Page 8 of Puck Yes

I LIKE YOUR DICK

Ivy

The struggle is real.

Do I write about sustainable fashion for my first newsletter post? Or talk about DIY trends in a video for social? Mostly, though, what the hell do I call this brand-new venture?

I groan as I set my laptop on the table while Roxy finishes breakfast in the tiny kitchen. “I didn’t think I’d be flying solo so soon,” I say to my Chihuahua-Beagle mix, but she’s enrapt in her morning devotional to kibble.

Grabbing a hair tie from the coffee table, I loop my long hair into a messy bun as I talk to my dog’s butt. “Was I supposed to be doing my own newsletter thing on the side sooner? As insurance and all for the backstabbing?”

My short-haired, cinnamon-colored girl wags her tail, but doesn’t turn around. She’s selfish like that—totally immune to my inner turmoil while there was any chance of a speck of dog food dust left in the bowl.

I know what she’d tell me though. I should have expected to be blindsided. You can’t rely on anyone but a dog. Or a German Shepherd of a brother. Ever since our terrible dad took off when I was ten, Ryker’s looked out for my mom, my sister, and me. He paid for my college, and he pays for my sister’s college now. Katie’s off in New Zealand having the time of her life in her semester abroad.

But I’ve been determined to make it on my own since graduation four years ago, which is why I gobbled up every freelance fashion-writing gig I could find before I took the assistant job with Simone. I was logging twelve-hour days, which made it hard to build up my own name. No one is looking for Ivy Samuels’ opinion.

Yet.

I swallow my pride, open my texts, and type.

Ivy: Hey, Ryker! Any chance that gig is still available? LMK!

I put the phone away and grab Roxy’s gear from her dog clothing basket by the door. Once I snap on her hot pink harness, I show her two bandana options. “The one with watermelons or the one with palm trees?”

With her bossy snout, she nudges the Hawaii-themed one, so I fasten it on her little neck. I head to the door with my five-pound, senior pup—adopted by me when she was twelve years old.

But as I grab the knob, I stop and pluck at my blah outfit. What if I run into Eggplant Guy in the elevator again?

I fly to my room, shed the sweats, and tug on a pair of denim cut-off shorts instead—ones that sayI’m fashionable, but I’m not trying too hard.I trade the loose shirt for a cute crop top then swipe on some blush and lip gloss. Just a primp here and there, and it’s like I rolled out of bed looking all casual and cool. I head to the elevator, nerves jumping in a good way. Maybe I’ll see Hayes. Maybe I’ll get to know him more. Find out what he does for a living with all those muscles and that fancy apartment in the sky. Probably prints money, then carries big bags of it around to grow his biceps.

But when the doors open, it’s empty, and I’m a tad disappointed. It’s for the best though. I don’t have room in my life for a crush, especially when I’m trying to figure out my career.

Still, Ishouldprobably make plans with him for the big day. Out on the street, Roxy strutting by my side, I start to draft a note with the details of the event when my phone pings.

Oh. It’s Mister Penthouse. This text from him feels like a pre-ward for my good intentions.

Hayes: What do I wear to the wedding?

What you had on yesterday, say, around six p.m.

I don’t write that, though, because I’m classy.

Ivy: I’m interpreting this note to mean please tell me the guest wedding attire isn’t retro-ruffle themed like that engagement photo.

Hayes: It’s like you can read my mind.

Ivy: Just standard attire for a woodland wedding of course.

Hayes: Funny, I don’t know what that is.

Fair point because I don’t either.

Ivy: The wedding of two fashion influencers probably has a specific dress code. I’ll find out.

Hayes: Thanks. I aim to please.

With a furrowed brow, I study his reply as I head up Fillmore. He sounds sort of…just friendly.

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