AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He pauses and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “Don’t fake it on my account, Ivy,” he says, his words clipped. “That’s not what I want. And it shouldn’t be what you want, either. ”
Frustration ripples through me. “I’m sorry we can’t all be as perfect as you are,” I say. “I’m sorry I don’t always know the exact right thing to do or say at the exact right time!”
Bishop’s jaw tightens. “I’m not perfect. ”
“Well, it’s kind of hard for us mere mortals to tell,” I say. “Don’t you ever get upset or angry or embarrassed? Do you feel anything?”
He blows out a breath, takes a step toward me. The hallway is so narrow that I’m pinned between the wall and his body, heat rolling off him in waves. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I feel things. ” His green eyes burn. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him so far, and I have trouble taking a full breath, my lungs compressed with tension. “That’s the whole point, Ivy. I want you to feel them, too. ”
I open my mouth, close it again, not sure how to respond.
“Forget it,” Bishop says. The last thing I hear is the front door slamming behind him.
What do you wear for a dinner with your enemy? I stand in the middle of the bedroom, every article of clothing I own forming a pitifully small mountain on the bed. The only real dress I have is the one I wore on my wedding day, and I never want to put it on again. Just the slide of the material against my skin makes me wince. But somehow I think Mrs. Lattimer would not appreciate me showing up in shorts and a T-shirt. What I want is to curl up with one of the books I borrowed from President Lattimer’s library. But I have to face the Lattimers sometime. It won’t do me any good to pretend they don’t exist.
President and Mrs. Lattimer summoned us for dinner yesterday, more than two weeks after the wedding. Perhaps they couldn’t stomach the thought of me in their home before that. We were told to be there at eight, and Bishop said they always dined late, even when he was a boy. There is something unsettlingly pretentious about it.
I finally decide on a black skirt, short but loose, with flat black sandals and a pale purple tank top. I leave my hair down, where it falls to the middle of my back in crazy waves I long ago gave up trying to tame. It will have to be good enough. I’m not interested in spending any more time trying to impress them.
Bishop is waiting for me in the living room, wearing jeans and a black dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up.
“You look nice,” he says to me.
“Thank you,” I say. My eyes are drawn to his bare forearms, and against my will I remember how he looked without his shirt, all smooth skin and lean muscle. A tiny pulse beats low in my belly. I raise my gaze up to his face, find him watching me.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I shouldn’t have laughed. ”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I’m trying. I just…I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do. ” The understatement of my life.
“There’s no supposed to, Ivy,” he says. “I don’t have a checklist. ”
Ah, but I do, I think. And the fact that this boy knows when I’m faking affection, trying to force a connection, makes everything so much more difficult. Why can’t he be like a normal eighteen-year-old? The kind who would take a kiss from a girl no matter why it was offered? Instead, Bishop wants authenticity, which is the one thing I cannot give him.
It is still light out when we leave the house, although the sun is starting to sink in the sky as we walk, our footsteps keeping time with each other on the empty sidewalk.
“How was your first week on the job?” Bishop asks.
“Good. I mean, so far I’m not doing anything too exciting. Mainly organizing files. But it’s nice to have somewhere to go every day, something to do. ”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I know the days can get long if you don’t have a purpose. ”
Is he talking about himself? He leaves the house every morning, but I never have any idea where he’s going. And most days he comes home smelling like sunshine, which is probably in short supply inside council meetings. Maybe he’s been going to the river, while I’ve been at the courthouse. He hasn’t told me and I haven’t asked.
As we get closer to his parents’ house, my heart begins to pick up speed, thumping twice as hard as it needs to, sweat beading along my hairline even though the night air isn’t particularly hot.
“Want something to hold on to?” Bishop asks. I’m not sure what he’s talking about until I glance down. His hand—tan skin, long fingers—is held out. My eyes fly back to his face and he’s giving me a half smile, waiting to see what I’ll do. Not forcing, just asking. My first instinct is to say no, although this feels less orchestrated than the kiss in the bathroom, more natural somehow. But I’ve never held hands with a boy before and while it’s hardly intimate, my stomach is still sick with nervous butterflies. I know I should accept; Callie would want me to.
I slide my hand into Bishop’s, and he laces our fingers together. The warm pressure of his palm steadies me, spreading heat from my hand up my arm where it seems to pool in my chest, calming the mad pounding of my heart.
He holds my hand all the way up the long drive to his parents’ house and only releases it once we’ve stepped inside the door. My bare palm feels naked, and I have to resist the urge to scramble for his fingers when his father approaches.
“Bishop, Ivy!” President Lattimer calls out. He comes toward us with both arms outstretched and pulls us into hugs before I can deflect him. “We’re happy you could join us. We wanted to have you over earlier, but you know your mother,” he says with a grin at Bishop, “she has to make sure everything’s perfect. ” Which sounds like an excuse to me. It must to Bishop, too, because he raises his eyebrows at me over his father’s shoulder.
Erin Lattimer appears behind her husband, a pained smile on her face, like someone is pulling on her cheeks at the same time she’s gritting her teeth. She is wearing a cherry red skirt and long-sleeve blouse, too hot for the weather, but she doesn’t have a hair out of place. I doubt she even knows how to sweat. She reminds me of the Barbie dolls that are found every once in a while—plastic to the point of perfection. I know that Erin was originally from my side of town, born Erin Bishop and a classmate of my father’s. But it hardly seems possible, her refined elegance so at odds with most of the women I knew growing up. She’s cultivated a new persona for herself, and she wears her chilly mantle like a queen.
She embraces Bishop, who gives her a stiff kiss on the cheek, but she only nods at me. I’m glad she’s not faking affection. It’s more honest than what her husband is doing, at least. Dislike is an emotion I can respect.
Dinner is served in the formal dining room, the four of us spread out at a table much too big for our small party even with the table not fully extended. The Lattimers are seated at each end, and Bishop and I are to sit across from each other. It’s like being marooned on my own small island, surrounded on both sides by hostile waters.
