A Twisted Love Story(5)

Wes brought a date of his own, a blonde with huge breasts and a too-small dress. Vanessa or Veronica, or who the hell cares what her name was—she looked fantastic, and everyone knew it. But Wes seemed more concerned with the guy Ivy brought.

They spoke once, near the buffet table, when he came up behind her.

“Ivy.”

“Wes.” She said it before turning around, taking her time filling up a small plate with finger foods.

“How are you?” he said.

She finally turned. As always, he stunned her. It was the way he looked, or maybe the way he looked at her. She struggled to respond quickly. “I’m well,” she said. “You?”

“Living the dream.”

“Good for you.”

Behind him, at a table, she could see his date. The blonde was talking to someone beside her, paying no attention to Wes.

“Did you find her on Tinder?” Ivy said.

Wes nodded toward another table, where Ivy’s date sat quietly, waiting for her to return. Not the most outgoing guy, but James didn’t have to be. He looked like he was posing for a magazine.

“And him?” Wes said.

“What about him?”

Wes smiled. “No.”

He turned around and walked away.

Now here he is in her apartment, saying no again but for a different reason. Not that it matters. This time, he doesn’t mean it.

Ivy walks up behind him, pushes up on her tiptoes, and whispers in his ear.

“Liar.”



* * *



—

The thing is . . .

The thing is . . .

Wes doesn’t know what the thing is, not when Ivy is right up in his ear. When he needs rational thought the most, that definitely isn’t the thing.

She has always done this to him. Starting way back in college, when they first went out. Dates weren’t really dates back then, because they were both broke, so creativity was in order. Coffee was affordable enough. Hiking was free. So they did both—her suggestion.

Frog Pond Trail wasn’t far, and it wasn’t a long hike. Not difficult, either. At least not according to the internet. But it was full of picturesque views of the water and the ridge and everything nature had to offer. Wes suggested they try it on their first date. She agreed.

The sun was shining—not a cloud in the sky—and it all went well for the first hour and a half. They chatted about their backgrounds, stopping to take pictures every twenty feet or so. The internet wasn’t wrong about the views.

Ivy suddenly stopped. “I’ve had all the beautiful scenery I can take for one day,” she said.

He had been thinking the same thing.

The trail ahead sloped down and then up. In the distance, a giant tree stood out among the rest. He nodded toward it. “Wanna race?”

Instead of answering, she took off running.

He was already a few steps behind, so he went off-trail, cutting across the hill on the left. The path was rougher, and he had to jump over a log or two, but it was the only way to get ahead.

He had almost done it when she fell.

They were less than twenty feet away from the tree when it happened, and he had been moving back toward the trail. As soon as she went down, he stopped.

She blocked the fall with her hands, ended up on her knees, and turned over to sit in the dirt. He sat down beside her.

“I guess you won,” she said.

Her hands were scratched up, covered in dirt and tiny pebbles. He wiped them clean, one by one, and then moved on to her knee. Scraped, but it wasn’t too bad. He poured water over it.

“You okay?” he said.

She didn’t answer. She kissed him.

To this day, he can’t describe that kiss, can’t capture it with words. But when he closes his eyes, he can feel it.

It’s the reason he turns around to face Ivy now.

She was right. He was lying when he said no.





5




We need to stop doing this,” he says.

Ivy rolls over in the bed to face Wes. The room is dark but not pitch-black; a bit of light comes in through the window. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“We always say that,” she says.

“I know.”

He still doesn’t look at her. They’ve been down this road before, around and through and across, and they can’t seem to find the exit. She isn’t sure there is one.

But if there is, she probably wouldn’t take it. Maybe because of the squirrel.

Years ago, not long before they graduated from college, they went to Lake Shasta for a weekend. Her roommate knew someone whose parents had a cabin, and a bunch of friends were headed up there. Wes and Ivy went in his car, an ancient Ford truck he had driven out from Michigan.

She never saw the squirrel. Ivy had been looking in her bag, trying to find something. Lip balm, a hairbrush, a piece of gum . . . She can’t remember what it was, but she does remember the car jerking to the side. Wes had seen a squirrel and tried to avoid it.

Ivy does remember the thump when it went under the tire.

“What was that?” She turned, watching out the back. Wes pulled over to the side of the road.

“A squirrel,” he said.

Now a brown-and-red blob on the cement. “Oh God.”

“Stay here.”