“I’ll call our brother,” Amelia offers, “but if you wanna get a message to him, either Mom can do it, or you can call him yourself. Better yet, you do it, Ives. Mom doesn’t need his bullshit.”
“Who is this man you’re with, Ivy?” Mom asks.
“Tyson. Tyson Savage. He’s a nice guy. We’re having fun. We hit it off.” I shrug. I can feel a smile stretching my face.
I do like him. A lot.
“How nice?” Amelia asks.
“Very, very nice,” I reply cheekily.
She laughs. Well… that’s kind of a surprise. She’s been so high-strung lately.
“Who is he?” Mom huffs. “You’re with a strange man, Ivy, and your loved ones need to know where you are in case he’s…”
“A serial killer, Mom? He rescued me from what could’ve been a lethal snake bite. If he was set on offing me, that woulda made his life easy.”
“But, what if he doesn’t like it easy? What if he wants to be the one to do the killing?” That’s Amelia. And now she sounds venomous. Or scared. I don’t know.
“Oh God,” Mom whispers.
“Listen guys, I’m good. I’m great. I’m really enjoying myself and after bein’ bit by a snake and worrying for a minute there that I was gonna die after a sketchy trip to the country, I’m happy to be enjoying myself. And I’ve got a hot guy here who is determined to show me a really, really good time so I’m gonna go wake him up from his nap for some more naked time before we probably have a campfire and eat s’mores off each other’s naked bodies so…the biggest risk I’ve got is hot marshmallow burns on my skin.”
Amelia’s laughing.
Mom says nothing.
I finish up with, “Text me later. I’ll answer you after naked s’mores. Don’t stress.”
“I’m not amused. Check in tomorrow,” Mom finally says.
“I will, Mom. ” I smile. “Sorry I made you worry. It’s been a strange few days. More on that later. Too much to get into on the phone.”
I hear my mom’s breath hitch.
“I’m good, Mom. Can you text Dad and tell him I’m fine?”
“Yes. I can. But… you’re sure? Is everything okay there? I mean… really okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Just text Dad. You don’t need to talk to him all emotional. He might try to come over.”
“Yeah, he is not welcome here,” Amelia adds.
“I think I can decide who’s welcome in my house, girls.”
Neither me nor Amelia reply. We’re both worried she’ll take him back. He’s been trying to sweet talk her.
“Call me tomorrow,” Mom demands. “Early.”
“Why?”
“I just need to hear your voice and talk to you so I can know you’re alive unlike the past forty-eight hours, that’s why!”
“Okay,” I say softly.
The line is quiet. “I’ll text early, guys. Love you, Mom. Love you too, Bridezilla.”
“Love you!” Amelia sings out. “No glove, no love, Ives!”
“Be careful. Love you,” Mom says. “And I’m still upset about 48 hours with no contact.”
“It’ll make more sense when I tell you the whole crazy story,” I say.
I have no idea how I’ll explain all this. Can I even explain it? Shit.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mom grumbles.
Huh?
“Bye,” I say and hang up before the conversation drags on further. I turn and there’s Ty. Directly behind me.
I startle with a little bit of a scream.
He hefts me over his shoulder.
“Whoa. Holy crap. What’re you doing?”
“Taking you back to bed. For some more naked or naked some mores.”
I giggle.
“What’s funny?”
“S’mores. Do you know what that is?”
“No, but it involves you naked, so it sounds good.”
“S’mores. It’s a treat. It’s marshmallow and graham cracker and chocolate and it’s all melted.”
“Sounds like a hot version of that ice cream. Make it for us later.”
“We’ll need a trip to town,” I say.
“Then tomorrow. Right now, I need inside you, Ivy.”
“Oh. It’s been a whole forty minutes since last time, so by all means.” I throw my arms up, though he can’t see me obviously, because I’m over his shoulder.
And a minute later, I’m on my back in his bed and he’s going down. He’s going down real good.
34
Tyson
Ivy’s asleep and I’m in the garage. I’ve pulled all the paintings down from the rafters. There are a lot of them. Paintings of mine. Paintings of his. And the paintings of his have had me ready to return to his bones again and pound what’s left of them to dust.
Why?
Because there are paintings of her. The woman he ached for. My mother. There are paintings of her, looking beautiful, looking breathtaking at a very young age, barely a woman. And there’s a painting of her in sorrow, covered in blood. And it physically hurts to look at it. His paintings are almost like photographs, they’re done so vividly. Even her eyelashes look real in the pictures. My uncle was skilled with the paintbrush. Skilled with weaving lies through my brain my whole life, too.