by Beth Hyland
“Henry Senior would roll over in his grave if he knew what I was doing. He was a juvenile court judge before he retired, so he knew plenty of kids who used it. And their parents. But he’s pushing daisies and I’m here with these blasted hands and hips. Not much he can do about it now, is there?”
“How…how did you think to try it?”
“Jon was the one who suggested it. He lived with me for a short time after his mother passed. I found a pipe and some marijuana in his things and confronted him about it. He said he got it to give to me because it was supposed to help with arthritis.”
“And you believed him?”
“Oh honey, I knew he was feeding me a load of horse manure, but what can I say? I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for that young man. He’s been through a lot. So I went along with him and made him show me how to smoke it. Boy, was I surprised when the pain in my hands lessened. Not completely, but enough that I was able to start knitting again and join the ladies at the club for the daily walking sessions.”
The talk shifts to yarn shops and knitting, much more normal topics to discuss with her, and for that, I’m grateful. Until she gets up, opens a cupboard near the sink, and pulls out a Mason jar filled with tightly packed green buds. “Would you like some to take back with you? I’ve got plenty.”
I almost spit out my iced tea. “Um, no, thank you. I’m good.”
After I help her with the dishes, she empties the leftover soup into a plastic container for Jon and offers me some as well, but I tell her I don’t have a microwave in my room.
I sit back down as Stella puts another batch of cookies into the oven. “So how did you know Jon’s mom? He tells me you were friends.”
“A beautiful girl,” she says wistfully, touching her white curls. “She used to do my hair. I felt so bad for Jon, shuffled off to various foster homes after she was gone.”
My heart lurches in my chest. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for him. Not only losing his mom, but then having to live in a strange home with people he didn’t know. “No family members could take him in? What about his father?”
Stella clucks her tongue and makes a face. “That good-for-nothing piece of— Pardon my language. I know it’s not very Christian, but that man gets no sympathy from me. At all.”
“Who doesn’t?” Jon asks, striding back into the kitchen.
Stella flicks her hand as if to brush away his question. “We’re just chatting about this and that. I was telling Ivy— Oh, son, what’s all over your hands? They’re filthy.” She hands him a kitchen towel and ushers him to the sink. “Careful, I just mopped these floors. What in heaven’s name were you doing out there?”
“I noticed the gutter on the corner of the garage was clogged, so I climbed up and pulled out a bunch of leaves. There’s still a lot more gunk in there, so I’ll need to come back and get the rest of it cleaned out.”
“Thank you,” Stella says gratefully, as he washes his hands. “But you don’t need to come back to do that. You already do so much around here. Henry’s supposed to stop by this week, so I’ll see if he can clean them out for me.”
Jon shrugs. “Yeah, well, I don’t mind. Let me know if he doesn’t.”
We follow her into the living room where plastic runners cover the high traffic areas of her carpet. She wants to show me pictures of her antique shop that she keeps in a photo album on the coffee table. I stop in front of a glass curio cabinet.
“Are those Hummels?” I ask, pointing to several dozen painted figurines on the top two shelves.
Stella’s eyes light up. “Yes! You’re familiar with them?”
“My grandmother used to collect them.”
Stella opens the glass door and starts to explain the history of a few of the pieces, where she bought them and how rare they are. I glance over at Jon, expecting to see him bored out of his mind, but he’s listening and nodding his head as if he’s just as interested as I am. He even asks her a few questions.
After we look through the photo album (she had a really cool store), we stand and Jon says we need to get going.
“Don’t let me forget Ivy’s jacket,” Stella says, as we follow her back into the kitchen.
I frown. “My jacket?”
“Jon brought it by last weekend to see if I could get the stains out.”
“And did you?” He holds up crossed fingers and has this cute, hopeful expression on his face that totally cracks me up. You wouldn’t expect a guy like him to be that excited about stain removal.
“Of course.” She gives him a look as if that’s the silliest question she’s ever heard, then heads to a door that I’m assuming is the laundry room. “There isn’t a stain I can’t remove.”
“Yes!” He does a fist pump and I laugh.
Jon leans close to me. “There isn’t much she can’t do.”
“Don’t be whispering about me behind my back, young man. I’m not deaf, you know.”
I bite back a smile. Should’ve used ASL, I sign.
I know, he signs back.
chapter ten
Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.
~ Henry David Thoreau
Ivy
Because it rained on the drive to Stella’s, we weren’t able to stop to take pictures. Now that we’re heading back, the skies are much clearer.
Misty patches of ocean show through the breaks in the trees. I point to a yellow road sign announcing a viewpoint turnout coming up in a few miles. “Want to stop there?”
“If you do, the answer is yes.”
Even though he’s driving, he’s letting me make the decisions. I like that. I pull out my camera and switch to a different lens.
“So, I’ve been wondering how you know ASL. Did you take it in high school as your foreign language requirement?”
He twists the woven leather bracelets around his wrist. One has a shell on the end and the other two have a colored bead. One green. One blue. “My foster brother was hearing impaired. He taught me. Guess you could say I have hands-on experience.”
“That’s cool. My knowledge is only from a classroom.”
I wonder if he made that joke to downplay the fact that he lived in a foster home. But then, he could’ve just said it was a guy he knew. He didn’t need to tell me it was his foster brother. Does this mean he wants me to ask about it? A huge part of me craves to know more about him, but I don’t want to push too much.
“Was that…tough?” I shoot a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his reaction.
He stares straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw flexes. “The foster homes?”
I nod.
“They had their ups and downs.”
“I’ll bet,” I say quietly.
He exhales slowly, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to say more. Regardless of whether he does or not, I want him to know I’m willing to listen. Now or whenever.
“I’m having a good time today,” he says. “With you. And thinking about that shit always brings me down.”
“I totally get that. In case you change your mind, just know that I’m here, ’kay?”
“Okay.”
I turn my attention to the camera in my lap. “So, do you even know what the assignment is?”
He shakes his head. “I’m totally clueless.”
“Good thing you have me to clue you in, then.” Pulling a folded sheet of paper from my pocket, I can feel his eyes on me. Even though I’m not looking at him, it’s impossible not to notice these little details when he’s sitting so close.
The paper crinkles when I smooth it out on my lap. “We need to pick three emotions from this list and depict them through the lens of our camera.”
“How many are there to choose from?”
I skim through it. Four columns with twenty or thirty in each. “I’m guessing a hundred or so.”
He groans. “Can you just pick mine?”
“What?”
“I have no idea what wo
uld make a good theme for a picture. You’re the photographer. You choose.”
I frown. “Don’t you want to choose ones that mean something to you? That move you in some way? Your photos aren’t going to be nearly as meaningful or impactful if I do it.”
“Told you, I’m not very creative. Besides, I’m not a deep guy. I don’t internalize much. If it’s not fact or formula based, it’s beyond my comprehension.”
“You’re so full of shit.” Maybe he doesn’t want to admit—either to me or to himself—that he has a deeper side, but he does.
Just around the next corner is the scenic viewpoint. Jon pulls the car off the road and parks next to the rock wall.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You’ve already picked your words and know exactly what you’re going to do.”
I give him a side-eye. “As a matter fact, yes, I’ve picked the ones I’m using. But I don’t know how I’m going to show them yet. I’m waiting to see what inspires me.”
“What are they?”
I look at the words I circled on the paper earlier. “Truth, respect, and compassion.” It occurs to me that I’d called him caring at breakfast this morning.
He nods his head thoughtfully. “What photo are you going to take that shows truth? It seems like such an intangible concept.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. The discovery is part of the process, though.”
“What are you going to do? Walk around up here and look for something truthful?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Far below us, I can hear the roar of the ocean as it crashes against rocky shoreline. I grab my camera and reach for the door handle, eager to get going before it starts to rain again.
“Hold on a sec,” Jon says, putting a hand on my arm. “Read a few that you think I might like.”
So now he’s suddenly interested in the assignment? I open the sheet of paper again. “Okay, here’s one you should be very familiar with. Stubborn.”
His crooked grin makes him look even more handsome and very kissable. Just like last night.
“You think I’m stubborn?”
“What I know of you, yes.”
He presses his lips together in a thin line and nods. “A fair assessment. Okay, keep going.”
I run my finger down the list. “No. No. No. Okay, here’s one. Apathetic.”
He faces me, his left wrist resting on the steering wheel. I can’t help but notice his bulky muscles, the tribal tattoo on his bicep, and the veins in his forearms. Like I said earlier, his casualness is so damn sexy.
Crap. I really need to focus.
“Seriously, Ivy? You think I’m an apathetic person?”
“Toward this assignment, yes.”
He puts a hand on his heart. “I’m hurt. Truly.”
I laugh. “You don’t have to use it.”
“And the last one?”
“Let me see.” I turn my attention to the paper again, and there it is—the perfect word. I literally almost pee myself.
“Oh great,” he says, seeing my reaction. “Is this going to be another assault on my character?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” I accidentally make an unflattering snort slash laughing sound. “Virginal.”
He chokes. “You’re kidding, right?”
My stomach is seriously hurting right now, I’m trying so hard not to laugh. Or snort again.
“Virginal? As in never having had sex before?”
“That’s the most common definition, yes.”
“Let me see that.” He tries to grab the paper from me, but I snatch it away. “I don’t believe you. That word is not on the list.”
“Think I’m lying?”
“Ivy on the Roof, the girl who values truth, respect, and…what was the last one?”
“Compassion.”
“Oh yeah, compassion. How could I forget? You are lying to me—the stubborn and totally apathetic Jon Priestly.”
“I don’t lie.” Well, not really. “I only fib occasionally.”
He lunges for the paper again. I shove it behind my back. Little good that does, because he reaches over and tries to yank it out of my hand. Laughing, I twist around, trying to get away, but there’s nowhere to go.
His face is so close to mine that I can almost feel the rasp of his stubble on my skin. His eyes narrow and then…then…
He’s tickling me. Everywhere. My ribcage. Above my knees. Under my arms. That sensitive spot just inside my hipbones.
I shriek and laugh so hard I can barely breathe. “Stop! Oh my God, stop.”
He does, but it’s more like a pause. A momentary hesitation. His fingers remain on my skin, waiting, just waiting to inflict more torture upon me. My whole body tingles with anticipation.
“Then give it to me.”
If I do, then he’ll stop. I grip the paper tighter in my fist and shove it under my butt. It’s probably in shreds by now. Raising an eyebrow, I dare him to continue. “No.”
His lips are inches away, his hair dangling in my upturned face. And then, with his body at an awkward angle because of the console between us, his mouth crashes over me.
He kisses are like heaven, his lips lush and insistent. The hand that was tickling me a moment ago is now gripping my hipbone. He inches up the hem of my T-shirt. His thumb, warm and slightly callused, caresses my skin right above my jeans. It almost, almost tickles. Heat burns between my legs and radiates to every corner of my body. I think I may have just moaned.
Out of habit, I go over the escape routes. The door handle is right here. The car isn’t locked. I could be outside in, like, two seconds if I wanted. Okay, I think I’m good.
He freezes. His hand, splayed across my ribcage, stops moving.
Did another car park next to us? That would be embarrassing.
He pulls away and clears his throat as he settles back into his seat.
My skin feels cold where his hand has been. I look around. There are no other cars. We’re the only ones here.
Why did he stop? What happened to the goofy mood he was in? Then it occurs to me. Could he have sensed my train of thought?
Goddamn it. He did.
I want to slap myself. I know he’s not Chase. He’s not.
There’s tension in his jaw, making his features look sharp and angular. “We should probably get started on the pictures. It could rain again soon.”
* * *
Jon
With my arms stretched out on the chest-high cement barrier, I look over the water. Huge black rocks rise from the misty ocean like dark, ghostly figures. Updrafts of salty, damp wind whip through my hair. I’ve driven down this stretch of road countless times and have never stopped. I’m glad Ivy made me, because this view is pretty fucking amazing.
I can’t believe I almost screwed things up with her. What the hell was I thinking, pawing her in the car like that? For the briefest of moments, I felt her freeze up and sensed her reluctance.
“Jon.”
I turn my head and Ivy snaps like a dozen pictures.
“Hey, no fair,” I say, holding up my hands. “I’m not ready.”
She rolls her eyes. “Candid shots are the best ones.” She looks through the viewfinder again and I give her my best Jon Priestly grin. “Stop trying to pose,” she says.
“I’m not.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m just smiling at this really hot girl holding a camera.”
“Give me the smile you normally give me. Not the one you give your groupies. You smile one way when you’re around them, and another way when you’re around your friends. I want the real Jon, not the one you’re putting on for the public.”
I open my mouth to argue, but it occurs to me that she’s right. So I stick my tongue out instead, and she takes a picture.
Although I have no idea what I’m doing with the assignment, I grab my little point-and-shoot and take a few pictures of my own. At the very least, I need to make an effort. I don’t need an A in the class, but a B or B minus would be nice.
Fifteen minutes later, Ivy replaces the lens cap on her camera and looks up at me. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red from the cold air. Before we got out of the car, she braided her hair and put on a knit beanie. It’s sitting slightly off-kilter now. She’s gorgeous in a totally unintentional way. We walk back to the car and stow our cameras.
Sitting on the hood, I pull her into the V of my legs and we look out at the ocean together. Neither of us says anything for a while. With my arms around her, we just listen to the roar of the waves hitting the beach below us.
“Thanks for being patient,” she says finally.
“With what?”
She shrugs. “With me. In the car.”
“I’m hardly patient.”
“You’re taking things slowly to make sure I’m okay. That means a lot to me.”
I want to ask her why she panics when she feels she’s losing control of a situation, but if I have any hope of keeping this relationship from getting too serious, I need to keep questions like that to myself. I can’t be delving too deeply.
“Any ideas on the virginal theme that you’d care to share with me?”
“You’re really going to use that one?” She turns around in my arms and gives me a little half smile. “I was just kidding, Jon. You can pick whatever words you like.”
“I know.” I playfully touch the end of her nose. “But I figure, it’ll be challenging. I’m always up for a challenge.”
We spend the next few minutes discussing my themes, what each of the words mean and what we find important or interesting about them. I come up with some ideas on how to depict them that she thinks might work.
“This could actually be fun,” I tell her as we’re climbing off the hood of the car.
“Told you.”
My eyes are drawn to the ink work at the back of her neck. When we’re both inside the car, I ask about it.
Her hand goes up to rub it. “It’s the Chinese character for truth. Told you that word means a lot to me.”
A knot forms in my stomach as it hits me just how important that concept is to her. The truth will set you free? In my case, I wish I didn’t know the truth, because it’s too fucking ugly sometimes.