Page 32 of Griffin

Ivy slips out of her car, locking it behind her as she runs over, full of apologies.

She looks fucking stunning, as usual.

She’s wearing loose shorts, a tank top, and a shirt tied around her waist that hugs her curves. She yawns as she approaches us but quickly fixes a smile on her face for Melody.

The other Moms give us speculative looks, and I wonder what they’re thinking. Maybe that she’s Melody’s big sister.

God. I feel fucking old.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” Ivy drops to her knees, pulling Melody into her arms.

“It’s only two minutes,” I tell Ivy, trying not to salivate as she looks up at me.

She’s on her knees.

Cuddling your daughter, you fucking leech.

“I know, but I know how Melody worries. So let’s go.” Ivy smiles at Melody.

Her smile kills me.

Seeing her holding Melody’s hand kills me.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me; maybe I’m at that point in my life where I want a wife or a mother for my child. It’s a bit caveman of me, but I’ve only ever been like this around Ivy.

The dance studio has the smallest hallway imaginable, and I feel far too big to stand amongst such small girls and women.

I’m the only man there, which doesn’t help the stares I’m getting.

“Hey,” Ivy whispers, nudging my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I nod stiffly, running a hand through my hair.

The dance studio isn’t local, and we had to drive back to Angelica’s hometown to get here.

But it’s a routine for Melody, and she loves it. Her grandma said she wanted to take her next time, mainly because Angelica believed Melody was gifted and wanted to carry that on for her daughter.

The results from the postmortem are expected back this week, and I’m curious to know how Angelica died. I know it was a car accident, but that’s it.

I’d like to be able to tell Melody more when she’s older about what happened to her mother.

Martha, Angelica’s mother, had started planning the funeral. Of course, I don’t want Melody to go, but the general advice online seems to be that you have to let the child decide, if possible. Melody is a bright girl, but she’s five years old. Her sixth birthday is rapidly approaching, but she’s still too young to fully absorb what’s going on.

The girls are led into the dance studio in a line, and Ivy and I find two plastic seats in the viewing window.

My thigh touches hers, but due to the limited space between the seats and the wall, I can’t help it.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to push my thighs together.

Ivy looks at me with confusion, and I get to see her face properly for the first time.

Her eyes are bloodshot from tiredness and alcohol, and her usually tanned skin looks washed out.

“What for?” Ivy asks, tilting her head, so her hair spills over her shoulder.

“My leg is pressing against yours,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from her. “You look tired.”

Ivy moves her gaze to watch Melody, and she exhales.

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