he pants.
“Wonderful,” says Kaden. “Now he’s gonna puke.”
Another groan. “Don’t—say—the P-word—either.”
Kaden and Wes both snicker, while I try not to laugh, and we manage not to bring up those words (or any others that might be triggering) for the remainder of the meal.
By the time I’ve put away two slices—shameful compared to the six Wes tucked away—it’s later than expected. I eye the darkening sky through the window and frown at the wind shaking the trees. “I should probably go home.”
Wes looks disappointed, but he sets his plate aside and gestures toward the doorway. “I’ll help you grab your stuff.”
After packing up my backpack in his room, we head back downstairs.
Hesitating at the front door, both of us eye the other with uncertainty.
I’m not sure what to say or what to do, but before I have the chance to be awkward Wes steps forward, and those big arms pull me into another exceptional hug.
This one’s even better than the one last night because we’re not in a room full of people.
It’s just…Wes. Warm, strong, steady Wes, with sunlight for insides and the ability to charm with a look alone.
And he’s hugging me of all people.
As I wrap my arms around his middle, relaxing into his embrace, I’m aware of his chin brushing the top of my head and his hand pressing against the center of my back, over my jacket. I don’t think I’ve ever hated fabric more in my life.
He releases me too soon, and I find myself incapable of meeting his eyes. I can’t help my reddening face, either, so I stare down at my shoes to try to hide it even though I know that it’s pointless.
“You okay, Ives?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Oh, I’m great. Fantastic,” I mumble, blushing harder.
He snickers. “We should practice again next weekend. Are you free Saturday? And don’t give me bullshit about some study session.”
I look up at him then. “I only gave you that bullshit for your own benefit. Lying does not come naturally to me.”
He smirks. “I know, and I appreciate your sacrifice.”
“Well, good.”
He snickers and asks again, “So, Saturday?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, a warm feeling buzzing through my stomach at his persistence. “Saturday works.”
“Amazing,” he says. “Well, except for the fact that this week’s going to move impossibly slow.”
And not for the first time, I’m grateful that I never dropped Public Speaking.