A Twisted Love Story(10)

Brooke smiles at her, holding up her almost-empty glass. She is a true California blonde, right down to the blue eyes, the beachy hair, and the tan. Though that’s fake, because real tans cause wrinkles, and nobody wants those, especially not Brooke. Not aging badly is one of her prime goals.

“I just have to say you’re handling this stalker thing so much better than I would,” she says. “I swear, I’d be at home curled up in a ball or something.”

“I would’ve gone to my parents’ house,” Lucia says.

Ivy would’ve done a lot of things if she had a real stalker. “I’m not going to let some loser psycho decide where I go,” she says.

“Good for you,” Brooke says. Her eyes are glassy, and she slurs a bit. One too many gin martinis. “Just be safe.”

“Always.”

Lucia slips between them and tries to get the bartender’s attention. A few months ago, she started working in Ivy’s department. It didn’t take Ivy long to realize Lucia’s the type that men want to take care of, including pouring her drinks, and she knows it.

Ivy checks her phone again. She should put it in her pocket, on vibrate, but it feels like she’ll miss something. Holding it in her hand is far more comforting, though it doesn’t go unnoticed by Brooke. Drunk doesn’t mean stupid.

“You keep looking at your phone,” Brooke says.

Ivy rolls her eyes. “I know, right? Bad habit.”

Lucia hands the drinks back, another round of gin martinis. They’re at Salt, where everyone prefers clear drinks. No fruity mixed cocktails here, though scotch or bourbon is acceptable.

Brooke launches into a story about someone who did something that may or may not be interesting, but Ivy isn’t listening. She wonders how bad it would really be if she texted first. She could ask Brooke and Lucia their opinion, but she already knows what they would say: bad. It would be bad to text first because if a guy wants to see you, he’ll text. Or call. One way or another, he will make it happen. If anyone asked Ivy the same question, that’s exactly what she would say.

It’s not that she’s angry he hasn’t texted; it’s the disappointment. The honeymoon period is so short.

Ivy takes a sip of her martini and continues to tune out Brooke’s story. She curses herself in all the languages she sort of knows—English, Chinese, Russian, French—as she looks at her phone again. It shouldn’t be like this. Her boyfriend, since Wes is her boyfriend again, should text when he says he’s going to. He should keep his word. He should be as excited to see her as she is to see him.

The moments when they’re on the same page are always the best.

A few years ago, after one of their increasingly ugly fights, they stayed apart for six months. At the time, their longest separation. She had started dating again, making profiles on the usual sites, meeting guys for coffee or a drink. Nothing had stuck. Nothing felt right.

Then an FBI agent showed up at her office.

Both tall and broad, he filled out his black suit and then some. Buzz-cut hair, square jaw, a nose that had been broken one too many times.

“Ivy Banks?” he said.

She nodded. Couldn’t speak.

He used his index finger to beckon her, making her walk out of her office and into the hallway. The agent pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and just when it seemed like he was about to arrest her, he belted out “Happy Birthday.”

It was not her birthday. Just a singing telegram from Wes.

When the performer-slash-agent was done, he handed her a card. The kind that comes with flowers.

    I couldn’t wait until your real birthday. Too far away.



No name. Ivy didn’t need one.

When she left work, she went straight to his place. Wes was already there.

Waiting.

She blew past him at the door, walking right in. “I can’t believe you did that,” she said. “You embarrassed me at work.”

“Did I?”

No, not really. It wasn’t that bad—it wasn’t like he had sent a stripper-gram, but still. “You know you did,” she said. For dramatic effect, she even sulked.

Wes touched the bottom of her chin with one finger and lifted her head. “But did I really?” he said. And he smiled. “Or did you kinda like it?”

She kinda loved it. The telegram and Wes and his smile.

That’s the thing. Ivy has seen him smile a thousand times over the years. At friends, at coworkers, even at his parents. But when he smiles at her, the way he smiles at her . . . well, that really is the thing.

Sometimes—no, always—she smiles when thinking about that moment.

“Are you okay?” Lucia says.

Ivy snaps back, realizing she missed more than one story from Brooke. It’s Friday night, the bar is packed, and she is with her friends. She should be enjoying herself. Instead, she’s obsessing over Wes. Again.

“I’m good, I’m good,” she says, holding up her drink. “Let’s make a toast.”

They clink glasses, attracting the attention of a group of guys at the bar. Brooke reels them in, and Lucia keeps them talking. Ivy finds herself in a conversation with a guy who isn’t half-bad. Polite, interesting, good-looking: all the things that usually interest her. But tonight, this guy is nothing special. He doesn’t say a single word that makes her forget about Wes. Not even when he talks about travel. This should make her ask if he’s ever been to China or Russia or any of the other places where people speak the languages she has studied, but she can’t fake enough enthusiasm to do it.