Page 52 of Sawyer

“Truth? I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She finishes her second beer and refills both of our glasses. “It’s probably because your performance is so phenomenal, but I thinkWuthering Heightsis really good. As good as any college production I was in. I’m serious. And the book club today was good, too. There were some pretty insightful comments about the book. There are movies every weekend—I took Jenny to seePractical Magica few weeks ago, and Vix to seeHotel Transylvaniathe weekend after. Uncle Alan promised to take us cross-country skiing and snowmobiling as soon as there’s enough powder. There’s a lot more to do than I thought. I’m staying busy.”

“So we’re not just a bunch of provincial clodhoppers, huh?”

“I never thought that.”

I tilt my head to the side, a gentle challenge to her bullshit.

“Okay,” she says. “I might have thought that. My bad.”

“It’s okay. We’re used to it.”

We pick up our glasses and gulp, looking at each other over the rims.

“I’m sorry it hurt so much to leave that summer,” I say, sliding my hand across the table, palm up. “I didn’t know.”

She bites her lower lip before placing her hand in mine, and I feel a tremor of possibility shake my soul as I braid my fingers through hers.

“For the record, I missed you like crazy after you left,” I tell her. “I was a mess.”

“If I’d faced my feelings for you,” she says, “I would’ve been a mess, too. Instead I packed them away and let Clark’s promises and my father’s hopes fill the emptiness.”

She pulls her hand away, glancing at her ring for a moment before picking up her beer glass.

I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “You’re really going to marry him?”

“That’s the plan,” she says without meeting my eyes.

“You love him that much?” I ask. “More than anything else?”

More thananyoneelse?

The phone in her purse buzzes, and she reaches for it. Glancing at the screen, her eyebrows furrow, and her lips tighten.

“Everything okay?”

“I have to get going,” she says.

“Is it your aunt?” I ask, feeling concerned.

“No. Not my aunt, thank god. Something else.”

“Anything I can help with?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No.”

I pay for the beers, and we walk back to the library in uncomfortable silence, likely compounded by my asking, three separate times, if she’s okay.

“I’m fine,” she answers every time, her voice smaller and smaller.

She’s not fine, and it kills me that she won’t let me help her with whatever is hurting her. But as we walk, I remind myself what I’ve learned about Ivy tonight—that she compartmentalizes her pain. I’d love for that to change, but realistically, I know that change like that takes a while. It’s a process. And it must be supported by time, space, and love.

So I walk beside her

And I give her room.

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