Catching Ivy

by Eliza Tilton

  She’s not real . . . it’s just another story.

  I chuckle at the absurdity of it. Am I really worried about what’s going to happen to an avatar? I mean, I don’t want to see her captured or hurt. No, I want her to win. To destroy whatever BORAS did to put her on the run.

  Annoyance and anger course through me in a torrent of emotion. I need to see what happens. Maybe the vid has a programming issue. I decide to give Jims a chance to keep his money and fix this.

  I raise my wrist to my mouth. “Call Jims.”

  Jims picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “We need to talk,” I demand, grabbing my keys and heading toward the door. “Where are you?”

  He pauses and I hear whispering in the background.

  Thoroughly out of patience, I snap, “Jims!”

  “My place,” he answers, wary annoyance tinging his voice.

  “Fine. Be there in fifteen.” Signing off before waiting for a response, I open my bedroom door and notice the lights are on. I step into the living room, expecting to see Mom asleep in front of the TV screen, but she’s not.

  “Mom?”

  It’s a little after two in the morning. Where is she?

  I check my parents’ bedroom—empty.

  I check the bathroom—empty.

  There’s only one other place she could be.

  I head to the elevator, enter the passcode, and head to the roof. The elevator ascends with a disconcerting sense of stillness, humming with soft instrumental music until it stops moving. Our private elevator leads to a private garden: Mom’s sanctuary. The door opens into a massive, glass, temperature-controlled atrium. I walk past cadmium roses, potted ferns, draping wisteria, and branched archways of ivy to a bench swing that sits across from a fountain with an angel.

  “Mom,” I call out softly, trying not to startle her.

  She’s sitting on the swing, her legs cloaked in a blanket and curled under her, reading a book. Her eyes snap to me in a flash, a smile lighting her face. “Hi, honey.”

  I walk closer and she scoots over, lifting the blanket so I can sit next to her. Once settled, I ask, “What are you doing up here?”

  She lifts her book, a wry look on her face.

  I shake my head at the sight of my mother partaking in such an old-fashioned pastime. “Mom, no one reads paper books anymore.”

  She smiles. “It’s just because you didn’t grow up with paper books. I loved the picture ones when I was little, and still enjoy the feel and smell of books today. Not all of us can enjoy those machines you use.”

  “They’re not machines, they’re VRR’s,” I chastise, going over the same discussion we’ve had over and over throughout the years. I poke the hardcover in her hands. “Gone with the Wind, again?”

  This time, her smile beams and her blue eyes sparkle. “I know, but there’s a beauty in these pages I can’t explain. The way the author writes, I can picture the red rolling hills of Tara in my mind and the cotton blowing in the breeze. It transports me to another place and time.” She sounds so heartbreakingly wistful, my heart squeezes.

  “We could leave,” I suggest quietly.

  She doesn’t look at me, but I see the unspoken longing in her eyes, the need to be out of the dirty city, out in the trees with fresh air and the chirping of crickets. We used to go to the lake every weekend. With Dad’s busy schedule, we haven’t been there in over two years.

  “This is our home.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Mel’s already left.” I realize using my sister’s name is a cheap shot, but I know Mom misses her. Mel moved upstate, a few towns over from our lake house.

  She sighs. “Your father would never leave.”

  “We could.”

  “Damion,” she starts, dancing lightly across the argument we’ve had one too many times.

  Angry words want to spew from my mouth in a blazing coil, but I hold them in check. “Why do you stay with him? He’s never here anymore.” It’s a question I’ve asked more than once, even though she always gives me the same answers.

  “I love your father.”

  I nod, waiting for her to continue.

  “He wasn’t always this way.” Her voice takes on a distant quality, and her grip on my hand loosens. “The past few years have been hard. There are less projects in the city, and all the new developers are heading upstate where there’s more inventory. Your father has a lot of quirks that make him hard to live with,” she glances at me, “but he genuinely wants to save this city.”

  After she gives a jaw-popping yawn, I lift the blanket and stand, holding out a hand to her. “Come on, you should get some sleep.”

  I fold the blanket and leave it on the swing, then escort her back into our suite.

  I arrive at Jims’ apartment a little later than I planned and knock on his door. I’m greeted with silence, yet again.

  I knock louder, and a lock clicks behind me. I turn and Jims slips out of Candy’s apartment across the hall.

  He claps a hand on my shoulder. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  I don’t bother to tell him I’m the one who’s late.

  Jims opens the door to his apartment and once again, I’m struck with the realization that his apartment is one giant catastrophe. The studio is small to begin with, but when you add in heaping piles of clothes, stray mounds of computer equipment, and an oversized brown couch that doubles as a bed, there’s barely enough room to maneuver.

  I manage to find a clean patch of linoleum to stand on and lean against the battered kitchen counter, crossing my legs.

  Jims heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge, taking a beer out. “Want one?”

  “No,” I answer shortly.

  Jims pops the cap off and starts swigging, unconcerned with my obvious annoyance. Not wanting to spend another minute in his place, I tell him what’s wrong.

  “The vid is broken.” I tell him, not wanting to spend another minute in his place.

  He wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “Can’t be.”

  “Well, it is.”

  He sighs. “Is it the sensory apps?”

  I shake my head. “No, they’re working fine. But the place marks are missing, and the story doesn’t make sense. It just runs. And when I tried to mesh today, all I saw was a black screen.”

  Jims screws up his face, looking at the dingy ceiling. Finally, he offers, “Could be the OS wasn’t finished.”

  I groan, “You said you got it from a BORAS tech. Can you ask him?”

  Apprehension crosses Jims’ face, and he studiously averts my gaze. “I don’t know. He seemed spooked about giving it to me. Made me promise not to tell anyone who I got it from, and to sell it to someone trustworthy.”

  “I’m not paying for a broken vid,” I respond, a warning quietly held within my words.

  Jims sighs. “Buzz might be able to fix it. I’ll call him.”

  “Fine,” I answer dismissively. “Let me know when we can meet.”

  ELEVEN

  ~Damion~

  The elevator hums as I ascend, my foot tapping the beat to an out-of-date song. It’s been one hundred-fifty-six days since Gia’s death, and one hundred-fifty-three days since I hung with any of the old crew. When the elevator stops at Roger’s, I think seriously about pushing the down arrow and leaving.

  But I’ve never been a coward, and I owe it to my best friend to stick around for one drink. I can handle one drink.

  Roger’s place is banging with music and a slew of hotties. His parents are obviously away again on another cruise to the Caribbean. I open the door and step in the apartment, glancing around at the empty food containers and bottles.

  What a mess, and it isn’t even midnight.

  “I knew you’d show!” Roger crows as he comes around the corner, slapping a hand
on my shoulder. He holds a half-full bottle of Jack in the other. “Ready for a shot?” he asks with a devilish grin. His brown hair is all ruffled and his face is flushed.

  “You know it,” I answer, ready to lose myself in that bottle.

  He acts as if I haven’t been MIA for the past six months, and the anxiety that gripped me five minutes earlier begins to lighten. Part of it is because I know Roger won’t ask me the usual questions I get from everyone else: How are you? What have you been doing? Terrible thing that happened to that girl, don’t you agree?

  We walk further into the apartment. Six shots are lined up across the cherry wood bar.

  “Drew, Mike!” Roger hails over two of our other boys and they both give me fist bumps.

  “Good to see you, bro. Freshmen year is insane. Wish you would’ve dormed with us,” Mike announces, grabbing a shot in his meaty hand.

  “And you’re missing out on some fine girls,” Drew adds. “All ready to party.”

  I grab a shot and we all hold ours up, a silent nod and salute. I throw the Jack down my throat, the amber liquid burning on its way down, and shake my head to clear the taste.

  Roger’s parents are going to be livid when they find he drank all their liquor and ordered more off their shopping cart. These days, most people order online, including alcohol. If the house resident has their ID on file on their cart, you can order anything you want.

  “Woo!” Roger whoops. “Line up again.”

  We diligently put the glasses back on the bar and Roger runs the bottle across the top, sloshing Jack all over the counter and dribbling onto the floor.

  “You guys are making a mess,” a girl remarks from behind us.

  I turn around, spotting Shelley, dressed in a strapless black mini with a set of matching spiked heels that resemble more of a deadly weapon than a fashion item. “Hey, Shelley,” I voice, genuinely happy to see her.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek, adding, “Good to see you, Damion.”

  Roger shoves her a shot glass and she sighs. “Don’t be a party killer, babe. One shot will do you good.”

  Shelley touches her glass to mine and winks before throwing it back.

  Two shots, and the liquor works its magic making me warm all over. I slam my empty shot glass on the bar and eye Roger, who’s already grinning and tipping the bottle. “One more,” I declare sternly.

  His grin widens.

  The third shot slides down even easier, deliciously warming my chest. Three shots should be enough to get me through this night. I lean against the bar, collecting myself while Drew and Mike launch into a heated discussion about a brunette and her two not-so-hot friends. Neither one wants to play wingman tonight.

  “You said she wasn’t coming.”

  “I know! I don’t know who invited her.”

  Shelley and Roger are whispering off to the side, but Roger’s version of whispering isn’t quiet. My ears perk up with one word, and I search the room.

  Astrid.

  My fingers grip the bar. It’s been one-hundred fifty-six days since I’ve seen her. I never wanted to see her again.

  As if summoned by the mere whisper of her name, she looks up and makes a bee-line straight to me.

  “Oh, no, she isn’t.” Shelley storms toward her, protective intent written all over her features.

  Sliding off the bar stool, I charge my way toward Astrid. I don’t need a referee.

  “Don’t,” Roger warns, shoving an arm in front of my chest. “She’s not worth it. Shelley will get her out of here.”

  Shelley is really laying it into Astrid. I see her lip trembling. She should cry. She should cry until she’s sick to her stomach. But even with Shelley yelling at her, Astrid isn’t moving. That girl is one giant wall of stubborn.

  Throughout the tirade, Astrid stares down at her brown, buckled boots that match the oversized sweater hanging just above her thighs, only occasionally offering a rebuttal. Her perfectly curled red hair hangs like a curtain past her waist. To this day, I still don’t know if I truly loved her. At one point in time we were certainly hot and heavy, but I didn’t know what love was, what it was supposed to be, until Gia.

  When I walk over, they both stop arguing.

  “Damion—”

  “It’s okay, Shelley. You better go handle Roger before he drinks himself asleep.”

  Although she looks like she wants to argue, she gives Astrid one last death stare and storms away.

  “Outside,” I order, and start walking to the balcony.

  Without an answering word, Astrid follows me quietly. The haunting memory of that day floods back to me . . . the fight . . . the accident. Even one year later, I’m still a wreck of rage and hurt. Seeing Astrid brings back a ton of emotions I don’t want to feel.

  When we get outside, I face the city and grip the black iron railing for support. I can’t look at her. She’s quiet, but I feel her presence like a thunderous weight on my back.

  Not wanting to stand out here longer than absolutely necessary, I say, “Are you going to talk?”

  “I’ve tried to reach you so many times,” she fumbles.

  Yup, and I ignored each call and message.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I never meant—”

  “Yes, you did.” I tighten my hands around the bar so hard, I think I’ll break it. “You meant every twisted lie and rumor.”

  Astrid pleads, “Please look at me, Damion.”

  I whirl around, startling her, and fold my arms.

  We stand in silence, the air humid and hot. Beeps and chatter surround the night sky with the city alive below us. I push up the sleeves of my black shirt, wishing I wore short sleeves instead.

  She doesn’t even have the guts to meet me eye-to-eye. “I loved you,” she whispers. “I still love you. But when you broke up with me for her, I went a little nuts.”

  “Is that it?” I snap. “First, you spread hurtful rumors about Gia to get me to stop seeing her, and when that didn’t work, you pushed her into a bus!”

  She finally looks up at me, her crystalline blue eyes brimming with tears. “No! That’s not true. I never meant for her to get hurt.” She reaches out to me, but stops short, bringing her trembling hands to her lips.

  “There’s nothing you can say to undo what you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to kill her, but your psycho ex-girlfriend tactics got her killed.”

  Tears flow, and the hurt shines within the depths of her eyes. “You never even broke up with me,” she whispers. “Never even gave me a reason why. You just stopped talking to me.”

  She’s right. “We weren’t exclusive,” I answer dismissively.

  Her mouth drops open and her face shifts with such shock and pain, my gut twists. “How can you say that? You were my first! You told me you loved me! I thought we were in love. Were you lying?”

  Her entire body trembles, fueled by indignant anger and embarrassment. My anger fades, replaced by deep sorrow and guilt. Something breaks inside. I did care for Astrid. That part wasn’t a lie. “I don’t think I knew what love was,” I respond instead, gentler this time.

  With those words, she begins to sob, huge, gut-wrenching heaves. All this time, I only cared or thought about my feelings. What Gia’s death did to me. Not once did I think about Astrid and how her life changed, or how hurt and lost she must feel.

  I’m a jerk.

  I was so into Gia, I didn’t think about the consequences or the hurt I may be causing to Astrid. I step closer and hold her shaking arms. “Maybe we were both wrong. I did like you, a lot.”

  “I didn’t know what to do to get you back,” she admits brokenly. “All I knew was I couldn’t stand to see you with her. You were my everything.” Her voice cracks. “I think about that day all the time. I can’t get her out of my head. I killed her … I killed someone.”

  Blotc
hes of red cover her cheeks and eyes. The desperation in her words mimics my own. I wrap her in my arms. “You’re not a murderer.”

  “I am, and I hate myself for it,” she argues.

  “Then so am I, because I’m the one who pushed you.”

  Astrid wraps her arms around my waist and burrows her face into my chest. For a moment, I remember how we were. Hot. Heavy. Reckless. But when I think about those times, another face enters the memory, not Gia, not Astrid, but a girl I don’t even know.

  Ivy isn’t real. Astrid is, I scold myself. And you know exactly what she’s hiding underneath that brown sweater.

  One-hundred-fifty-six days since I had any physical contact with a girl.

  One-hundred-fifty-six days where my anger superseded any other desire.

  But not anymore.

  I slide my hands down Astrid’s back, grazing her hips. Alarmed, she glances up at me with those big bright eyes, and before I think, I kiss her. She jumps, but I hold onto her hips. Within seconds, she melts in my arms. “I’m sorry,” I whisper between our lips.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she whispers back, dragging her tongue across my mouth, drowning me. “About everything. Please, forgive me. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  Familiarity rolls through me. I kiss her hard, wanting to put the past behind us and forget it ever happened. “I forgive you.”

  I snake my hands across her, searching for a touch of bare skin, and push her back into the darkness of the balcony. Astrid is a sexy vixen, and I know every part of her body.

  She lifts her leg to rub against me and I grab it with my hand, running my fingers up her thigh until I touch her waist. Her head falls back, but she clings to my neck. I leave her lips and trail mine across her neck, down and down, until she wraps both her legs around my waist. With her up against the wall, I lift her until she’s eye level with me.