43. let’s get through tonight
CHAPTER 43
LET’S GET THROUGH TONIGHT
IVY
This is so not my scene. I’d rather be debating with Manny over which Dexter villain is superior (we’re at a stalemate because while Manny is right, Trinity is brutal, I fully believe that if Brian were still alive, he and Dex would be a fatalistic duo).
Going out usually means bars where I can lick barbecue sauce off my fingers and sing along when I’ve had one too many drinks, not six courses and strained conversation. The only plus is that my assigned seat (seriously, I can’t make this shit up) is between my two favorite people.
Dinner is every bit as awkward as I expected, and Kyle is relentlessly smug, although he does shut up several times in deference to his father.
Interesting. I wonder if we can use that.
I do get to finally complete my set of Bradbury siblings when Dale arrives. He’s late, a fact Richard doesn’t let pass unnoticed, and from his scathing commentary, must be typical.
Dale reminds me of every owner of a regional car dealership that does its own ads. Thinning hair to match his brother’s, an air of arrogance, a little round everywhere. He looks like the kind of guy who wears socks under sandals.
He, too, slips into younger brother mode tonight, his posture sagging every time Richard talks over him. Dale’s wife keeps herself as invisible as Helen does, and I keep coming back to the same question — why would anyone willingly come back here?
Meanwhile, Betty is exactly as Lincoln described, a shock of white hair pinned back with a bright blue clasp. She’s shorter than me, four-foot-nine at best, and barely says a word when we’re introduced. But she’s the first person to smile at me, so I already like her.
Not so welcoming is Joe, who scowls his way through every bite. He might be the only person who wants out of here more than I do. With hair as silver as Lincoln’s eyes, the only time his mask cracks is when Art, in a blaring yellow-patterned shirt, whispers something in his ear. I can’t be sure in the candlelight, but I could swear Joe smiles. I’d sell my grandmother to know what they’re gossiping about.
It’s a relief to see Astrid again. I don’t know what she did in Paris, but she’s practically glowing. “How was your trip?” I ask, desperate for details and a distraction.
“Wonderful. It went better than I could have hoped,” she says, and is being cryptic a rule in this family or what?
It must have been good, because I can’t get any other details from her throughout the main course.
Apart from Kyle’s insidious grin disgusting me from the other end of the table, it’s a pretty dull event. Richard is sullen, like he resents us all for being here, even though he’s the one who invited us, and everyone eats quickly, like we all silently agreed to get the first night over as quickly as possible.
In fact, I’m so eager to get away that it isn’t until Lincoln unlocks our door (with an antique key, no less; Jesus fuck, rich people are dramatic), that I remember one glaring problem.
One huge, pillow-topped, Egyptian-sheeted, canopied, bed-sized problem.
“You should take the bed tonight,” I blurt, already rolling my suitcase over to the chaise. “I can suffer on the space couch.” My back will file several complaints, but better me than Lincoln. If I see him hanging off this thing, I’ll laugh myself into an early grave.
“No.” He throws his duffel onto the seat and steps in front of me, guiding me by the shoulders back to the bed. “I’m definitely not letting you sleep on that thing. I’ll be fine.”
The words jump so quickly to my tongue it’s as if they were waiting in the wings for this very moment. “We could share.”
Lincoln’s gaze meets mine. His hair is cavalier, windswept. Gorgeous.
I’ve never used the word debonair to describe anyone in my life, but now I take a mental picture of Lincoln in his black shirt and strong jaw, and I frame it under the word within my memory.
“It’s a very tempting offer,” he eventually says.
I couldn’t agree more.
“Extremely tempting,” I say, my breath hitching when his eyes dart down to my lips. In fact, I think I stop breathing entirely while I wait for him to kiss me, but when he leans in, it’s only to kiss my cheek instead.
The disappointment hits hard and fast, and I shuffle into the bathroom before he can see it on my face.
Fil was right. I can’t keep this up.
When I finally emerge in my tank top and shorts, Lincoln has changed into the white shirt/gray sweats combo I’m used to.
I roll over as far to my side as I can, putting my back to him. But Lincoln isn’t as cautious. As soon as he’s under the covers, he grabs my waist and hauls me halfway across the bed so I’m tucked in tight against his chest.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice a low rumble in my ear. He smells of the mint toothpaste I stole off him (I forgot mine, okay? I was very busy panicking this morning).
Grabbing his hand, I pull him tighter around me. If this weekend is all I get, I’m damn well going to enjoy it.
The seconds tick by. Lincoln is hot at my back while the cold night air chills my exposed shoulders. Usually, I like leaving a window open at night, hearing the sounds of cars and people passing by. Sometimes Armando has a party, and I get lulled to sleep with impromptu karaoke.
It’s void of sound here. No music, no laughter, no life at all.
Only Lincoln’s steady breathing and the erratic beat of my heart while I listen to him.
Maybe that’s why I quietly admit, “You know, Ivy is actually my middle name. My first name is Gianna, after my mom, but Ivy always felt right. Like I could be my own person.” Whoever that is.
His lips brush my ear as he speaks. “It suits you, as all things do.”
The dark hides my smile. Such a smooth talker.
“Okay, I spilled,” I say, nudging him. “Your turn.”
He hums, a rumble I feel down to my toes. “Is that so?”
“No secrets, remember?” I whisper, feeling like the liar I am.
He says nothing for a while, and I sink into the feel of his fingers quietly mapping out my body in the dark, never straying into dangerous territory, simply memorizing me with his hands.
My first music teacher was a bit of a prodigy on the piano, could play with his eyes closed and always looked as though the music played him, rather than the other way around. As though it was a frequency he was especially attuned to, and his hands were his way of letting it flow through him.
Lincoln touches me the way Mr. Spencer played.
Passionate. Adoring.
Eventually, long enough that I’ve almost forgotten what I asked, he admits softly, “I don’t have a middle name.”
I turn over to face him, and while I can’t make out his expression, I swear I can see him smiling. “Tell me everything.”
He grazes my nose with his. “It started while Darcy and Emma were kids. Some wanker made Emma cry over her name, and I joked that mine was worse. Guessing it would make her smile, and after a while, she completely forgot why she was upset. I kept meaning to tell her the truth, but she enjoys the game, and it’s never bothered me.”
Jesus. Even as a kid, he was putting others first. Knowing what they needed and helping them.
“Are you cold?” he asks when I shiver against him.
In fact, I am, but I like it. In truth, I love summer exactly because the temperature drops so suddenly here at night. As though the world’s temperature gauge is a little buggy, blinking out only in this spot at this precise time, year in, year out, but working enough that no one’s bothered to fix it. The chill is a relief.
“Yes, but you’ll think it’s silly,” I say.
“There isn’t a single thing about you that I don’t want to know, and not any of it could ever be considered silly.”
It’s times like these where words fail me.
I stare up into the darkness, basking in the anchor of him as the night settles across my neck and shoulders. “When we were kids, our apartment caught heat like an iron stove, and the only way to clear it out at night was to keep the windows open. Ciara and I would lie on the floor under the window and count down the sunset, waiting for the first gust of cold air to come through.” I close my eyes and sink back into Lincoln a little more.
“It always felt like magic. Like every scrape Mom kissed better, or the swell of the orchestra when love conquers evil. We’d lie there so long I could hear my teeth chattering. It was like finding a portal between worlds— hot and cold, day and night. It’s the first time I ever thought maybe being different was a good thing. That someday there might be a person out there who would enjoy my oddness too.”
“There is,” he says with so much certainty that my heart threatens to stop, fumbling and skittering over its next few beats.
Sometimes when Emma is sweet, or Ciara sends me a video of my nephew Remi, I’ll fill up on so much love it overflows, and for a moment, I can’t move, preoccupied with remembering how to breathe, holding myself together while my chest aches.
Lincoln makes me feel that way.
I hug him tighter, closing my eyes while he continues to stroke my back, sending shivers down my spine. I wonder if this is what Other Ivy is doing, off in the alternate universe where our relationship is real and not a performance for his family.
Does she get this every night? I could handle that.
“Good night, darling,” he says softly, and it’s so perfect I could cry.
It’s bad this time, the sheer, unadulterated wanting of him. Every once in a while, it’ll hit, and I need to steady myself, the room tilting like standing too fast, the swoop of my heart in my chest the only indication that it’s not the world that he’s irrevocably moved, but the very core of me.
If only I’d said no to the masquerade. I wouldn’t know the feel of his hand in mine or how it sounds when he whispers my name in my ear to get my attention, as if it’s ever strayed far from him.
I wouldn’t know how deeply I could love, and how painful it is to not be loved back.
Two more days. That’s all I need to survive.