Page 79 of Yours Truly

“And what else? What else is small in small towns that you like?” I ask, wishing there was a book called ABOUT IVY that I could binge, just to know everything.

“Dreams,” she says, holding up a finger to stop my immediate protest. “Hear me out. I can have a dream—becoming a tattoo artist was my dream, you know? But the way I can fit that dream into the right setting in a small town, and work where I love while doing what I love, without any sacrifices, that’s perfect. But if I wanted to be a doctor or, I don’t know, an astronaut, well, I couldn’t do that here.”

I pick up the other half of my sandwich and pull the frilly topped toothpick out. “I get you.”

“Would you have stayed in your hometown and been happy tattooing if you hadn’t gotten the show?” she asks, reaching forward to take a sip of Coke.

My hometown comes to mind, and my ex follows right after. Her face is hazy now, all these years later, but the splinter of pain that comes at the remembrance isn’t. It’s sharp and glinting, even now. I shake my head. “No. Too much shit there I didn’t want to be around.”

“Your ex?” she asks softly, as if testing the waters. I wasn’t even aware she knew.

“How do you know about my ex?” I ask. Listen, I’m not proud but I’ve googled myself. It happens when you rise in fame overnight. Of all the terrible and dope things I’ve seen, her name isn’t one of them. Successfully, I moved on without anyone tying us together. So Ivy knowing is… a first.

She pushes a piece of hair from my face, but it rocks my groin the way she casually takes care of me. Digging into her sandwich, around a mouth full of sweet potato fries, she says, “The circuit. Everly kind of told us a little at girls’ night.”

My interests rise. “Us?”

She nods. “Me, Juniper and Dolly.”

My throat is sticky. “What did she tell you, exactly?”

“Honestly,” she replies, “not much. Your ex cheated and broke your heart, and then you got the deal with Needle Ninjas and left.” She gives me an empathic look. “I was cheated on too. So I completely get your desire to split.”

“Someone cheated on you?” I ask, choking a shocked laugh.

“I could say the same for you,” she says, “but yeah. My ex-boyfriend Rhett.” She waves a dismissive hand between us. “Back to you. Rhett truly isn’t worth talking about.”

“Neither is she,” I add quickly, then say, “I don’t want to waste a minute of my time with you talking about people that don’t deserve our thought or words, baby.”

She stills, and blinks at me, her eyes misty. “Yeah,” she croaks, clearing her throat, “I mean… yeah, I get that.”

We finish our meals, all the while discussing the best horror movies and soundtracks. When Ivy tells me Michael Myers can’t be beat, I twist on the couch and tell her to check out the TV screen tattooed on my left shoulder blade, where Michael Myers himself is on-screen.

Ranking everything that falls below the greatest, we agree that Freddy Kruger is kind of weird in hindsight, and that Jaws needs more recognition as a true horror flick. After that, we rank caffeinated drinks while moving on to our second cans of Coke. From there, the chat never stops, because talking to Ivy is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

But when the sun slips behind the mountains and drapes my small home in shadows, the spell shatters, and she slips down the hall and puts her clothes back on, reappearing in the living room without my shirt. “I left your shirt on the bed,” she says, picking up her black bag, stuffing the strap inside.

“You didn’t have to take it off,” I manage, my internal alarms sounding as she gets ready to leave. But I can’t ask her to stay. I can’t ask her to spend the night. I don’t know what we’re doing, and without a label, it makes it hard to ask her not to go. But when she rocks to her toes, presses her lips to mine and sucks my tongue into her mouth, sadness washes over me.

Not because I don’t want to be alone.

I don’t want to be without her.

But I let her go, not without peace of mind that she gets home safely. I drive behind her the entire way, all the way down the long dirt road that leads to her place and Hudson’s. I flash my lights as she pulls open her front door, my way of saying goodbye.

And on my drive back, my phone lights up with a text.

Hope you like your tattoo. Thanks for a great night.

Stopped at a red light, I text her back.

It’s my favorite.

I’m sure she won’t believe me, since I’m pretty much covered from head to toe, but I’m not lying. It is my favorite. She is my favorite.

TWENTY-THREE

“Explosive.”

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