Ivy appears in the doorway, her clothes disheveled, her hair wild. She runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since being arrested.
“I’m sorry about Vegas,” he says.
“Forget Vegas. How are you? What happened?”
He starts to tell her about the bail, which was high enough that he needed to put up his house as collateral to get out. Until he was arrested, he never realized how many things it would ruin. His career. His finances. His reputation.
And he wasn’t even driving the damn car. She was.
“If not for the bail,” he says, “I would’ve been out hours ago, but my lawyer had to arrange everything and get the bond and—”
“What’s that?” Ivy is pointing at his ankle.
“That’s the other part of my release,” he says. “I have to wear an ankle monitor.”
“You’re joking.”
“Clearly not.” Wes sighs and sits back down at the table. The number of problems that have piled up today is just starting to hit him. “I can only go to work and home. Except I lost my job.”
“They fired you?”
“Technically, an unpaid leave of absence. For now. The message was waiting for me when I got out.”
“Bastards.” Ivy pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the cupboard. She pours two glasses, adds ice, and returns to the table. “They’re just cowards. You’ll find a better job.”
Someday, maybe. But he won’t be able to look for a job at all until the ankle monitor is off. And he can move out of this town.
Ivy wraps her arms around him again, except this time it feels more desperate. Even she can’t spin his newfound fame as a murder suspect into anything good. Ivy leads him into the living room, and they get settled on the couch. More comfortable but not exactly comforting.
Ivy stands and picks up a bit, stacking things on the floor in the corner.
“My lawyer said reporters might show up here,” he says.
“Screw them.”
He tries to smile but fails. “Seriously, you might want to go.”
“Come stay with me.”
“Can’t.” He points to the ankle monitor. “Not allowed.”
Ivy leans over and inspects it, touching his leg as she turns to see it from every angle. “Doesn’t look hard to remove.”
“It’s not. But they would know. It has a tampering sensor.”
She flops back on the couch with a sigh. “Tech really pisses me off sometimes. Our world is way too advanced.”
He can’t even dig up an answer for that. It would take too much energy. But she seems to have enough for both of them.
“What did your lawyer say?” she says.
Bryce told him not much will happen until next week, when he’ll meet with the assistant DA on the case. Discovery on the case won’t officially happen for a while, but he hopes to get some details about the evidence they have against Wes and find out if they’re willing to make a deal. Nobody wants an expensive trial for a seven-year-old case.
“A deal?” Ivy says. “You can’t plead guilty to anything. You didn’t do anything.”
He knew Ivy was going to say something like that. He also knows that she isn’t thinking it through.
“We just have to wait and see what they have,” he says.
Wes leans his head back and closes his eyes. Every time he stops thinking about one problem, another pops up. Losing his job means losing his income, and he won’t be able to work again until this is over. On top of everything else, he also has to worry about how he’ll pay for everything while he waits for the trial. Or the plea deal.
He has to pay his lawyer. And for the ankle monitor. That bill is coming straight to him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be out of jail at all.
“I could tell them the truth,” Ivy says. “They have no idea what really happened—”
“No.”
“I’m not going to let you go to prison for something you didn’t even—”
“Please,” he says. “Let’s just wait until I talk to my lawyer.”
“No matter what, I’m not testifying against you.” She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “Never going to happen.”
He knows that she believes that. He also knows it’s unlikely his case will ever get that far. Not if he can stop it.
* * *
—
Ivy does her best. Wes has to give her that. She does everything she can to distract him from his growing list of problems. She’s staying with him over the weekend. She cleaned everything up from the search, stocked his house with groceries, and bought him another phone. Even did his laundry. She had never done that before.
He appreciates it. He really does. Because this would be a lot harder if she wasn’t here. It’s not like any of his friends are calling. Everyone from Siphon has abandoned him; they aren’t checking on him and they certainly aren’t stopping by. It’s the same thing he did to Bianca after that whole tragedy. He had done nothing—never reached out to her, never offered support.
But on Saturday night, he’s had enough.
All he wants to do is have a few beers and watch the Warriors game. A couple hours to forget everything. Ivy sits down next to him and works on a crossword puzzle, which is fine until she also starts one of her most annoying habits.
“Can you stop that?” he says.
“Stop what?”
“That.” He nods to the ballpoint pen in her hand. “The clicking.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Five minutes later, she’s right back at it as she stares at the puzzle.
“Ivy,” he says. “Please stop. It’s right in my ear.”
“Sorry. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
She gets up and moves to the far end of the couch. She sits sideways, facing him with her feet on the couch, elbow on the armrest, and her hand up holding the pen. It isn’t long before the clicking restarts. Sounds even louder this time, too.
Wes picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at her hand. Knocks the pen right out of it.
Her jaw drops. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t stop clicking.”
She extends her leg, pushing it against his. Not hard, but it’s enough to make him grab her ankles. To tickle her feet.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” she squeals. “Please, I’m serious—don’t.”
“Do you promise to stop?”
“Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Stick a needle in your eye?” he says.
“Definitely.”
He lets go of her feet. “Use a pencil.”
“Never.” Ivy picks up the pen and settles back into her seat.
Wes goes back to watching the game, but he half listens for that pen. He knows she is going to do it again, probably on purpose. He keeps one hand on her ankle and one eye on her.
She repeatedly glances over at him, flashing him an innocent smile, holding up the pen.
“I’m not clicking,” she says.
“Good,” he says. “I’m glad you have at least a bit of self-control.”
Soon, she is clicking.