Page 42 of The Writer
“Who, Locke? Jealous, Blake?”
“And would you even care if I was?” It’s not an admission.
“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll see after this apology and you picking up the conversation you were so quick to shut down last time.”
She crosses her arms, and I have to grind my molars together to stop both our tempers taking over. This is time for me to apologise, and whilst I know there aren’t any half-truths to offer, all-in isn’t a familiar place for me to be with a woman.
“Fine, but not here. If you want me to open up, we do it on my terms.” I look around, not appreciating the view or the number of people milling through the area. “This isn't the place for a decent conversation. Somewhere else.”
I walk away, choosing to leave the decision to follow up to her. Lucky for me, she does, pointing me in some direction. Her shiny red Porsche eventually comes into view a few streets over, so I wait for her to open the door, but, regardless, I want to get a few things clear before going any further.
“So, where do you want to go?” she asks, all spritely.
“Look, is there something between you and that guy?” I am done pussyfooting around.
“Really? What gives you the right to ask me a question like that?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m done with this just being a casual fuck. I’m past that.” And I know just how serious I am about that statement.
“But right now, Blake, you’ve given me nothing to make me believe you want more than a hookup. What if there is something between Noah and me?”
“I don’t like it, and I don’t like the thought of you with any other guy either. We have something, Ivy. I want to see where this can go.”
“I can tell you now,” she motions between us, “this is going nowhere until you tell me what your story is.”
“Fine. Get in the car.”
“You’re still not driving.”
“Just take us somewhere quiet where we won’t be disturbed.”
She slings her bag in the back and gets in as I round the car and open the passenger side. I barely manage to get in before she starts the ignition and tears us off onto the main road. I shouldn't be surprised at the crazy speed, but I end up somehow trusting that she knows what she's doing.
The memories of the last ten years filter through my mind like a flick book as I try to find the right place to start. Thankfully, she lets me work it out without pushing, so I clench my hands in my lap and stare out at the traffic.
As time passes, the traffic gets lighter, and the roads clear to make way for patches of green. “Where are we going?”
“You made a big deal of going somewhere quiet, so I’m taking you to some parklands I know. As close to a walk in the country as you’ll get this close to the city, but I figured it was a safe bet.”
“Thank you.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence, but my head is loud with doubts. Having spent so much time relying on my own decisions or opinions, I’ve learned to trust my gut in situations. It's been reliable—constant. But with Ivy, I’m not in control. She holds the power here, and that doesn’t sit well with me. Call it not being used to caring, or feeling on the back foot, or even fucking nerves. Either way, I'm not used to the sensation, and I don't like it one little bit.
We finally pull into a loosely gravelled field that seems to act as a car park. Half a dozen cars are already parked around a derelict pub, and a family with a dog are knocking the mud off their boots next to their vehicle. The sun is still bright, but there’s more orange in the glow, indicating dusk is around the corner.
“Come on. Let’s go for a walk," she says, getting out to wait for me. It doesn’t scream country park, but then again, there are walks littered all over the country. You just need to know where to look. The truck selling tea and coffee at the far end of the car park tells me it’s popular, and I wonder what the fuck I'm still doing sitting in this car rather than getting on with the talk.
Pretty obvious.
Avoidance.
A grey minivan pulls into the car park as I finally get my arse out and catch up with her, and we cross the road heading towards the dusty path between two lines of trees. The main track is sheltered, and any noise from the road or others around us dissipates. I expect her to press me, but she doesn’t, as if she can sense that this is something that needs to come in my own time. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. It’s not like plenty of other people haven't been in the same situation.
Or worse.
“I was married before,” I start. “She was the love of my life.” It feels like a confession from my lips. I’ve kept my past hidden from so many people that unless you knew me before, you’d never know.
“Go on,” she encourages, keeping a steady pace.
