Page 59 of Sawyer

“What are you going to do?” asks Tanner.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have to give it some thought.”

“You’re in a tough spot,” says McKenna. “She’s going to be upset either way. You invaded her privacy by having him followed. And what you found out is really going to hurt.” She leans closer to Tanner, resting her head on his chest. “It’s a pickle. Sorry, Sawyer.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s a no-win—”

“People!” cries Bruce, entering the Parsnip with shopping bags from the local hardware store. “Why are we just standing around doing nothing? We are hours away from a gala!”

Reeve and McKenna head back to the bar to finish their centerpieces, and Tanner climbs back up on the ladder to keep stringing lights. Quinn lifts up a small table and finds a new spot for it, and I follow after him with the chairs.

But my heart is heavy.

McKenna’s right.

It’s a pickle.

***

Eight hours later, I’m back at the Parsnip for the party, and the only thing I’ve decided is that I’m not saying anything tonight. Tonight’s a rare opportunity for me to spend time with Ivy outside of rehearsal, and I’m not ruining it by dropping a bombshell on her.

Clark’s a cheater. He’s always been a cheater, and he always will be a cheater.

That sort of incendiary information will keep for another day.

I’m standing by the bar, nursing a beer and waiting for her, when she walks through the Western-style double doors with her uncle and cousins. I push away from the bar to meet her, watching her face brighten with a smile the moment she sees me.

“Sawyer!”

“Hey, Ivy,” I say. “You look beautiful.”

She’s wearing jeans and a cream-colored wool sweater with a flannel collar peeking out from underneath, the pink and tan of the plaid like peaches and cream against the delicate skin of her neck.

“It’s just jeans and a sweater,” she says with a shrug, but her smile tells me she’s pleased with my compliment.

“Hey, Coach,” I greet her uncle. “Hi, girls! There are punch and cookies over by the dance floor.” Jenny and Vicky head for the sweets, and I turn back at Coach Caswell. “How’s Mrs. C. doing?”

“Better and better, Sawyer,” he tells me. “Thanks for asking.”

“She’s on target for remission,” adds Ivy. “Starts her last round of chemo the Friday after Thanksgiving.”

“Amazing news!” I say. “I’m happy for you, Coach. And for Mrs. C.! Let her know I was asking about her, okay?”

“You got it,” he says, spying Quinn’s mom and dad at a nearby table. “I see Skip Morgan. Catch you kids later.”

As he sidles away, I turn back to Ivy. “Hi, again.”

“Hi, again,” she says, her cheeks flushed and rosy from the cold, or the party, or maybe even from being close to me. We sure have been kissing a lot lately.

“Want a drink?”

“Sure,” she says, letting me lead the way to the bar.

At the Fish Company last week, we drank beer, but I know from spending time with her that she also likes a cocktail now and then.

“What’re you drinking tonight?”

“Hmm.” She props her elbows on the bar, her eyes flicking over the bottles of liquor before returning to me. “Something fun! How about…a French martini?”

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