by R. J. Lewis
I shut my eyes and tuck my bottom lip into my mouth. I imagine him behind me. His front to my back, his hand on my shoulder, slowly trailing that large hand of his down to my breast. I’d arch my back for him, let him take my entire breast into his hand. He had big hands. They’d easily swallow it whole. He might pinch my nipple, roll it between his fingers…
“…I’d fuck you in ways you can’t imagine…”
I let out a breath and open my eyes. I need to stop. I take a sip of my soup and attempt to keep the fantasies at bay. I don’t know what to do about this anymore. He won’t leave my thoughts – a man I will never, ever see again!
Well, if it’s just in your head, what’s the harm? You met a man that’s made you wet just thinking of him. You know you’ll never see him again. Technically you’ve done nothing wrong.
I chuckle scornfully.
Oh, Ivy, what a load of rubbish.
Because it’s more than that. Feeling this buzzed over a man is dangerous. I want to return to the hollow feeling in my chest. Apathy was easier because apathy shut everything off and allowed me to live in this cycle without knowing what might be on the other side.
I take my time drinking my soup, and by then the sun has slowly come up over the horizon. The light hits my eyes, and I know it’s started.
Another day.
Another fight.
Another attempt at accepting what my life has become.
Aidan
I need more alcohol. This night’s never going to fucking end.
“So, like, I bought the black Prada purse instead because my Louis Vuitton got all these smudge marks a week before I even booked my ticket, and if I’m going to go sunbathing in Monaco, I need to be versatile, right? Black is versatile.”
I narrow my eyes at the plastic brunette across the table from me. “Remarkable, Joy,” I reply, dryly. “I’m relieved you’re managing to tackle on the hard problems for your Monaco trip.”
Joy smiles and does that hair raking thing with her fingers again. She’s done it forty- seven times since we sat down a half hour ago. I’m so fucking bored, I counted. “Thank you.”
Clearly sarcasm is lost on her.
“You should come too,” she adds.
“I’m working.”
“You’re always working, Aidan.” She puts on that pouting face I want to fucking bite off with a Rottweiler, or a chainsaw – I’m not picky. “I think we need to take that extra step in our relationship, don’t you?”
“We’ve been seeing each other five days.”
“Five A-MA-ZING days!”
Did I really fuck this girl? A girl that breaks her goddamn words in syllables. What is wrong with my dick? To be fair, I can’t even remember it. In my mind, I was envisioning a different brunette, and in my desperation, Joy was the only one I could find that fit Ivy’s description.
Ivy.
I inhale sharply. Just her name has me wound up all over again. Every day that has passed since our flight, I’m forgetting her more and more. It’s a tragedy in the making and sitting here with this fucking MORON is insulting to her memory.
I tell myself to relax. It’s not like Ivy is dead. No, she’s here in the city I live in, being married/separated/complicated to an asshole that didn’t even pick her up from the airport. That’s her life choice, and I need to accept mine: dining in a stuffy restaurant with a girl discussing the purse she wants to take to fucking Monaco.
I worked over a hundred hours last week. Practically lived in my office. This was not what I wanted to do with my precious spare time.
I pull out my phone as she speaks about sunbathing in the nude, like that will entice me into neglecting my work and responsibilities to run off with her. It doesn’t. I don’t give a fuck. Instead, I’m focusing on the battle I have officially lost against.
Ivy Montcalm.
I write that name down in the search engine and wait for the results to come up. The first thing I see is a Facebook page. I click it, and the picture before me has blood rushing to my head.
There she is, my beautiful incomplete quest. Black and red pin straight hair, smiling softly at the camera with her arm wrapped around another girl’s shoulders.
As I stare at her I wait for my interest to finally die. I’ve done it. I’ve sought her out. It took two seconds to find her after three weeks of trying to push her out of my thoughts. I’ve looked at her photo and now the intrigue should lessen. I focus on the picture, trying to dissect it, trying to find faults so I can move the fuck on once and for all.
Only…none of that happens.
Instead, I’m like a crack addict that’s been given a hit.
And I need more.
“Come with me,” Joy continues, her voice turning into an annoying plea. “Puhlease, Aidan. This will benefit us so much, I just know it.”
I tense and look up at her. Now that I really stare at her, she looks nothing like Ivy at all. Her eyes are all different. She’s too bony. Her skin’s tanned but not in that sunkissed sort of way Ivy’s was. Her hair isn’t nearly as dark as Ivy’s either and there’s no random red streaks in them.
“Ai-dan! Answer me!” She throws me another pout.
This shit is getting ridiculous. “I made it clear when we met that this was going to be a quick fling.”
She leans over the table, her eyes bulging, and hysterically replies, “We’ve only slept together once, Aidan.”
“And it was one time too many, Joy. You’re getting clingy.”
“How have I been clingy?”
“You called my office twenty-nine times today.”
“Because I booked this dinner and needed you to confirm.”
“You told my secretary you were out front of my building –”
“Because I missed you –”
“Joy –”
“No, I’m not crazy!” she nearly yells, and I close my eyes briefly as all the eyes in the restaurant turn to us. “I’m doing you a favour, Aidan. You’ve been hiding out too long now. I’m trying to prove to everyone that you’re not the manwhore they think you are, but what you’re doing isn’t helping matters. Because this is very manwhoring of you! I thought you were different.”
I open my wallet and throw down a few large bills and calmly respond, “That was your mistake.”
She gasps. “You told me I was beautiful.”
“I wanted to fuck you.”
“You liked what you saw.”
“I was thinking of a different woman.”
She gasps a second time, more dramatically than the last. “You’re an asshole.”
“I already know that.”
As I stand up, her face contorts to anger. “We were meant to go to Monaco!” she snarls. “You’re making a big mistake, Aidan.”
“It’s Mr West from now on. Take care of yourself, Joy.”
I leave her like that, and my head is pounding by the time I slip into my ride waiting for me out front.
“And then there was one,” Gaston remarks, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror as he begins to pull out of the parking spot.
“Yeah,” I return swiftly. “The way it should be.”
Gaston takes me home to my lifeless penthouse, and I wind up sitting on a stool around my empty, clean kitchen, twirling a glass of scotch between my hands. My phone is next to me, and I glare down at it and at the woman that for some goddamn reason won’t leave my mind.
Maybe it was her smile, or the words that came out of her mouth. Or maybe it was the loneliness in her eyes, a loneliness I acquainted with very easily. She didn’t seem happy. I remember the look on her face when she showed up at her apartment building. Her apprehension was obvious, like she’d been forced to be there. Why co-exist with a cheater? Why have that reminder stare at you in the face every fucking day? I grit my teeth, ignoring the way my chest aches at these questions.
By the time I finish my glass, I convince myself it’s none of my business. She’s just a woman, and I’ve spent way too much time p
retending she matters. Because she doesn’t. Not at all.
Six
Ivy
I get up before Derek. I change and get ready quickly and he’s still asleep when I slip out of the apartment. I grab a coffee from around the corner and walk three blocks to the salon I work at. These are just some perks for living in the city that even I can’t deny.
“You’re late,” Connie says when I step into the salon.
I glance at the clock. “By two minutes.”
“Late is late, Ivy. Or would you like me to charge by the minute instead of the hour?”
Connie, the owner, is an asshole. I don’t respond to her, but I give her the stink eye behind her back. Alicia, my favorite co-worker, shakes her head too.
“What’s up her ass?” I mutter to her as we walk to the lounge room in the back. “Melanie was fifteen minutes late yesterday and she got practically serenaded.”
“Didn’t you see her bloodshot eyes? She’s obviously hung over,” Alicia replies on a scoff. “Also, Melanie can do no wrong. Welcome to favoritism 101.”
Speaking of Melanie, she’s reading a magazine on the black leather sofa. When she sees us approach, she looks up and slowly drags her eyes over us. “You guys should really touch up on your ends. You want to keep your clients, don’t you?”
I glance at her red flaming hair, all done up in an updo that must have taken her fucking weeks to complete. To be fair, it’s really nice, but I’m not going to say that. I don’t reply to her because there’s no point. Alicia, on the other hand, can’t rein it in. “No one asked for your fucking advice, Mel. If we wanted some, we’d ask a Weasley with a better hair job.”
I fight a smile as Melanie’s eyes bulge out of her skull. “FYI, bitch, this dye is a sophisticated ruby and velvet color duo, and it was done with precision and hours of meticulous focus.”
Alicia rolls her eyes. “Yeah? No one gives a fuck.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, which only serves to piss Melanie right off. She glowers at me, and I know something vicious is about to erupt.
“Still not used to you being back so soon, Ivy,” she says, flashing me one of her mean smiles. “How long do you think your man is going to keep it in his pants for this time?”
I roll my eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Mel. Don’t be like me, okay?”
Her face drops and she gives me a what-the-fuck expression. Did she think I had some witty response set aside for her? That I would rip her head off and stoop to her level? Bitch is dreaming. Plus, she’s right. I don’t know how long it’ll be before Derek’s fucking another pair of legs again. That’s the truth, hence the reason we are separated.
But I’ve noticed there are people in my life that aren’t really taking that label seriously. The separating, I mean. It’s like at any minute they think I’m going to jump back into it with him. Like my mother said, frowning, “Being separated doesn’t mean you get to run off and do what you want. You’ll be living with him. You’re still in this with him, you know.”
I know, Mother, but thanks for your advice, and for kicking me out of your home and forcing me back in this situation.
My morning is busy and filled with clients. I get all kinds of them coming in: a flirty man who is twenty years my senior that gives me the creeps when he calls me sugah but tips very well; a chick around my age who’s getting ready for a date tonight and filled with hope (I’m jealous because I miss that feeling); a young girl who is cutting off her hair and sporting her shortest do for the first time in her life (I wish I had balls like that); and then a very old lady who wants foils done and complains about how long it’s taking (it takes the same amount of time every visit, Roberta).
It’s rare I get time to really stand and do nothing. The salon’s rates are extremely competitive, and that means a lot of traffic comes through the door. We’re popular, and all would be great if my co-workers weren’t so bitchy. I swear it’s like high school all over again some days. It’s the reason why I distance myself from them all, except Alicia. I have enough drama as it is in my life. I don’t need to know what Becky said about Chelsea behind her back. Every week there’s a new girl thrown under the bus, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s me scrambling to save my job.
It’s no wonder I like my lunch breaks. They’re my time alone, away from the demands of people. It’s nice to just sit for twenty minutes and focus on nothing but my own thoughts.
I buy a tray of sushi and eat it at a table in the food court of the shopping center close to the salon. My phone’s vibrating beside my tray but I make no effort to answer. If I do, it’ll be another round of verbal abuse from Derek, and I’ll snap and abuse him back. And to be frankly honest, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I don’t even remember what our argument was about yesterday. Something to do with the bills and how to divide our money. He has a problem with spending, and I always end up pulling the money out of our savings to make ends meet. God, three weeks in, I don’t even share the same bed, don’t even see him half the time, and we’re still back to our toxic ways again.
I look down at his name flashing across the screen and press the end button so I don’t have to hear it ring anymore. It’s only when I’m coating my third sushi roll with soy sauce that I hear a chime. It’s the specific chime from my Facebook app letting me know I have a message. I frown, wondering who could be messaging me on a Monday afternoon. Everyone I know is busy at work.
Could be Mom, I suppose. And now I’d rather that phone call with Derek.
I swipe the screen and access my Facebook app. I press the red notification bubble at the top of the screen and the message flashes before my eyes.
A.W.: Are you divorced yet?
What the fuck? I frown at the message. I certainly don’t recognize the initials, and there is no profile picture to help me out. I click the Facebook page, but it’s completely private and was created yesterday.
I respond quickly, assuming this might be a misunderstanding on their end.
Ivy Montcalm: I think you’ve got the wrong person.
Not even a minute passes before I’m hit with another message.
A.W.: I hear every 1 in 2 marriages go down in flames, so I’m liking my chances here.
My mouth drops, and my brows pinch together. This is obviously someone trying to get under my skin. Wouldn’t be the first time some bitch has faked a profile to have a dig at me. Probably one of Derek’s many bar floozies. Will they forever be pestering me?
Ivy Montcalm: Fuck off.
They obviously won’t. I’m sure the gloves will be thrown off and the bitch will have a series of curses ready to throw my way. Which is fine by me. I’m good at confrontation, especially when it comes to a woman that has swallowed my husband’s dick.
But what I see the next time it chimes makes my jaw drop.
A.W.: I see you’re still a foul-mouthed stunner.
I freeze.
Foul mouthed stunner.
Foul.
Mouthed.
Stunner.
I know who said those three words to me. I’ve been thinking about him incessantly. My heart picks up speed as I focus on the initials now. A.W. Aidan? That was his name. I have no idea what the W might stand for.
Holy shit.
My phone chimes again.
A.W.: Starting to dawn on you yet?
My fingers are shaking as I respond back.
Ivy Montcalm: Aidan?
A.W.: Correct.
Ivy Montcalm: How did you find me?
A.W.: There’s this amazing thing called a search engine.
Ivy Montcalm: Smart ass. What made you reach out to me now?
A.W.: I’m clearly not thinking straight. I think it’s the heat.
My fingers are shaking too much to respond back quickly. What the hell is my problem? Now my legs are bumping up and down. I can’t hold still.
Holy fucking shit, this is insane!
Another chime.
A.W.: Would be hotter if
you were around though. Which reminds me, what are you doing tonight? I want to see you again.
I groan and prop an elbow on the table and press my hand against my face, staring down at the line with dread. He’s asking me this because he wants to know if I’m…
I sigh. While it’s been phenomenal – and surreal – to be contacted by a man that’s been in my thoughts the last three weeks, there’s a fine line between reality and imaginary.
Ivy Montcalm: You know my situation, Aidan.
A.W.: I’m not asking to eat you out. I’m asking to TAKE you out. Big difference, beauty.
My cheeks heat up. God, he’s vulgar.
Ivy Montcalm: Even TAKING me out is pushing it.
A.W.: It’s not a date. It’s a catch up. Two friends.
Ivy Montcalm: Friends that haven’t spoken in three weeks and only did for 6 hours?
A.W.: Nice to know you’ve been keeping track of the time. ;)
A.W.: Just one innocent dinner. You and me. In an open, social environment. Good food, some light alcohol. I’ll send you back home once we’re done. Scout’s honor.
Ivy Montcalm: You were a boy scout?
A.W.: No, but it makes me sound like a decent individual with honorable gentlemanly motives. Is it working?
Ivy Montcalm: No. I know the arrogant and vulgar man that you really are.
A.W.: From recollection, you love that. Don’t you remember the way your face heated when I told you the things I was capable of doing to you? I remember it vividly, the way your eyes glazed over, begging for more of my words. I’m inclined to think you’d have let me take you right there in your seat. Imagine the headlines: “Man Gives Woman the Turbulence of Her Life!”
Ivy Montcalm: :/ …. How is that meant to convince me to see you?
A.W.: It’s not, but I made you think about it, right?
Ivy Montcalm: Aidan…
A.W.: Just come out with me tonight. I promise you’ll enjoy it. We’re in the same city. I’m not an axe murderer, remember? I love my bodies warm, not cold and rigor mor´tis.