“They s-said he hasn’t learned his lesson.” Her brittle sobs are tearing at me through the phone, and I feel tears of sympathy creeping into my eyes. “Said that because of his priors, they don’t think he’s a good parole candidate. He can reapply for parole in twenty-four months.” She chokes the words out. “Two years, Reba! Two years is forever! He’s already been gone six—”
“I know, honey. I know. It’s going to be okay, I promise.” Wynonna’s racking sobs are breaking my heart. “Please, just calm down, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick.”
“W-w-where are you?” She hiccups into the phone. “Are you coming home?”
“Absolutely,” I say firmly. “Give me a few hours and I will be right there.”
“A few hours?” She sounds shocked, and another sob chokes from her throat. “Reba, I need you here. I feel so alone.” She starts to cry even harder, and sounds so much younger than her barely eighteen years. “I miss my daddy.”
“I know, Wynonna. I know. I promise I’ll be home as soon as I can,” I tell her. I don’t look over at the bed, because if I do, I’m going to see sexy, warm Boone still sprawled in the blankets, waiting for me to crawl back into the covers with him for another round of lovemaking. Except I can’t, because real life is crashing in and I have to rescue my sister before she cries herself sick, or worse, tries to go back to the prison. Or something even worse than that. “Look, I’ve got twenty dollars on my dresser, all right? Order a pizza and eat something, and I’m going to be home a little while after that. You stuff your face and then I’ll come home and we’ll talk, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and she sounds broken. God, her sadness is breaking me. “Hurry home, okay, Reba?”
“I will, Wynonna. I promise. Just, take deep breaths. Take a nice hot shower”—oh god, that makes me think of the sexy shower I just had with Boone—“and then I’ll be home and we’ll talk.”
“Okay.” Sniff. “I love you, sis.”
“Love you, too, Wynonna.” It kills me to hang up, because my sister needs me. I slowly put down the phone and look over at Boone.
He’s up from the bed, tugging on his jeans. The look he shoots me is worried. “Everything all right?”
I nod slowly. “I just . . . I need to go home. It’s my sister.”
“Of course. I can get us checked out fast.” He pauses and studies me. “What is it, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
I go still. I . . . don’t know what to tell him. I’ve felt so close to Boone this afternoon. We just made love in the shower. I feel joy when his mouth touches mine. He just confessed that he’s in love with me. He makes me happy. And yet . . . “I wish I could tell you, Boone. But I can’t.”
The worry on his face fades a little, and I can see his expression hardening. “Why can’t you tell me?”
My back goes up. I grab my skirt off the floor, find my jacket, and start hunting for my bra and panties. “Because it’s personal!”
“Oh, well, that changes things,” he says sarcastically. “I guess we’re not at that point, right? Where we share personal stuff?”
I’m silent. He’s pissed, and he has every right to be. It feels awful, knowing that I’m in the wrong and I still can’t do anything about it.
“Heaven fucking forbid I learn something personal about you, Ivy.” He jerks his T-shirt on over his head. “I mean, I’m just the guy that fucking wants to marry you, right? But it’s fine, we’re not personal or anything. It’s not like I just told you I’m in love with you. And it’s not like you said anything back. So hey, I guess we’re not at that personal level after all.”
I wince, because everything he says is like a dagger. He did confess love and I said nothing at all. It’s because I’m terrified. I’m terrified of exactly what is happening right now. “Please, just take me home, Boone. I can’t talk about this.”
“Can’t talk, or won’t talk?”
“Won’t,” I whisper. I find my panties and slip them back on, and then my bra. I won’t look at him as I dress. I can’t.
“Damn it,” he snarls. “Why is it every time I think I’m finally getting close to you, you push me away again? Why is it that I’m the one that keeps reaching out and you’re the one that keeps running away? Do you fucking care at all about me, Ivy?”
Tears burn behind my eyes, threatening to spill. I nod slowly. “I do.”
“Then tell me that! Share with me! Something!” He slams a hand on his chest and gestures at the cheap motel room. “Anything! I keep bringing you into my world because I want you here with me, and every time anything in your world shows up, you shove me away!”
“It’s not like that—”
“It’s not, huh? Then tell me what’s going on.” His hands go on his hips, and he waits.
I feel as if I’m crumbling inside. I can’t. I can’t say a word because then he’ll know what a sham I am. My dad can’t get paroled yet. Oh, and I live in a trailer and have twenty dollars to my name. I’m a big fat fucking lie. But the words won’t come out of my mouth. I’m utterly silent. And even though I don’t want it to, a fat tear rolls down my cheek. I angrily swipe it away.
Boone swears. He puts his hands on his head and stares up at the ceiling, then looks over at me. “We can’t go on like this forever, Ivy. You’re gonna have to let me into your life at some point.”
“I know,” I whisper hoarsely.
“Just . . . just fuckin’ tell me, all right? Why can’t you tell me?”
“I just can’t. I’m so sorry.”
He sighs slowly, then scoops his keys up from the dresser. He comes to my side and presses a kiss to the top of my head, and then shoves away. “I’m gonna go check out.” He opens the door to the room and then pauses in the doorway as I stand there, clutching my bra and jacket to my chest. “You know, you say that you’re sorry, and that I mean something to you, but you never change. I extend my hand, and you never take it. At some point, you’re gonna reach out and my hand won’t be there because I’ve given up.”
The thought is like a knife in the gut. The door slams behind him as he leaves, and it feels like something in our wild, tempestuous relationship is slamming shut, too.
And I feel . . . stuck.
Trapped.
And aching with misery.
The thing he wants the most from me—the truth—is the thing he would hate the most about me.
Chapter Twelve
Ivy
It’s the longest, most miserable, most silent ride home ever. I think of earlier this day, when Boone kept his hand on my knee, as if he couldn’t stand to have me near and not be touching me. Now? He keeps to his side of the truck, and his hand remains on the steering wheel instead of anywhere near my leg.
And me, I don’t know what to do to cross that invisible boundary between us. Well, okay, I know what I can do to cross it—tell him what’s going on. Except . . . I can’t. And so it’s awful and quiet and tense as we drive back.
Boone drops me off at Three Jacks, and I pretend to go into the building to get my things. I wait until he drives away before going out to my little, broken-down heap of a car, and my hands are shaking as I put the keys in the ignition. I’m crying silently, and it has nothing to do with my father or his parole, or even Wynonna.
I feel like I’m losing Boone with my silence, and I didn’t realize until today just how much I wanted him.
Right now, everything just feels like such a mess, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m always a girl with goalposts in mind, but this time, it feels like the goal is unattainable.
I drive at a breakneck pace to get home, because I know Wynonna is waiting for me. I’m worried about my sister, but I keep thinking about Boone. I’m so conflicted, and then I feel worse because I know my focus should be my little sister. I know Wynonna should be first and foremost in my mind, but I keep thinking about Boone
and his kisses. Boone telling me he loves me.
Boone walking away because I won’t share my secrets with him. It’s like a punch in the gut.
When I pull up to the trailer, Wynonna’s sitting on the steps, a few pieces of paper in her hand. It’s late and dark out, and moths flit around the porch light. She straightens as I arrive but doesn’t get up.
“Why are you outside?” I ask, getting out of the car and hurrying forward. “The mosquitos are going to eat you alive—”
The look on her face is hard and she holds one of the papers out to me. Her cheeks are blotchy and wet from crying, and her eyes are puffy. She looks miserable. She also looks . . . angry.
Puzzled, I take the paper from her, squinting in the dark to read it.
OVERDUE NOTICE.
Oh. It’s our electric bill from last month. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in your room. I found it in your lingerie drawer when I went to get the twenty for the pizza.” Her mouth is a hard line.
“How was the pizza?” I ask, keeping my tone bright as I fold the paper up and tuck it into my purse like it’s no big deal.
“I didn’t fucking order one. Reba, I found a whole stack of bills in your drawer. They’re all overdue.”
“Not all of them,” I say defensively. “I’m paying on all of them. Don’t worry about that. It’s handled.”
“It’s not handled. Can we even afford my college?” The look on her face is utterly devastated.
“What? Of course!”
“Really? How?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” I tell her. “Let’s go inside, all right? We can talk about it there. I don’t want you to get bitten—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the mosquitos,” Wynonna says angrily, launching to her feet. “How could you not tell me that we’re broke? How can you let me sit there and talk about school when we can’t even keep the lights on?”
“It’s just until I sell the next house—”
“That’s what you always say! How many have you sold in the last month?”
I’m silent, because I’ve sold none. It’s late summer, which should be a decent timeframe, but the Jacks slide all the clients out from under me and pass me only the ones they feel aren’t worth their effort . . . and they’re usually not. I have more clients fall through in financing than anyone else at the office. I’m working all the time and yet . . . the pay doesn’t show it. Everyone keeps telling me that things are going to improve, but so far, I’m . . . well, I’m still selling plasma for groceries.
“That’s what I thought,” Wynonna says bitterly. “Why won’t you let me help? I can get a job—”
“And what? Flip burgers all through your college years? Worry about money like I did? Worry all the good, fun years of your life away?” I snatch the stack of bills out of her hand, feeling exposed and miserable. “I want you to have everything I didn’t, Wynonna, and if that means I’m working twice as hard, then that’s what I’m doing.”
“But it’s not working,” Wynonna says as I stomp past her into the trailer. “We can’t keep the fucking lights on—”
Something inside me snaps. “The lights are on,” I yell at her. I’ve had enough. No matter how hard I work, it’s not enough for someone. “Are you hungry? Are you driving a car? Are you going to college? Then stop fucking complaining! I have given up everything—and I mean everything—for you! The least you can do is not throw it into my face!”
She goes pale, staring at me with big, wounded eyes.
Immediately, I feel remorse . . . and a stab of resentment. Here I am, the jerk in the situation. Why am I always the one doing wrong? Why is it that no matter how hard I try, I’m still not doing enough? “Look,” I say slowly, putting a hand on the chipped countertop to brace myself. “I love you, Wynonna. I want you to have all the things I didn’t. I don’t want you to work while you go to college because I want you to concentrate on your classes and I want you to have fun. I’ve got a big client lined up to close on a house this month—” Well, maybe. If Boone ever wants to speak to me again. “And until then, things will just be a little tight. I’ll manage. We always do. Okay?”
“So that’s it? You’ve got it handled, right?” Her laugh is bitter. “Heaven forbid I try to help out. Heaven forbid I worry about my sister. You do know you’re the only person I have left, right? That I need you, too? So fucking excuse me if I worry about you or whether or not we can make the bills. Excuse me for trying to ask questions. I should have guessed that you wouldn’t want that.”
“What do you mean, I wouldn’t want that?”
Wynonna gives me a hard look. “You never want anyone’s help, Reba. Oh, excuse me, Ivy.” Her voice is scathing. “You’d rather go down as a martyr than have to ask anyone for help, all because you don’t want to seem needy. Well, you know what? Being needy isn’t the worst thing in the world. Being alone is.” She storms away. “Not that you give a shit about that, because you don’t want to want anyone.”
Her bedroom door slams shut behind her, and I stare at the grainy wood. Slowly, I collapse into a chair.
Is she right? Am I pushing away everyone because I’m terrified of needing someone and having them leave me? Is that why I’m such a control freak about money and work?
If so, how do I change? Or is it too late?
Chapter Thirteen
Boone
It’s a fuckin’ quiet weekend.
Hate it.
Ivy doesn’t call me. No surprise there. She hates confrontation, and the moment someone gets in her face and asks questions, she runs away to hide.
So, I can do one of two things. I can wait for her to call me, or I can start my next round of wooing. I think back to our conversations, and decide to go a few different routes. On Monday, I send an entire fleet of roses to her office, enough to start her own flower shop. On Tuesday, I send cupcakes, because I know my baby has a sweet tooth.
On Wednesday, I send her a new Lincoln Town Car. I want to send her pink, but they won’t have one of those ready right away, so I settle for a nice sporty gray and a pink bow.
And I wait by the phone to see if she’ll call me.
No dice.
Between trips out to Big Lake and my fields in West Texas, I ply her with more presents—some big, some small. I almost send a box of kittens, except I don’t know if she’s allergic. I send more flowers, instead, and I try to think of a bigger show. I need something that’s gonna wow her, something that will blow her socks off.
The idea hits me on Wednesday afternoon, when I show up at the PBO office for the board meeting. Two of the executives are talking over their coffees about a black-tie charity dinner. The moment I hear that, I picture Ivy in a slinky, backless dress.
I’m in.
I bully my way into a pair of invitations by signing off on a few projects I’d been on the fence about, and toss in bonuses for my executives, because why the fuck not. Our new wells are gushers, the job they’re doing is solid, and business is booming. I’ve got everything I want . . . except the woman I want.
The charity dinner is Friday night. I figure I should make sure Ivy’s schedule is clear, so I show up to the Three Jacks office on Thursday afternoon with a box full of dresses under my arm. And just to sell things, I run a comb through my hair and beard, and rent a tuxedo downtown so I can look the part.
As usual, Ivy won’t see me. Actually, I can’t even get past the front desk to know that she’s even there. The receptionist just gives me a snooty look. “Ms. Smithfield is very, very busy.” There’s no pleasing this woman. I ain’t even dirty this time and she’s looking at me like I’m garbage.
“I’ve got a present for her, and one for you if you get her out here in the next five minutes,” I tell the woman, opening my wallet and pulling out a few hundred-dollar bills and sliding them over the counter.
/> The receptionist gives me a shocked look. She pushes the money back toward me. “Sir, I will not take your drug money!”
Drug money? I laugh. “Do I look like I deal weed?” I’m in a fucking tuxedo, for fuck’s sake.
“You look like a meth-head,” she hisses. “I don’t know what setup you have with Ivy to find some cheap housing, but I am not in on your games.” She picks up the phone, indignant. “Showing up in some rental tux doesn’t make you legit.”
All right, now I’m just pissed. “So that’s what you think this is about?” I drawl. “That I’m having Ivy find me meth houses? Did she not get the flowers I sent? ’Cause I sent a lot of them.”
The woman sniffs haughtily.
“Or the car?”
“Probably stolen.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I head to the magazine rack in the lobby and flip through until I find the Forbes with my brothers on the cover. I head back to the reception desk and slap it down on the counter. “Those look like meth-heads to you?”
Her eyes narrow and she studies the magazine, then me. After a moment, recognition dawns. “M-M-Mr. Price?”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “That’s me. Now, do I get to see Ivy?”
She nods, eyes wide, and dials. “Ivy, there’s a client up in the front office for you.” She puts the phone down without waiting for an answer and gives me a dazzling smile. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Price? Perrier? A soda? Wine?”
Oh, so we’re fancy enough for her now, are we? “I’m good.”
The receptionist gives me another bright smile and continues typing.
I hear the sound of high heels clicking on the tile floors and turn around to see Ivy heading in my direction. Her lips part at the sight of me and her gaze sweeps over me, up and down. “Oh. Boone. What is this . . . ?”
“Surprise,” I drawl, heading toward her with the box. “I wasn’t sure if you were gonna call me, so I thought I’d stop by.”
Ivy moves toward me as if drawn, and the look on her face isn’t angry, just sad. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me.” Her hands go to my chest and she smooths the lapels of my tux. “You look amazing.”