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So much about that knocks me disoriented. I stumble over to the shortbread-yellow chair. “What do you mean, it wasn’t an accident? I don’t understand. The car was out of control—”
“Please just go tonight and give Scott a chance.” She adopts a syrupy film in her tone, completely disregarding my questions, which is how my mother typically instructs me to drop a subject she’s finished discussing—no matter the impact of the bomb detonated. “If he’s not for you, we’ll find someone else. But this is your ticket out, and I need you to take it.”
My ticket out. Not just out of Ivy’s world. Out of my mother and father’s world. A life she didn’t realize she was signing up for.
We end the call without our typical frivolous talk regarding my nails, shoes, and hair choice. Only that ominous revelation, ensnaring me in a fit of rage. She thinks someone killed Ben. If they believe that, then why didn’t someone pay for it? Or did they? No. She said she always believed, as though it was never proven. And now, it’s a cold case.
Her incessant pushing for me to fulfill my grandfather’s wishes makes even more sense now. I thought it was a shallow desire to brag, to replace her identity as the one who mourns a son, but it’s paralyzing fear.
Jesus, this guilt only gets more crippling with time.
There’s nothing quite like a parent losing a child. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We aren’t meant to be there for the whole process. It’s unnatural—a darkness that never leaves. A shadow cloaking every experience. One so powerful, so heavy, that the withering soul can’t help but beg others to lug it around with them.
And anyone with a heart will find it impossible to refuse.
That’s the essence of my life. Watching my hero burst into flames and sink six feet under, the lifeblood draining from my parents’ and grandparents’ faces, and resolving to rise. To be the flicker that keeps them going, all the while feeling dead inside.
Although, up until now, I convinced myself that I wasn’t giving much up. Only the whisper of something. No guarantee the whisper would ever be spoken into existence. I’ve lived for the all-consuming risky thrills instead, denying the gravity of the still picture I don’t want. A snippet that will never truly be mine.
But now, that whisper will perish when I walk into this life. Maybe it died long ago in that fiery crash with my brother, and it was only ever a phantom hope. Liam revived it during that night we spent together though. He banished the numbness, which means that inescapable pain my mother spoke of is already mine to harbor.
I brush it off and jump into the shower, imploring the steam to purge my angst and reservations so I can be who I need to be, which starts with primping. I shave and lotion, curl and line, paint and buff.
Play their game.
I’d like to say it was solely with my date in mind that I chose my dress. He’s a bit of a playboy, and he enjoys the wild side—not a black mark in my book. I’m hoping he’s more entertaining than some of the dull men I’ve been set up with before. In that spirit, I slip into my high-low gown. The bodice is a fitted corset with a strapless sweetheart neckline. It’s sophisticated with a flare. There are even pockets in the skirt.
But the truth behind the dress is that the candy-apple color caught my attention due to a different wild-side gentleman who may have suggested I taste that way. I’m trying not to lose myself in that reverie though. As I’m hooking the clasp on my thin ruby-and-diamond choker beneath my hair, a soft knock raps on my door. Knowing it’s Ivy, I call her inside while I finish with my necklace.
“You look stunning, Lettie.” She bites her lip and stares at me. “Wow.”
I spin to face her. “Thank you. I’ve had my eye on this cocktail dress for a while. Seemed as good excuse as any to snag it.”
She nods. “Well, you’ll certainly turn heads in that. He won’t know what hit him.”
“That’s the goal,” I murmur, parroting my mother’s earlier sentiment while gathering my lipstick and mascara to store in my clutch.
“You slept with him,” she states behind me. It doesn’t sound like a question, but she must mean it as one.
I glance at her in my mirror as I spritz some perfume. “No. This is our first date.” She knows that, but I’m sure she’s got far more important things on her mind, so I add, “We’ve only talked on the phone.”
“No. Liam.”
All the air whooshes from my lungs as I turn, smoothing the satin fabric of my dress down in an instinctual act of composure. Something that rarely occurs with Ivy. I’m not sure what to say because she doesn’t look happy about it. Her eyes are squinting in accusation.
Finally, I assert a firm, “I did.”
“I knew you did.” She scoffs, flinging her hand out as her skin flushes—Ivy’s enraged tell. “Everyone around here thinks I’m blind. All of you are keeping secrets from me. I’m not sure what Wells is hiding yet, but you and Liam—I thought maybe one of you might tell me. But it wasn’t my business, so I stayed quiet. Until now.”
“Now?” I ask, wondering why she’s suddenly upset when nothing is happening at all anymore.
She gestures her hand at my gown like one of those game-show girls who points to stuff for a living. “Yes. Now.”
Oh, me going out?
“Ivy, I think you’ve got it all wrong. This setup was in the works before Liam and I … he knew. I was up-front.”
Her blue eyes brim with disappointment. “So, you’ve been sneaking around with him and then dolling up for the men who have a real chance?”
