“I just meant I’m so tired I’d probably fall asleep after one drink,” he says.
“You should know that I’ve started seeing someone.”
“That’s great,” he says. “Really, it is.”
“It’s not serious yet,” she says. “But I’m not interested in anything . . . else.”
“I’m really happy for you.”
“Thank you. Have a good night, Wes.”
As she walks away, he starts to relax. Until she stops at the door and turns back.
“There’s something I should probably tell you,” she says. “About that night. I meant to tell you before, but . . .” She glances down at the grey carpet, away from him.
A rarity. Abigail always looks him in the eye. He braces himself, his whole body tensing up for whatever is coming next.
“When you were asleep,” she says, “your phone rang. I thought it was mine.”
“You answered my phone?”
“It was wrong, and I should’ve told you earlier. And I meant to. I just . . . never did. It was an accident, and I never would’ve done it on purpose. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I was just . . . well, I was embarrassed.”
He already knows who called, or she wouldn’t be telling him about it at all.
* * *
—
Heath nods to a man standing at the bar. “What about him?”
Ivy sighs. Heath has dragged her out to make her forget about last night with Wes.
She side-eyes the guy, who is around her age, with black hair and brown skin. Quick smile, big eyes, and lashes visible from ten feet away.
“He’s pretty hot,” she says, slurping up the rest of her drink. The night has gotten away from her, because Heath is obsessed with finding her a new man. Again. “But I don’t think I’m in any condition to—”
“Sure you are.”
Heath gets up before she can stop him. Sometimes, he’s her best friend; other times, her pimp.
Sometimes, it’s fun; other times, not.
Heath can talk to anyone—he’s that kind of guy. No fear of strangers. It doesn’t take him long to strike up a conversation with the guy at the bar and his friends.
Ivy digs in her bag for her lipstick, turning her back so they don’t see her putting it on. Won’t be long until Heath brings that guy over. She might as well look good.
It also gives her a chance to check her phone. She has kept it in her bag all evening, only taking occasional glances. Otherwise, Heath would lecture her about waiting for Wes. Sometimes, she really is just checking it, but he never believes that. Probably for good reason.
Ivy doesn’t expect to hear from Wes, especially after she left in the middle of the night, but that’s always when it happens. He contacts her when she least expects it.
Like now. Not just a text. A double text.
I had no idea you called the other week. Things got really messed up that night.
I’m sorry.
She reads it once, twice, and then again, her heart beating faster each time. But in a good way. Followed by a bad way. Angry, happy, furious, elated. Each time she reads the texts, the wheel of emotions picks up speed.
“Ivy,” Heath says, “this is Leo.”
The hot guy is in front of her now, standing next to Heath. They both take a seat at the table, and Heath hands her a fresh drink. Now that she’s right next to Leo, she realizes he and Wes wear the same loafers. Not unusual. Their clothes are similar, as well: khakis and untucked dress shirt. The typical uniform for professionals in Fair Valley.
Still, the shoes are distracting.
“Heath says you work at Amalgamated,” Leo says. “I know a few people over there.” He rattles off a few names, some of whom Ivy recognizes. She nods along until she hears the name Brooke.
“I know her,” Ivy says. “We’re in the same department.”
“We used to work at Indigo together,” Leo says.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Ivy knows she should ask where he works now. Be polite, keep the conversation going like she’s a normal person. But the front of her mind is dominated by Wes.
Maybe, just maybe, Wes is actually sorry. That idea makes her heart sing instead of thump.
She still doesn’t know what happened when she called or who the woman was. It couldn’t have been the one from Liver; they didn’t meet until after that call. So he was with another woman that night, someone who picked up his phone without his knowing.
Maybe it doesn’t matter who she was. They weren’t even together at the time.
“Ivy?” Heath says. He’s waving a hand in front of her face. “You with us?”
“Sorry,” she says. “I was thinking about something at work. One of those things that keeps you up at night, you know?”
“I do,” Leo says. He starts talking about something that kept him up all last week, and Ivy tunes out the details.
She shouldn’t be thinking about Wes, given that he’s the one who ghosted her. She also shouldn’t have gone over to his place last night. And she definitely shouldn’t have left the way she did. So maybe the reason he texted has nothing to do with his being sorry—it’s because of the investigation. If for no other reason, they have to stick together because of that. Because if they turn on each other, it’s over for both of them.
Mutually assured destruction.
“What about you?” Leo says.
Ivy realizes both he and Heath are staring at her. She not only missed the question; she missed the whole conversation.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just not . . . feeling well.” Heath gives her a look. She ignores it and gathers up her things, stands up. “Leo, it was really nice meeting you. I’m sorry I’ve been such terrible company, but I should go home.”
Ivy starts to walk out, but Heath follows and grabs her by the arm. “Are you really going home?”
“I don’t know yet.” It’s the truth.
He sighs.
She looks up at Heath, almost feeling sorry for him. It’s not his fault. He is trying so hard to save her, but as she’s always said: She doesn’t need a hero.
She needs Wes.
* * *
—
“Are you really sorry?”
When Wes picked up the phone, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Ivy could have cursed him out. She could have called him a liar. Neither would have been surprising.
But sounding sad is.
“I am,” he says. “Nobody else should be answering my phone. It never should’ve happened.”
“And you waited until now to tell me this?” she says.
“I swear, I didn’t know. I just found out tonight.”
She goes quiet. A car horn beeps in the background. His phone dings with a message, but he doesn’t bother to look.
Wes can almost feel her thinking. Trying to decide.
“You better be alone,” she finally says.
51
Three thirty in the morning, and Ivy is alone. A little strange, because she is in Wes’s bed.
She looks toward the bathroom. Door open, light off, no sound. She gets up and wraps a blanket around herself. His house is usually colder than her place. As she always explains to him, that’s why she has to hog all the covers.