Page 90 of Yours Truly

She sets her mug down next to my bottles of perfume on my dresser and takes a seat on the foot of my bed, behind where I’m sitting at my vanity.

“Promise to not judge me?” she asks, biting her thumbnail.

I twist in my seat and face her. “If we didn’t judge Dolly for all the crazy shit she’s done over the years, what makes you think I’d judge you?”

She tucks her messy golden hair behind her ears, nodding. With a huffed-out breath, she says, “I’m actually seeing two guys, not just one.”

I blink. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirps, I swear it does.

“You’re fucking two guys?” I breathe, both surprised and proud. “Damn, Juni, get it!”

She brings her hands to her face, hiding away as she shakes her head. “No, no, we’re not… fucking.” Spreading her ring and middle finger apart, she blinks at me through her hand. “Yet.”

I slap her knee and return to facing the mirror, adding more eclipse to my ends. “Who are they?”

Over the top of her mug, in the mirror reflection, Juniper smirks. “Actually, you know them both. You saw them here once, returning empty jars to me.”

A few faces run through my mind. A lot of customers come out here to return Juni her jars—she offers a discount off her order for reusing them. But it’s mostly old ladies and churchgoers.

My eyes widen as that morning from a few months ago rushes back. “Dash Foster and Sterling Ford?” I ask, remembering how Bluebell’s favorite police officer and only garbage man stood out front, whispering and… well, bickering. “Aren’t they roommates too?”

She nods. “Yeah.”

Where blonde pokes through the old dye, I smother it in new dye. “Dash is my age,” I state, as if she doesn’t know. “And Sterling…”

“He’s thirty-four,” she adds, her voice a little lower than a moment ago. I meet her eyes in the mirror.

“Juniper!” I squeal. “You’re with a younger and older man!”

She smiles. “Well, we’re not, like, official or anything. But I have a connection with them both.”

I lick my lips. “Do they, you know, do stuff with each other?”

She shakes her head. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so? It’s still new. I mean, it’s… complicated,” she says, going distant for a moment.

“When you’re ready to share, I’m here,” I offer.

“Thanks,” she adds, getting back up to retrieve her tea. From the doorway she says, “I can’t believe it’s your last day already. I’m so proud of you, Ivy. You did it.”

“Thanks,” I reply, squirting the last bit of dye onto my head.

Juniper leaves, and instead of focusing on the fact that today is my day, a day to celebrate all that I’ve done, my mind goes back to those same three days and the same thought—was he really sick?

Expecting to walk into a slow studio with Connor tucked away in the corner with a client, Trace and Deuce chatting over coffee, I’m blown away with what greets me.

Trace, dressed in his usual dark jeans and black t-shirt, his hair down and damp from a shower, brown boots on his feet. Waiting at the door, he weaves his fingers through mine and pulls me into the studio, crowded with my family and friends.

Hudson and Dolly are here, Honey in Hud’s arms, Bear running around the place. Juniper is here, and now I know why she was up despite having not slept. Connor and his friends stand in one corner, lifting their mimosa cups to me as I take in the space. Rochelle is here, with her partner/sub, and so is Jeremy. Between clients and friends, there’s hardly room for me to move, but Trace pulls me through until we’re at reception.

“Look,” he says, motioning to a banner hanging from the eaves.

My eyes immediately blur with heat, and a knot forms in my throat. Ivy Inks is drawn out, clearly by Trace because I’d recognize his work with a blindfold on. The I in my name and Inks is a dagger, ornate and detailed, the same one I keep in my boot. “I made it for you, to celebrate your last day,” he says, his lips pressed to my ear as he wraps his arms around me, lifting me up.

“I’m so proud of you,” he adds, and I don’t get the chance to say anything because I’m on my feet again and he’s whistling, garnering the attention of everyone in the space. I spot Deuce, who winks, and points to Trace, mouthing, “He planned all of this.”

“Listen up,” Trace shouts. “Ivy’s here, and we’re all here to celebrate her, so please, first, a round of applause for Bluebell’s most talented artist,” he says, clapping as the room follows suit.

When the cheering settles, he looks down at me and amidst the hushed room, says, “Ivy, you are talented and hardworking, and you’re good with clients. Watching you grow into a role you were destined to fill has been an honor and a privilege. Thank you for letting me be your mentor, for teaching me things when I should’ve been teaching you.” He lifts a champagne flute full of juice as someone nearby shoves one into my hand. “To Ivy.”

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