Chasing River
Page 49

I wonder, too. I really know nothing about her. And right now, I could use the distraction of Ivy’s entire life story, from birth until tonight.
“So, what exactly is your background anyway, Ivy? You said you were born in Spain?”
She nods through a mouthful. “Mom was born and raised in Barcelona. My dad is first-generation American, but his parents are both from just outside Shanghai. They moved to California before he was born. Ian’s mom and my dad are brother and sister.”
“That’s where you moved to Sisters from?”
“San Francisco.” She heaves a sigh, muttering, “I loved it there.” Pointing the remote control at the stereo, she flips through the channels so fast that I don’t know how her brain processes what’s playing. “But my parents decided we needed to get away.”
“Why?”
She shrugs.
I have a feeling she could say more, but I don’t push it because my phone chirps, instantly stealing my attention.
Amber. Please answer me. I’m worried.
I can practically hear his deep accented voice coming through, making my guilt flare. What if this is all a huge misunderstanding? It has to be. I know River. No, you don’t, stupid Amber. Just because you’ve slept with him doesn’t mean you know him. I sigh. I can’t ignore him anymore, fear or not. Hurt or not. Anger, or not.
I’m sorry, I can’t make it tonight.
I power my phone off and toss it aside so I don’t have to read his response.
Ivy’s gaze bores into the side of my head. “This is the first time you’ve ever been stood up, isn’t it?”
I showed up at The Fine Needle just after six. Ivy, just about to take a girl of maybe twenty back for her tattoo, said I stormed in like Freddy Krueger was chasing after me.
I forced a stiff laugh when she told me. No, not Freddy Krueger. I asked her if I could hang out and she simply shrugged. She never pushed me, never asked me why I was dressed like I was going out, why I would want to hang out in a dungeon instead.
Unlike Bonnie or Tory, who would have drilled me until I gave something up. She hasn’t even mentioned River once. And I’ve appreciated it. It allowed me the chance to wrap my mind around what Duffy told me, and what I know of River, and how those two things just can’t possibly align.
But I guess all things must come to an end; the better they are, the faster.
Tonight’s the first time since I got on that plane out of Oregon that I’ve wanted to climb onto another one and go home. The sooner Sunday comes, the better.
“I wasn’t stood up,” I deny quietly.
By the flat gaze in her eyes, I don’t think she believes me. I brace myself for some smart-ass comment, some glib joke about the Sheriff’s Daughter or the Rodeo Queen or Miss Perfect not getting what she wants.
“I remember this one time I got stood up . . .” She sucks her Coke up through her straw. “I mean, I’ve been stood up a few times, but this one time stung especially bad. I was twenty-one and working at a shop in Portland. I had this super-hot customer and I’d been working on his arm for two months. I was crazy about him. Anyway, Nine Inch Nails was coming to Portland and he had these special connections to get backstage. He knew they were my all-time favorite band. See?” She points to her shoulder, where a small “NIN” symbol fills one petal of a black iris. I can’t stand them, or any heavy metal, preferring country and pop any day, but I keep my mouth shut and simply nod.
“So he invited me and of course I said yeah. We were supposed to meet at the gates at seven. I was there, in the cold rain. I stood there waiting for him until almost ten, until I could hear the Nails playing from inside the stadium.” She snorts. “Of course I was worried, so I kept calling him. But it went straight to voicemail. I finally got a one-line text from him that said, ‘Sorry, I fell asleep. Next time.’ ”
“Did you believe him?”
“Does it matter? Why kind of apology is that? But no, I didn’t believe him. And I was pissed at myself for waiting so long. Then I found out through a friend that he was at the concert that night, but with some other girl.”
Wow. “Did you ever talk to him again?”
“Sort of.” She slides another mouthful of noodles into her mouth, so casually. “About three weeks later, he came into the shop with pictures of his shed that had been decorated with the Pretty Hate Machine album cover art on the side. He didn’t appreciate it. I guess he wasn’t as big a Nails fan as he claimed to be.”
I burst out laughing.
“But I didn’t tag it.” She pokes the air with her fork. “See? I’m not stupid.”
“Did you get in trouble?”
“He couldn’t prove it. But my boss somehow figured out that I’d taken a photocopy of his home address and he fired me for that. So I moved back home and got a job with Beans at his shop in Bend. You remember him, right?”
I nod. The place where Alex got her work done. “You know a lot of tattoo artists.”
“It’s a close community, and having a female artist of my caliber working for you is always a bonus with the clients.”
“Well . . . I wasn’t stood up. But thanks for that story. For some reason it makes me feel less like an idiot right now.” I toss my barely eaten food onto the side table, stuffing napkins into the container.
There’s another long pause and then Ivy asks, “You know that first night, when you asked me how I remembered so much about you in high school?”
“Did I?”
She hesitates, as if she doesn’t want to admit something. “It’s because, for a long time, I wished I was you. My family and I moved to Sisters because my parents wanted to get far away from San Francisco. They decided a remote mountain town would be good. I didn’t know a soul, and we didn’t have a lot of money. I looked ‘different’ from other kids,” her fingers air-quote that word. “You seemed to have everything going for you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. It’s flattering, but sad, and probably not an easy thing for a girl like Ivy to admit. “Well, thank God you weren’t—otherwise your relationship with my brother would have been really inappropriate.”
For the first time, Ivy’s head tips back and laughter bellows out of her, making me giggle. It feels good.
“Does Alex know about you and Jesse?”
“No . . . At least, I didn’t tell her. Figured she wouldn’t want to hear about it. So, let’s keep that between us.”
A secret between Ivy and me.
Climbing out of her chair, she collects my food carton and heads over to dump it into a trash can.
“For what it’s worth . . . I’m sorry I never said hi to you in the hallway,” I offer with complete sincerity.
Her hands slow for just a moment, and then they’re tying a knot into the top of the bag, sealing the odors in. “So, are we going to sit here and be all depressed about whatever this asshole did? Or should we go do something?”
I take in her outfit—head-to-toe skulls and cheetah print. “Do you have something in mind?”
She loops her hands together and stretches her fingers. Loud cracks fill the silence.
She definitely does.
“Do you have something else in mind?” I ask, casting a furtive look to the left and the right of the narrow side street. Light streams on either side of the building, but where we stand next to this vast painted brick wall, we lurk in shadows, marginally visible by the lights shining from Ivy’s Civic. Technically, Ian’s. They share an apartment a block away from the shop, and she ran over to grab the keys.