by Beth Hyland
“Can’t picture me as a doctor, huh?” I try to sound casual, but I can’t hide the edge creeping into my tone. Although I’m used to people having low expectations of me, I wasn’t expecting that reaction from her, too. I’m not sure what the fuck I was thinking. Turning my attention back to the food on my plate, I stab a forkful of hash browns.
Ivy reaches across the table, her hand closing around mine, making the shredded potatoes fall off my fork. I jerk my head up, thinking I’ll see amusement or ridicule in her expression. But I don’t. Her head is tilted slightly, and she looks…interested.
“Well, that depends,” she says.
“On what?” I ask cautiously.
“First of all, you seem like a really caring person. For a guy who’s on the radio and used to talking, you’re a surprisingly good listener. Since you’re a chemistry tutor, you’re obviously smart and good at explaining things to people who don’t understand something.”
The air around me goes thick all of a sudden and the lump in my throat turns into an elephant. Except for my mom, no one’s ever thought I was caring before, and that was a long time ago. I flex my fingers, recalling how she held my hand that day, squeezing until the bones felt like they were about to crack.
“Mom, you don’t have to do this,” I kept my head turned away from where the tattoo artist was leaning over her chest. “You’re fine just the way you are. Who cares about scars?”
“You’re so compassionate, Jonny. So caring.” She grabbed my hand and held on as if it were a lifeline as the tattoo needle buzzed. “How did someone like me become the mother of someone like you?”
I swallow hard at the memory. “What else does it depend on?” I ask Ivy.
“On how accurate my first impression of you is.”
I’m confused. “The night we met, I helped you off the roof. I thought I was being a nice guy.”
“No, before that. The first time I saw you was when you were beating the crap out of some dude. Remember?”
Oh.
“So, yeah, doctor isn’t the first profession that comes to mind. Now, if you’d told me you were training to be an MMA fighter or hit man, I’d go, hmmm, I can totally see it.”
A huge weight falls from my shoulders and we both laugh.
As we finish breakfast, I hear all about her little sister’s obsession with One Direction, her rescue dog Torque (at first I thought she said his name was Dork), and her friend Deena in LA who is studying to become a voice actress.
When we get back to my bike, Ivy takes the helmet but doesn’t put it on. “About the doctor thing.”
I start to tell her that there is no doctor thing, but she keeps going.
“I do have a slight problem with it.”
This should be interesting. Instead of putting on my helmet, I tuck it under my arm. “You do?”
“If you showed up in my hospital room and said you were going to operate on me, I wouldn’t be able to think straight. For one thing, I’ve never seen a doctor who looks like you.” A mischievous glint sparkles in her eye as she puts on the helmet. “But then, maybe all big-city docs are hot and tatted up, and I’m just some clueless girl from a small town.”
Without waiting for my reaction, she climbs on the back of the bike, all confident and shit, like she’s done it a million times. Meanwhile, I’m standing here, my mouth open wide, not sure what just happened.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult.”
“What? I’m serious. I’d be embarrassed if a gorgeous young doctor was about to see me naked. As in, freaking mortified. I’d clutch my robe and tell you to take a hike.”
Pediatric medicine is what I’d been thinking about, not surgery, but whatever. God, I want to kiss the hell out of her right now. It’s not helping matters that she looks so damn hot straddling my bike.
I start to make a move. Fortunately, I catch myself just in time. Without the backdrop of a pub or party, a kiss in the middle of the day is way more meaningful. I’d be moving into dangerous territory, and I’m not sure I can afford to let that happen. She stirs me up inside like no one else does, which honestly scares the shit out of me. She’s too perfect, too sweet, too fun. And I’m too fucking fucked up. I’ve done bad things. Things I want to forget. She’s responding to Jon, the ‘church is now in session’ guy. The guy with all the friends. The guy who says what a girl wants to hear in order to sleep with her.
Not Jon, the foster kid who barely finished high school because he was sent to juvie. Or the guy whose own father doesn’t think he’s good enough.
No, I don’t want her to know the real me, because if she does, she’ll only be disappointed. Plus, I have a knack for fucking up people’s lives. My mere existence fucked up my mom’s.
The ride back to her dorm takes about five minutes. When we get there, she climbs off and hands me the helmet.
“Thanks for breakfast. That was fun.” Her eyes flicker up to mine but don’t linger. I know she was expecting me to kiss her back there. Or maybe she’s thinking I’ll kiss her now.
“Sure, no problem.”
The silence stretches awkwardly between us.
She takes a step backward. “See you in class on Monday?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Still wearing my coat, she turns and walks away.
Don’t go, I want to tell her. It’s early and the day is long.
Why didn’t I ask her to come to Stella’s with me? We could’ve picked up her coat and…
Just before she gets to the bottom step, she hesitates and slowly turns around. Her eyes are narrowed, as if she’s surprised I’m still here. “Have you started on that photography project yet?”
“What photography project?”
“The one with the themes.”
It sounds vaguely familiar. “When is it due?”
“Um, Monday.”
Damn. “No, not yet.”
“Do you…uh…want to work on it together?”
“Together?” My chest constricts. “When?”
She squints at the gray sky. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. If you’re not busy, we could do it right now.”
Every part of me wants to say yes. “I’m meeting someone soon, but I should be back around four. Would that work?”
“That might be too late. It gets dark around four-thirty. We could try tomorrow. Maybe it won’t be as rainy as they’re saying it will be.”
“Unless…”
Her eyes meet mine. Waiting. Hopeful?
“Unless you want to come with me.”
“To your friend’s?” She looks skeptical.
“Not a friend from here. A family friend. She lives half an hour away, down the coast. If you want, we can bring our cameras and stop on the way to take pictures.”
Her smile lights up her whole face. The cement sidewalk between us. My heart.
“Sure. That sounds fun. Give me a minute to grab my camera. I’ll be right back, okay?”
“I’ll be here.”
* * *
Ivy
Jon is waiting for me at the curb, right where I left him. I sling my camera bag over my head and give a dorky wave as I jog down the steps. Cassidy couldn’t believe it when I told her I’d just had breakfast with Jon and that we were going to work on a class project today.
“He’s totally hot and I’m thrilled for you,” she said, “but don’t let him break your heart. I was talking to this girl, Tina, last night while you guys were dancing. She was at the Hardware with another guy, but she said she and Jon have regular booty calls.”
“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to fall in love with him. We’re just working on a project together.”
What I didn’t tell her was that I like how I feel when I’m with him. I’m not scared or panicked or confused or wimpy. When I’m with him, my jumbled-up parts aren’t the jagged pieces they usually are. And talking about t
he accident with him didn’t give me a headache. You know how being around toxic people adds to your insecurities and makes you feel bad about yourself? (If not, lucky you.) Well, Jon is the opposite of that for me.
Now I’m at the curb, eyeing his bike. I was fine riding on the back of his motorcycle across town, but I’m not sure about driving along a winding two-lane road way above the ocean. One wrong shift of my weight and—
“So I was thinking… What if we take my car instead?”
He pats the bike between his legs. “This make you nervous?”
I can’t tell if he means to be suggestive or if I’m just taking it that way, but my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “My camera stuff is…is kind of bulky and it might rain. I really don’t mind driving.”
“Sure, no problem. Where’s your car?”
“Over in Lot C.”
The one good thing about my car having been in the shop getting fixed is that it’s clean now. They washed it and vacuumed the carpets.
Soon, we’re winding through campus and Jon’s driving. “That way you can look for good places to take pictures without worrying about the road.” I just think he likes to be the one behind the wheel.
We stop at Coffee Addicts to get something for the road. Since we just ate, I assume we’re only ordering drinks, but Jon gets a mocha with whipped cream and a muffin. I must have an incredulous look on my face or something, because he feels the need to explain himself. “If you don’t grab the lemon-blueberry ones when they have them, all day, you’ll be wishing you had.”
“They’re that good?” I ask.
“Here, have a bite.” He breaks off a piece and offers it to me, but I puff up my cheeks, indicating I’m still stuffed from breakfast. He laughs and pops it into his mouth.
We climb back into my car and head down the road. I’m sipping on my sugar-free Red Bull Italian soda. Raspberry. My favorite.
“See? Aren’t you glad we took my car? You wouldn’t have been able to get anything to eat if we’d taken the motorcycle.”
“True.” He takes a bite of his muffin, then glances at the crumbs in his lap. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Wasn’t expecting it to be so crumbly.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Can you hold onto this for a sec?”
“Sure.” I stretch out my hand, thinking he means the muffin.
“No. Steer.”
Take the wheel? While we’re driving? I glance nervously at the road in front of us. It’s empty, and we’re not going very fast, but…
Without waiting for a yes, he starts picking the crumbs from his lap.
My heart slams in my chest. I grab the wheel and white-knuckle it, keeping my eyes glued to the road. Don’t cross the yellow line in the center. Don’t hit the white line on the shoulder.
I make minor jerky adjustments to keep it in the center of the lane. Not too far right. Or left. Keep it straight down the middle. Crap. That’s too far over.
It takes me a moment to realize the car is slowing down. I glance at Jon. His hand is on the bottom of the wheel. Has it been there this whole time? There’s a rigid expression on his face as he pulls to the side of the road and stops the car. Without a word, he gets out, brushes off the rest of the crumbs, then gets back inside.
“There.” His tone is clipped. He’s pissed, or at least irritated.
Even though I didn’t say anything—at least I don’t remember that I did—it’s obvious he noticed my overreaction. I sit back in my seat, readjust my shoulder strap, and stare out the windshield. A piece of paper, buffeted by the wind, flits past the front of my car. I track it to the warehouse parking lot to my right, where it lodges against the side of the building.
“Ivy?”
I look over at him. He’s frowning. My first thought is to apologize. I’ve made him mad. It’s my fault.
He puts a finger to my lips. “That was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”
I’m confused. He’s sorry?
“Not long after you tell me about the car accident that almost took your life, I’m telling you to hold the wheel while I brush crumbs off my lap. I just wasn’t thinking.”
He’s pissed, but at himself? I wasn’t expecting that. I give him a little smile. “That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
With College View behind us, we head toward the coast, Douglas fir trees a blur on either side of the road. The radio reception is terrible, so we’ve got my phone plugged in and I’m scrolling through my playlists.
“Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?” Over breakfast, he asked so many questions about me and yet I still don’t know that much about him.
He grips the steering wheel with a casualness that makes my POS car seem cooler than it is. “I was an only child—it was just me and my mom, although I wouldn’t be surprised to learn I’ve got some half-siblings out there somewhere.”
Was? I wonder what happened to his parents. “Why do you think you could have a half brother or sister? Wouldn’t you know if you did?”
He stares straight ahead. “When your dad fucks around as much as mine does, anything’s possible.”
Present tense. So his dad is alive. I wonder if he cheated on his mom before she died or if he started fucking around a lot afterward?
From the way Jon said it, I’m guessing it happened before she died. I sit back, not sure how to respond. My dad can be a jerk, but I’m pretty sure he’s never done anything like that. I can’t imagine how Jon must feel. Betrayed? Angry? Unimportant?
“I don’t know him anyway, so it’s not a big deal.”
I glance over, trying to decide whether or not he means it, but his expression is unreadable. “He sounds like a major douche bag.”
“He is.”
“And who needs that in your life, anyway?”
“Exactly.”
I close my eyes and imagine us driving away and never coming back, far from the toxic people in our lives. Sipping strawberry daiquiris on a beach somewhere. Holding hands as we play in the surf.
We exit the highway and pull into a cute little beach community. All the houses are decorated with fishing nets, glass balls, and buoys. At the end of the road, Jon pulls into the driveway of a small gray house with white shutters. As we walk to the front door, I notice that the flowerbeds on either side of the walk are filled with crushed white oyster shells. Jon knocks. It takes a few moments until we hear footsteps inside.
The door swings open, revealing a slim, white-haired woman wearing a red gingham apron. Her whole face lights up. “Jon! And you brought a young lady with you. Bless your heart.”
Jon smirks.
I bite my lip.
“This is my friend Ivy,” he says. “Ivy, this is Stella Sinclair.”
Stella? Isn’t that the name of the woman he got into the fight about? Something to do with weed?
The old woman grabs my hands, and I can’t help noticing how gnarled her fingers are. It has to be painful.
“Jon’s never brought a girl to meet me before. This is such a treat. Please, come in.” She steps aside and we walk in. “I hope you’re hungry, Ivy. When I know Jon’s coming, I make lots of food.”
“And I appreciate it.” Jon gives her a kiss on the cheek, then turns back to me. “Stella is the best cook. Everything she makes is awesome.”
Neither of us mentions that we just ate a huge breakfast.
She slaps his arm, but I can tell she loves the compliment. “Anything has to be better than what a houseful of young men can cook up. It’s really not a testament to my cooking at all. He’s got nothing good to compare it to.”
“When the guys know I’ve been here,” Jon says, “they descend on the leftovers like a pack of vultures.”
We follow her through the foyer, down a short hall dotted with family pictures, and into a cheery kitchen.
She motions for us to sit down, then proceeds to fuss over us. Soon I’ve got a glass of iced tea in front of me, along with a fragrant bowl of chicken soup. I
n the center of the table, Stella sets down a plate stacked with triangle sandwiches. I haven’t had a sandwich cut that way since I was a kid.
“Please, don’t wait for me,” she says. “I want you to eat before the soup gets cold. I’ve got to get these cookies out of the oven.”
I take a sandwich and bite into it. Oh my God. It’s tuna salad on steroids. “This is sooo good.”
“Told you.” Jon reaches for a second one. What the heck. I do, too.
“What’s in it, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Please, call me Stella.” She sits across from Jon and folds a napkin over her lap. “I start with all the normal ingredients. Mayo, salt and pepper, pickles, a little dill weed. But I also add chopped jalapeños and pepperoncinis from a jar.”
I would never have thought to add all that stuff. “No wonder it’s so good.”
“How was the garage sale?” Jon asks.
She waves a hand in front of her face like she’s batting away a fly. “Just a few people showed up. I sat out there all morning and hardly sold a thing.”
I take a sip of my iced tea. Peach, I think. “If you decide to do another one, let me know. Back home, my mom, my aunt, and I used to go garage-saling all the time. I’ve helped my mom organize a few that have been pretty successful.”
“So you’re a bargain shopper,” Jon says, nodding his head. “I didn’t know that about you.”
There’s a lot he doesn’t know about me. “Yep. Flea markets. Antique shops. Love it all.”
Stella dabs her mouth with her napkin. “It just so happens, I used to own an antique shop in town. You should see my attic. It’s overflowing with all sorts of things I’ve collected over the years.”
After lunch, Jon tries to help with the cleanup, but Stella shoos him away. “I don’t get to fuss over young people much anymore, so don’t take this little pleasure away from me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jon says with a grin. “I’ll go check on your plants. Ivy, you okay for a few minutes?”
“Um, sure.”
His footsteps echo down the hall, then a door opens and closes.
Stella dries her hands on a dishtowel. “Just so you know, I grow medical cannabis. It’s the only thing I’ve found that helps with my arthritis pain.”
Cannabis? As in weed? This sweet, little old lady is a stoner? If she told me she was dating Bradley Cooper, I seriously wouldn’t be more surprised.