The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2)

by Lauren Campbell

  “I was hoping we could talk about the property in Blue Ridge. I just went and saw it. Fucking love it. Do you think...”

  I don’t hear the rest of his question. It isn’t that he doesn’t ask it loudly enough. It’s that Emily suddenly speaks from close behind me, her face pressing into my back.

  “Is that coffee cup mine?”

  I jumped somewhere in the middle of her question, a fuck coming out of my mouth before I almost drop the phone.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, pressing the brew button on the cup.

  I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but it happened so fast.

  A laugh on the other end of the line. “Emily?”

  My body seizes in terror at his question. I spin around to her, and place a finger over my mouth, praying she won’t say anything else. I feel like I am going to be sick.

  “Sounded just fucking like her.” He laughs. “She has a twin.”

  My eyes close, and I breathe a sigh of relief, my shoulders slumping. I laugh, playing off his recognition, ready to blame a shit signal on having to end the call.

  “I’m not kidding, dude. I wanna meet her. Soon.” My throat grows tight, but to my relief he changes the subject. “Anyway, I was thinking we could meet with Nancy tomorrow night to fill out the paperwork for the offer. Or I could do it. We don’t want to let this go. Seven couples have already looked at it, and one is supposedly putting an offer together.”

  Emily’s hands find their way to my chest, and an involuntary moan leaves me.

  “Dude, are you jacking your dick?” Deacon asks. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Super weird, bro. Anyway, talk to Nancy when you get a chance. Work it out. Quick.”

  We hang up, and Emily says, “Who was that?”

  “Who else?” I roll my eyes, and fill the plates a little too roughly.

  “Oh.”

  She takes her coffee, and I motion toward the table while carrying breakfast. I don’t know why, but I am annoyed with her. I know she didn’t know I was on the phone with Deacon, but I am worried maybe he will figure out that it really was her. I know that is inevitable if we are going to keep seeing each other, but there is a better way to go about it.

  It would have to be a sit-down man-to-man chat, and even then, it wouldn’t go well. I know it wouldn’t, but at least it would be a tactful way to break the news to him versus, “Hey, Emily is here with me, and of course we fucked since we are at the beach together. Sorry, man.”

  After a bite of eggs, Emily says, “Maybe we could go for a swim after breakfast?”

  I drop my fork, and cut my eyes to her. Her makeup is a day old, her hair messy and wild, and she is wearing my shirt, and it is all fucking hot, and I hate that she has the power to distract me like she does.

  “I don’t know. Deacon heard you. He even asked if it was you.”

  Her eyebrows raise. She takes a sip of coffee. “Well, if he did, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

  My eyes narrow in her direction, in awe of her complacency to the situation, but I try to remember she doesn’t see things from my side. To her, Deacon is an ex-boyfriend who didn’t work out. To me, he is my best friend—the guy I imagined would be at my wedding someday. The guy who can’t and won’t be there if she is the one waltzing in the white dress.

  I suck down the rest of my coffee, occasionally glancing her way She picks at a cuticle on her thumb, and barely eats what is left on her plate. She must know that I am upset, and now she is, too. But I can’t hide my worry.

  He said her name.

  From the counter, my phone rings, and I gladly seize the opportunity to rush up and get it. Isabel.

  “Hey, I’m gonna take a walk and answer this call. You mind?”

  From the table, Emily shakes her head, but I see the opposition she is trying to hide.

  Still, I answer it and walk out the door.

  “Isabel. How are you?” I feel awful for not checking up on her as much as I should have been, but I have been so busy, and dealing with my own issues, too. Plus, the last time I talked to her, she told me not to treat her like a baby.

  “I’m wondering why you haven’t called.” She laughs, and I want to laugh, because women always mean the opposite of what they say, apparently.

  But I don’t, because I am worried as fuck right now. Any moment, shit could click for Deacon.

  “Brooks?”

  I don’t respond, but I look behind myself, searching to make sure Emily isn’t following before I jog down the hotel stairwell.

  “Hello?”

  I run quickly, each step disappearing behind me at lightning speed until I am two floors down. I feel safe finally, like I can talk freely without fear Emily will sneak up on me.

  “Hey, sorry. Poor reception.” I find a bench near the elevator and sit.

  “Yeah, right. I heard you breathing. What’s wrong?”

  She knows me too well, and I desperately need to get this off my chest, so it erupts from my mouth in one spiel of uncertainty. “I fucked Deacon’s ex-girlfriend. I’m actually at the beach with her.” I sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Whoa, whoa. You fucked Kara?” Isabel practically screams her name to the point that I flinch.

  “What? No. Emily.”

  “The girl from the church?”

  My head juts back. I didn’t expect her to remember her name. Shit, I really hope she has never said anything to anyone. But obviously, she didn’t. “Yeah, that girl.”

  “That’s wrong, Brooks.” Disapproval is thick in her voice. It unsettles me, compounds every hesitant thought I’ve had on my own.

  “I know, I—it isn’t something I planned. It just happened.”

  She laughs, one fast shriek of shock. “Nothing just happens, Brooks. Nothing. She is beautiful, and she seems like a nice girl, but that’s no excuse. You don’t go messing around with your best friend’s woman. There are plenty of women out there. Pick one of those.”

  Her words split me, an axe right down the middle. But they bring the clarity of experience. Of course, it doesn’t mean I have to do what she says, but I should at least marinate on it.

  “You’re probably right. I mean, I know you are. It just isn’t that easy now that we’re too far in.”

  “That’s bullshit. The only thing you’re too far in is her pussy!”

  “Jeez, when you say it like that...”

  “Exactly! You know it’s wrong. You need to stay away from her.”

  Dread hovers over me. Even though I know she is probably right, I need time to think. I can’t just make love to Emily, and then send her on her way. That would be as fucked up as anything else.

  “Yeah.” I change the subject. “How’s your arm now? All better?”

  She exhales, her breath rushing from her in one disappointed sigh. “It’s good. Anyway, I’ll see you when you get back. Do what you have to do. No, no … do what you should do.”

  We hang up, and instead of heading back to the room, I choose what feels like the dick route and go to the bar across the street.

  When I get back to the room, it marks two hours that I have been gone. She is on the couch, dressed and makeup done. She rushes from it as if I have scared her.

  “Where did you go? I’ve been worried.”

  She is close to me now, a space of only about six inches separating me from the fantasy I wish I could live.

  “Sorry, it was my dad. Chat didn’t go too well, so I ended up at the bar.”

  “Oh.” She isn’t fully convinced, but she accepts it, her red lips pursed. “You should have told me. I’d have come with you. I tried to call.”

  “I didn’t hear it. Sorry.” I rub her arm, giving her reassurance that I am okay, that nothing is wrong—that last night wasn’t a possible mistake. I am not used to this anymore—belonging to anyone, having to tell someone where I am going. Of course, I was cognizant of the fact that I was leaving her hanging. It seems no matter which way I turn, Dickhead Street wi
ll be the road I am traveling.

  “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay.” She hugs me, and I can’t help but hug her back. I can’t help but wrap her in my arms, because it feels like what I should do. But I know that sometimes wrong seems right and right seems wrong. If it weren’t true, there would be no divorce.

  I cup her face in my hands, memorizing her eyes and the swell of her lips. I kiss her forehead, because kissing her mouth will ensure I do what I want to do versus what I probably should do, as Isabel said. If I kiss her, I will fuck her again before we leave. I have to give myself time. I have to think.

  “Get packed. We have to be out in a half hour. I arranged for the maid to come.”

  “What?”

  “We’re leaving.”

  Confusion brims in her eyes. “I don’t understand. I thought we were leaving tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I’m—I’m just not feeling so hot. I am ready to get back home.”

  Her shoulders sink, her lips moving in what looks like the beginning of a sentence, but no form.

  “Get your stuff,” I repeat. “I’m gonna take you back by to see your grandmother before we go.”

  She shrinks away from me, like I have just insulted her. “But I saw her yesterday...”

  I glare at her, not understanding her hesitation. “Yes … and you will see her today, too. Is that a problem?”

  I move past her and walk to my room, gathering my things, stuffing my shit into my suitcase, and she enters behind me. She is staring at me, her eyes burning a hole into my back. Maybe it’s too much for her to deal with, but when we left, we had said we would come by again before heading back to Atlanta. It would be terrible if we didn’t.

  “What?”

  “I just don’t understand why we’re leaving. You seemed fine before that phone call. Was it Deacon again?”

  I don’t like her questioning me. I don’t like the doubt in her voice. That was something I absolutely hated about Eliza—always doubting, always questioning, and never believing. I know it is weird that I was gone for so long, however, so I try to keep my cool.

  “No.” The word is terse on my tongue. “It was my dad, like I said. He bitched at me, and then I drank some, and I mixed alcohols. I’m ready to go.”

  “How much did you drink? How are you going to drive if you’re drunk?”

  She has a good point. I zip my suitcase, and then stand it up. “You can drive to the nursing home, and then I’ll be good to drive back. I’m sure we will be there for a couple of hours. I didn’t have that much.”

  Her tongue clicks. “You’re being weird.”

  I comb the room, checking for anything I may have missed. “I am? No, I’m not.” I lift the covers, find a sock, and stuff it in the suitcase. I roll it toward her, aware that I am puzzling her, but unsure as to how to fix it. To fix it, I have to act on my emotions and not on my wants, and maybe I should act on thoughts and on needs. And the truth is, I don’t need Emily. I want her, but I don’t need her. Nobody needs anyone.

  She blocks my exit from the room, and we stare at each other for a long time. Her arms are still crossed, and hurt flexes her jaw.

  “Get your stuff.”

  “Okay.” Her hands fly up in half-surrender, half-what the fuck. “Whatever you say.”

  “Hi, how are you today?” the chipper female voice from the drive-thru speaker asks.

  “Great, how are you?” Emily’s response sounds happy, but she certainly doesn’t look happy. She raised her voice in the high-pitch that women always use at drive-thrus, but her blank expression says she is very much pissed at me.

  “I’ll take the number seven,” I mumble to her.

  Emily leans closer to the speaker. “Yes, let me get the number seven, please, and that’s it.”

  “What?” I whisper. “You have to eat something.”

  “No.”

  The woman blares over the speaker again, rattling off the order and the total.

  I speak over her. “Get something … what about the salad?”

  “No.”

  “Emily, you’re getting something.”

  “I said I don’t want anything.” Her fingers tense on the steering wheel, and I give up.

  “Okay.”

  When she pulls around the corner, I hear my rim scrape against the curb. “Fuck!” It keeps scraping as she keeps driving. “Oh my God. My fucking rim.” I drop my head into my hands, running them through my hair and then clenching my fists.

  The car jerks to a stop. “I’m … I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be driving this. I’m a terrible driver. Awful.”

  A car horn sounds from behind us and doesn’t stop. “Just go,” I whisper.

  She pulls up to the window, and takes the food. I hold out my card to her, and we wait for the cashier to run it before we’re on the road again. I want to get out and check my rim, but fuck it. It’s scraped all to hell, and I don’t even need to look at it to tell. I can’t even be angry at her. She shouldn’t be driving my car, like she said. But I am extremely irritated, mainly with myself. I should have stopped this situation long ago.

  I eat my food on the drive to the nursing home, because I might as fucking well. I am about to drop God knows how much money on the rim, anyway.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, finishing off the last bite of my sandwich.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “Dammit, no I’m not. Stop contradicting me.”

  Her eyes cut to me, and they are scared eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I feel really bad about it. First the drink, and now this.”

  I sigh. “It’s just money.”

  She starts to say something, but stops herself. Less than five minutes later, we coast into the nursing home parking lot.

  Her body turns to me as she shuts off the engine. “Do you think you could stay here this time? The whole time?”

  I want to say no, want to tell her I am going to be there to support her again, but I know she needs this time alone. She needs this time to say goodbye, because it could very well be the last time she ever sees Sarah. “Take all the time you need.”

  She smiles, the tension fleeing her shoulders. She gets out of the car, and I watch her walk inside, her dress flowing behind her. For some reason, I think about how sad it would be to watch her walk away for the last time, and it dawns on me once again.

  I literally have no fucking clue what I am going to do.

  I enter the doors to the nursing home, greeted by the stale air. Anxiety melts from me—a puddle of worry trailing behind. I feel a little bad for scraping Brooks’s rim on purpose, but he’s being an ass, so I’ll hit him in the wallet since I can’t hit him anywhere else.

  Approaching the counter, I see the same woman who organized my meeting with Sarah before. She smiles warmly at me, recognition obvious in the way her eyes crinkle at the corners.

  “Amy, right?”

  “Emily.”

  She scoffs at herself. “That’s right. Old age. I should be in here myself. Are you here to see Sarah again, or...”

  “Yes. Yes, I’d love to see her.”

  “Do you remember where her room is? I can walk you.”

  I tell her I know the way. Float down the hall to her room. Without knocking, I’m in, skittering over to her bed. There is faded red stain on her lips—remains of the lipstick I applied.

  “Who are you?”I smile at her. Take her hand in mine. The Jesus figurine is still on the bedside table.

  “It’s me. Your granddaughter.” This time I don’t feel bad for lying. This time I realize I’m helping her. I have to see the good in what I’ve done. She has no one. An older me—lonely and in need of saving. I need a family. She’s a good place to start. I might as well run with it.

  “Granddaughter?”

  “Yes.” I smile. Pull a mirror from the compact in my purse. I hold it in front of her face, so she can see her lips. “I put this lipstick on you yesterday. Do you remember?”Her lips curl back into a snarl, and then s
he puckers them. “Can’t remember any damn thing these days. Not things that happen recently, anyway.”

  “I understand. It’s okay, Granny.”

  She regards me curiously, her eyes widening before relaxing again. “Are you sure you’re my granddaughter?”

  “I’m sure. One hundred percent.”

  Her mouth lifts in happiness again. “I always wanted one.”

  “Well, I’m here. And hey, I have this for you.” I pick through my purse, plucking the lipstick tube from it. Removing the cap, I hold it up to show her the blood shade. “Can I put some more on you?”

  “Oh, yes,” she beams.

  Carefully, I apply it again. Freshen the fading crimson right up. “What about blush or powder?”

  “Do it all, honey.”

  She closes her eyes, allowing me to give her a quick makeover. I sweep powder over her face, albeit powder that’s slightly too dark for her pasty skin. I rub some rouge on her cheeks, and swipe some shadow over her lids. I even apply a light coat of mascara.

  “All done,” I tell her, holding up the mirror.

  She studies herself, her eyes squinted a bit so she can see clearly. Her moist eyes grow wetter before she says, “I remember looking like this the night I had my first kiss. Of course, a lot less wrinkled, and with tits that didn’t hang to my knees.” She laughs loudly, and I laugh with her. I like this woman. She’s a good grandmother—as good as any I could hope to find.

  “You told me that story. It was at the skating rink.”

  “Yes!” she exclaims. “They couldn’t keep their hands off us! We were hot tamales, my sister and me.”

  “I bet you were. You still are. Can I take a picture of us?”

  “Oh, dear, normally I’d say no, but I’m too hot now to shy away!” She laughs again. Fluffs her hair.

  I lean close to her, our cheeks touching as I hold out my phone. I snap several photos, and put it back in my pocket. “I’ll have them printed, and I’ll mail them to you.”

  “Can’t you just bring them?”

  My mouth falls to a frown. “No, I … I’m going back home today. I was just here visiting you. I live in Atlanta, about six or seven hours from here.”