Page 89 of Yours Truly

I look at the heart-shaped waffle maker. “Yeah, asshole, I am. Because it’s cute.” I take another bite of toast. “And I’m making the batter black.”

Deuce laughs. “That’s better.”

We make some more small talk and work out a few details for the party, and Deuce finally heads out. I send Ivy a text, telling her I’m all better, but it’s probably best if we spend the weekend apart.

I hate it. I want more than anything to see my girl. But I need to get to the printer in Oakcreek to get the banner done, and pick up some silk black roses from the flower shop, too.

I can’t wait to celebrate her. To see the look on her face when a room of people she loves cheers on all that she’s done.

She deserves the best night ever, and I’m going to give it to her.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“There’s always a blonde.”

Ivy

With the towel draped around my shoulders and clipped under my chin, I tip my head forward, peering at my blonde roots. I give the bottle another shake and start applying, the dye is cool through the rubber gloves, and cold against my scalp.

Today is the last day that I’m an apprentice at Ink Time. Tomorrow? I’m a resident artist.

That fact still gives me chills.

I’m excited—Juniper and Dolly want to take me to the art supplies store after work and treat me to a whole slew of new pencils and pads. Deuce texted me this morning saying he’s got a bottle of champagne with my name on it. Ev came by the house this morning with celebration donuts. Hudson had Bear and Honey hold a congratulations sign and text me a picture.

Trace says he has a surprise for me.

And I’m excited.

I am.

But my stupid, overthinking mind can’t let go of the fact that there were three days and nights this week where we didn’t see each other. He even missed a day of work.

He said he was sick and that he didn’t want me to catch anything and give it to Dolly, and at first I thought that was incredibly thoughtful.

I know I don’t have a reason not to trust Trace. Since the first time we fooled around, he’s been loyal to me, emotionally and physically. We drew the relationship line a few weeks ago, becoming an official couple. He shouted it around the shop. And the day after he took that photo of our boots on his porch, he posted it to his social media. The first time he’s posted in over a year.

The caption read “It’s not the where, it’s the who” with a smiley face emoji. He changed his profile name from Trace Calhoun to Trace Wade, and now, in his bio, it says “Livin’ the dream somewhere in Cali.”

I shouldn’t have questions in my mind. But as I slather the eclipse shade onto my hair, I can’t help but wonder, did he slip up and drink on one or all of those days and is he ashamed to tell me?

Don’t think that way, Ivy. Don’t let your belief in him falter, because he’ll see it. He knows you well by now and he will see the doubt in your body language.

Juniper pushes into my room with a yawn. “You’re up early,” she says.

“Want to look good for my last day. I know we’ll take pictures,” I tell her. “Why are you so tired? Weren’t you in bed by 7?”

She blinks at me, her hands tightening around her mug of tea. Her hair is messy, like she tossed and turned all night, which is unlike Juniper. Once she goes to bed, I don’t hear a peep.

“I, uh, had company last night, after you got home from Trace’s and went to bed.”

I didn’t sleep over last night, knowing I wanted to do my roots this morning. And if I’m being honest? I can’t stop wondering about those three days, so the decision to sleep at my own house felt even worse.

“Company?” I stop dying my roots and look at my older sister who, for as long as I can remember, has been single. At thirty-one, she’s got a thriving business and has never seemed interested in more than exploring nature, hikes, long drives and making jam.

Her cheeks turn to bubble gum. “Yeah…” she trails off, sipping her tea to buy time. But I’m five minutes into a forty-five-minute hair dyeing session at six in the morning so I’ve got time. Lots of it. And I’m also starved for a distraction.

“Juni, you realize you need to spill, right?”

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