A cell phone rings from somewhere in the house.
My eyes fly open.
“Hey . . . I thought you’d be over the ocean by now,” says a female voice.
She’s in the fucking house.
She’s in the fucking house and I didn’t hear her come in because I was too distracted by her art and perfume.
This complicates things.
“Dude, that sucks, but at least they got you onto another plane . . . right . . .”
A creak sounds, and I know that it’s on the third step because I noticed it when I climbed up earlier.
She’s on her way upstairs, and that means my escape route is no longer an option.
Setting the perfume bottle down carefully, I grab my gloves and dive for the only hiding place available, my adrenaline spiking.
SEVEN
IVY
“Text me when you land over there, ’kay?”
“Did you get far with the shop today?” Ian asks through a yawn. He must be exhausted. Sitting at JFK for almost three hours because of plane issues—after already flying across the country—has to suck.
“A dent. I called that painter but I’m waiting for him to get back to me. Any specific color you want me to tell him to use?”
“You pick. I trust you.”
I roll my eyes.
“Thanks, Ivy, for doing this. I know I’ve left you alone to handle all of this at the worst time.”
That’s right, you have! the bitter little voice in the back of my head screams. I keep it at bay, though, mainly because I don’t know why I’m hearing it now. I’ve never minded being alone. I’ve preferred it, actually. Only now alone feels very different. It’s not thrilling and liberating. It’s scary and overwhelming.
“Being busy is good for me right now,” I say instead. That’s probably true as well. “Safe flight.” I hang up and toss my phone onto the mattress with a deep yawn. I had every intention of working on the shop into the night so I could maybe be done with it, but I hit a wall around six and was ready to curl up into a ball in the back room.
I’m guessing it’s because I haven’t really slept in a week and it’s finally catching up to me. The first night—the night that Ned died—I didn’t even walk through the front door downstairs until seven the next morning. I didn’t sleep the rest of that day, either, and drifted off only when Ian arrived on the doorstep. Every night since then I’ve found myself staring out the window for hours, until I finally drift off from sheer exhaustion, only to wake up in a cold sweat and with a knot in my stomach a few hours later.
I glance at my alarm clock. It’s almost seven. If I go to bed now, I’m afraid I’ll be lying awake and restless in bed by midnight. I stretch deeply and glance around the perpetual mess that is my room. I guess I could kill time by putting away my clothes.
My least favorite thing to do, next to folding laundry. But I may as well start the process. Once the shop is in order for sale, the house will be next, and no real estate agent will agree to put this place up looking like it does right now.
Scooping up the items that I know are dirty, I half stagger over to the hamper sitting next to my chest of drawers. A wave of my perfume hits me and I automatically inhale. It was a birthday present that came in the mail from my friend Amber a few weeks ago. I stole enough squirts from her bottle when I saw her last to flag that it might be something I would like. I must have put too much on earlier, if it still lingers in the air now. That or my senses are overloaded from exhaustion.
A basket full of freshly washed, now-wrinkled clothes sits next to my bed. I dump everything onto my mattress and fish out the long black dress with deep slits up the sides that I wear often. This I definitely want to hang in my closet for when I’m not elbow-deep in packing.
I head for the narrow slatted door ahead, turning the dress right-side out on my way.
My cell phone rings, stopping me in my tracks.
I’m relieved, happy to abandon my half-assed efforts to tidy and have an excuse to dive onto my mattress again. When I see who’s calling, I’m even happier. “Hey, you.”
“Hey. How are you holding up?”
A few years ago, if someone told me that Amber Welles and I would become good friends, I’d have laughed in their face. She’d been my enemy since sophomore year of high school, though she had no idea, and it turns out I didn’t really have a good reason for hating her. But I didn’t know that until last summer, when a night of Jameson whiskey, unbridled words, and an Irish bartender revealed the former rodeo queen’s vulnerabilities, I guess. It allowed me to confront all the ways I thought she had wronged me but hadn’t. It also forced me to confront all of my insecurities.
It was a chance to hit the Reset button, and I’m glad I took it.
“I’m okay,” I say through a yawn, growing more tired by the second. I lie back and hit Speakerphone before setting my phone on my chest.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.”
It’s the third time she’s apologized. “Seriously, I would never expect you to cancel your trip to Dublin for my uncle’s funeral. I sure as hell wouldn’t cancel my trip anywhere for your uncle’s funeral.” That sounds awful now that I’ve said it out loud. But she knows what I mean.
“Still . . .” Silence hangs between us.
“How was your latest reunion?”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “Amazing. And also terrible. It’s getting harder and harder to come home.”
I knew this long-term relationship arrangement would not work for Amber. “You should just stay over there. I don’t know why you’d want to come back.”
“Because I have family here, Ivy!” she exclaims, exasperated. Amber is a daddy’s girl, through and through. “Just like you do, by the way.”
“Right. I do, don’t I?” I say dryly. A mom and dad and two younger brothers, whom I love very much but don’t feel related to. “I just saw my parents a few days ago, for the funeral. They came down and stayed with my aunt Jun at a hotel for two nights. It was long enough.” My dad glared at my sleeve of tattoos with disappointment. I’ve sabotaged any chances for a decent job and respectable husband, he told me. My mom didn’t say much of anything at all, having already given up on her daughter. Her focus is now on her two boys—Jin, the nineteen-year-old, who’s on his way to med school in another two years, and my twenty-one-year-old brother Bo, who also has Spanish citizenship and was just added to the roster of their national soccer team. “You know, the more I think about it, I wonder if Ned and my mom had a secret affair and I was the result.” I frown. “But I guess that wouldn’t explain the whole Chinese thing. Maybe I’m just Ned’s child, and I have no mother. I just appeared one day.”
“Oh my God, Ivy. When did you sleep last?”
“It’s been a while,” I admit.
“Maybe you should think about coming home for a while.”
My mom said the exact same thing at the funeral. I hadn’t expected them to show up, to be honest, but they didn’t necessarily come to pay respects to Ned—they had no respects for him. But Jun and Ian were here, and they wanted to support them, and me, I guess. “Sisters was never my home.” It was just another place that I stayed for a while.
“Portland then, at least? It’s only a few hours away.”
I sigh. “I know you can’t survive without me, but I’m not moving back.”
Amber’s soft laughter carries through my bedroom, bringing with it much-needed life. “So . . . where to next?”
She has learned about my wayward tendencies by now, although it baffles her that I’m happier not having permanent roots, while she thrives on those roots. She’s clearly trying to relate to me by asking this question, but still, I’m tired of answering it. “I don’t know. I have friends in New York. I think I’ll go squat over there for a while. Pick up some work.”
“And what’s the plan for the house and the shop?”
“I was at the shop all day, cleaning it out so it can ge
t painted. It’s going to take a while, though, seeing as I’m on my own.”
She sighs. “I tried to get a few days off so I could come down and help you, but I think I’ve already pissed my boss off with my crazy schedule and constant traveling.”
“Don’t worry. I get it.”
“What about Dakota? Can she help?”
I snort. “Honestly, I’ll be faster working on my own than with Dakota there to distract me with her musings about spirits and auras and the meaning of life.” We’d probably just end up smoking a joint and staring at the wall for the afternoon. “I’m managing on my own just fine. Though I had to get help loosening a seized bolt today, from this guy who came in for a tattoo.”
“That was nice of him to help. What’d you end up doing on him?”
“Nothing. I refused to do his tattoo,” I mutter.
“Ivy . . .” Amber’s got the whole motherly reproachful tone down pat already. Her future kids are screwed.
“I know.” The guilt over being a complete bitch to him still lingers. “And he was really hot, too.”
“Let me guess—J.Crew and Calvin Klein?”
“Levi’s and Hanes, actually.” Amber’s making fun of the fact that I wear tats and leather and shave the sides of my head, and yet I go after guys who look like they belong in a chain store catalog. She’s right and I can’t explain it.
“So Miss Picky actually found a guy she deems ‘really hot’ and she turned down the chance to tattoo him and then, I’m sure, sleep with him?” Amber mocks. “I think that’s a first.”
I smile. “It’s definitely a first.”
“What did he look like?”
“Kind of like your brother, actually.”
“Ugh. Gross. And where did he want his tattoo?”
“Doesn’t matter. I would have made him strip either way,” I admit with a smirk.
Amber laughs. “And then you’d have had your way with him and sent him packing.”
“What can I say? My affections are fierce but short-lived.”
“I still don’t know how we became friends.”
“Neither do I, honestly.” We are as opposite as opposite gets. Amber thrives on long-term commitment. I’m pretty sure that her little “Irish fling” was the most spontaneous, wild thing she’s ever done, and ever will do—and now they’re in a full-fledged, long-distance relationship. Meanwhile, the longest commitment I ever made was to a guy named Jet, when I was twenty-two and living in Portland. He was a professional rodeo guy. I don’t even like rodeo guys. But I dated him for three whole weeks, mainly because we didn’t do much talking during that time.
“We just haven’t found you the right guy yet.”
“Good luck finding me someone who holds my interest for more than a night or two.”
“He’s got to be out there. And when you find him, you’re going to call me and, for once, I’ll be the one who gets to tell you to stop talking about a guy so much.” I roll my eyes at the cheesy romantic notion. I don’t see that ever happening.
“Seriously, how long has it been since you’ve dated anyone?”
“Dated” is so the wrong word for any of my hookups and Amber knows that, but I don’t correct her. “Since last summer, in Dublin.”
“Oh my God. Wait, does that mean you haven’t slept with anyone since—”
“Yup.” I admit grudgingly. “The longest dry spell of my short life since high school.” As much as I was an outcast in high school, as soon as I got out, I never had trouble attracting guys. Apparently everyone wants to fuck a badass Asian girl at least once.
Unfortunately for them, this badass Asian girl is not an easy score unless she wants to be.
“Maybe you should come back to Dublin then. I know he’d love to see you.”
I hum noncommittally. “Grinning Irishmen aren’t my type.” He actually did make me laugh, though I rarely let him see it.
“So . . . Once the store is cleaned out? What are you going to do?” she pushes, back to the serious side of things.
“Once the legal stuff is sorted out, we’re going to sell it. Ian can’t run it and I don’t want to. We also need to get rid of this house and its giant mortgage as soon as we can. Then I’m ghosting.”
“Seriously? You know you could run that shop. Isn’t that what you’ve always talked about?”
It’s my dream for an older, tamer version of myself. A quiet little shop with character, a steady clientele. “Yeah, but I never wanted it at the expense of my uncle’s life.”
She sighs. “I know . . . I’m sorry. It’s horrible to talk about it like that. But maybe you shouldn’t sell so quickly. Can you afford to sit on it for a few months?”
I scowl at the dirty ceiling above. It’s the first time I’ve actually lain in bed in daylight and bothered to look. Now I see that it’s in desperate need of paint, as much as every other room in this house. “Did Ian call and ask you to convince me to stay?”
“Ian doesn’t have my number, Ivy. Unless you gave it to him.”
I roll my eyes. As smart as Amber is, sometimes she doesn’t get my jokes. “The shop has a hundred K mortgage on it. Plus, I don’t want to stay. It’s just not the same here anymore. Everything about San Francisco changed when Ned died. The shop is haunted. This house is big and empty and eerie and . . .” I shudder. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched. It’s just . . .” I work at my laces, unfastening them so I can kick off my boots. “I agreed to finish someone’s tattoo for him tomorrow afternoon and I don’t want to do it. I don’t even know if I can do it.”
“I’d hate to be that person.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I mumble, unfastening my jeans. I slide them over my hips and kick until they fall from my feet.
“It sounds like you’re done for the day. You should get some sleep,” Amber chides. “I’m sure you haven’t been doing much of that either.”
My pillow feels so soft and welcoming beneath my head. “That’s the best idea you’ve had in forever.”
She laughs. “Yeah. Okay. Call me anytime. Or text. If I don’t answer, it means I’m working or sleeping. Because that’s all I’ll be doing for the foreseeable future.”
“Night. And . . .” I hesitate, because saying anything that may hint at feelings has always been hard for me. “Thanks for calling.”
“Of course, Ivy. Now sleep. Nurse’s orders.”
I press End with a nostalgic smile. Those few weeks with Amber in Dublin were some of the best I’d had in a long time, and I now consider her one of my best friends. Clearly, that says something about me and my ability to make—and keep—friends. Speaking of which . . . I scroll through my texts, squinting to read the words through my bleary eyes. One from Dakota, who’s checking to see if I’m still coming over for our usual Wednesday night dinner at her place. As much as I could probably use the semblance of something familiar, dinner is never dinner with just Dakota. It’s with her and an array of very unusual people, some whom she may know well, or not at all.
I’ll have to call her, but not tonight because that’s an hour-long conversation about nothing. I like Dakota a lot, but the girl tends to go off on weed-induced tangents that I don’t have patience for.
There’s another message from Fez, the pizza delivery guy from down the street from Black Rabbit whom I’ve befriended over the months.
The cuts 2nite?
That sparks my interest. As exhausted as I am, my body is thrumming with tension. I could probably use a night out, to release some of this pent-up anxiety. And if I fall asleep now—which I’m about to—I’ll be wide awake by two at the very latest, twiddling my thumbs and needing to get the hell out of this eerie house.
I hit Dial, because the last time I tired-texted, auto-correct somehow turned my errors into a sexual proposition, and Fez definitely doesn’t interest me in that way, even if I know he’s secretly in love with me and would screw me in a heartbeat, given the chance.
“Hey, Bae.”
I ro
ll my eyes. At thirty-five, Fez speaks in slang, clichés, and short form. Not just Bay Area slang either. He’s like a mishmash of all the latest slang running through social media, along with oldies that no one uses anymore. I blame it all on YouTube and his attempt at being world famous by videotaping hours of himself every week and posting it online. It’s all he talks about. I think it’s his way of feeling better about the fact that he still lives with his parents and works at their pizza shop.
Half the time I can’t understand what the hell he’s saying. The other half, I don’t want to know what he’s saying. “What time are you going?”
“Sundown.”
“Where exactly?” “The cuts”—what he refers to as the rougher part of the Mission District, is a six-block stretch of city, going from Ninth to Fifteenth.
“The ol’ depot. You down?”
“Yeah. I’m just going to grab a few hours of sleep, but I’ll be there. Wait for me.”
“Fo sho. Gonna be epic!”
“See you later.” I hang up before he can say anything else. I’m too tired to deal with him right now. Plugging my phone into the charger by my nightstand, I briefly consider just passing out, but I run hot when I sleep, and I always regret it when I wake up sweaty and uncomfortable. Forcing my tired body to a sitting position, I grasp the hem of my shirt and peel it over my head and toss it toward the hamper. I miss. Oh well. Something new to add to the pile.
I wriggle out of my bra and panties, kicking them to the floor. I’m most comfortable sleeping naked. I don’t even bother brushing my teeth or washing my face, or pulling the curtains closed so it’s not so bright in here. I simply climb back into my bed, pull the sheet up and over my head, and close my eyes.
Expecting sleep to find me.
Waiting for it.
Wondering why, if my body wants to shut down, can’t my mind just let me rest?
It’s the same thing, night after night. It takes forever for me to push the guilt and anger and hurt aside long enough to give my mind and heart some peace so I can drift off.