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“He’s only with you to get back at me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped.
A week after that run-in with Jack, I went to Brooklyn specifically to ask Sara whether Ivy and Jack were dating. Setting down her book, she responded with something vague.
I’d lost the plot. I hadn’t been able to concentrate on projects.
I missed Ivy so much it hurt. I’d never understood heartbreak until now. My food had lost its flavor. Everything looked gray, and I found it hard to get out of bed.
Despite not being in the mood, I dropped into my parents’ house to talk to my father about a campaign just as dinner was being served, so I joined them.
“Where’s Ivy?” my father asked, cutting into a steak the size of his plate.
Unable to look him in the eyes, I replied, “She left me.”
It had been a month, and I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. In any case, my body language gave the game away. I seemed to be doing a lot of slouching lately.
He frowned. “That didn’t last long. Why?”
“She caught wind of you pressuring me to get married.”
“That wasn’t clever,” he said.
“Sara spilled the beans.”
“It’s for the best,” my mother said. “This Ivy wasn’t good enough for you.”
“No one’s good enough for me, according to you.”
She picked at her food. My mother had never been a big eater—a sad habit from her younger modeling years. That probably explained why I stayed away from super slim models. I loved a woman who enjoyed her food like Ivy, who could polish off a big plate of food guilt-free.
“You need to marry a wealthy girl. Esme, for example,” she said.
I grimaced. “No way. She’s all plastic.”
“She’s very rich,” she said.
“It’s not all about money.” I was about to stand when my father shook his head and gestured for me to stay. “I’ll find my own money.”
“And the agency?” my father asked. “You’re showing true talent there.”
“I’ve found a location I like. It’s a run down, thirties hotel, which I plan to buy and turn into a popular nightspot and hotel destination.”
“But where are you going to get the money for that?” my father asked.
“I’ll mortgage my penthouse. I own that. Grandfather gifted it to me.”
He studied me for a moment, lost in thought. “Show me the plans. We’ll see what we can do.”
“If you married Esme, you could have ten of those projects. Even in Europe,” my mother said.
“I’m not marrying Esme or anyone else. Not unless it’s for love,” I said, surprising myself.
Before Ivy, I’d thought love was some Hollywood construct geared toward the wedding industry. Even my parents didn’t exactly give off that loving vibe.
I knew my father would never leave my mother, and that alone suggested theirs was true love. And although my mother constantly rolled her impeccably made-up eyes at my father, I sensed she was equally devoted.
Despite being understandably unsympathetic about my history with women, Ivy was sweet when it came to my many other mess ups. If anything, she’d laughed them off. Ivy was the only girl I’d ever shared my more gut-wrenching mistakes with—like not being there for a friend when she was close to suicide. That still plagued me. Having come to terms with being gay, Melanie now thrived, and whenever I ran into her, we would share a coffee and a chat. I’d also apologized to her on countless occasions for not coming to her aid when she’d reached out during college. All because I was trying to hook up with a hot babe. An ugly chapter.
