Love You Better (Better Love 1)

I glance down at Ivy and smile as I say, “Ives can take care of herself, Miss Pam.”

“Oh, I know it,” Pam calls out. “I mean stick close so she can keep an eye on you. I know you’re not as sweet and wholesome as you act, Kelley Pierce.” She points her finger at me with a smirk and then pulls out of the drive with Ivy and Jacob suppressing giggles at my side.

“Okay, okay, ha ha, very funny. Get inside.”

“You look kind of ridiculous,” Ivy says quietly as we walk into the house.

“Hush, you,” I respond, and when she giggles, I feel like things are going to be fine.

I lied. Things are not fine. They aren’t even in the same area code as fine. I’m fucking fuming.

It started in the limo on the drive here.

Every time Ivy laughed at one of Tyler’s stupid fucking jokes, I had to grit my teeth to keep from telling her that his jokes actually aren’t funny. At all. And then Shelby made it worse because every time Ivy spoke, Shelby would sigh really loudly or talk over her or try to make out with me, and that’s petty shit that I just have no patience for.

But that’s not even the worst part.

When we got to the Silver Pines Country Club, the swanky ass banquet hall our school rented out for prom, Shelby pranced off to talk to some friends and brag about how she and I are probably going to be crowned Senior Prom King and Queen, Tyler excused himself to the bathroom to probably adjust the socks he has stuffed down his pants or guzzle some mouthwash or take a bath in more fucking Axe body spray, and me and Ivy settled in at a table on the side of the dance floor. It was going good. Great, even. I was excited to have a few minutes alone to talk to her—to apologize in person for being a dick in the cafeteria two weeks ago. But then Ivy took her phone out to check in on Jacob, and when she opened her small purse thing, something horrible caught my eye.

Foil packets.

Condoms.

And not just one condom. Not even two. But three.

Three fucking condoms.

The fuck does she think two virgins are going to do with three condoms before curfew? I rarely even wank three times in a single night.

I’m seething.

I’m grinding my teeth so hard I think I’m in danger of cracking a molar.

When Dad Joke Tyler comes back from the bathroom, I’m irrationally pissed that his fly isn’t down and there’s no pee stain on the crotch of his pants. He looks dumb and happy, and I want to punch him in his tiny little throat. When Ivy smiles at him and takes his hand, I want to take off my stupid freaking circus tie and strangle him with it.

This night fucking sucks.

Of course, I dance with my girlfriend, and I do the obligatory prom pose and smile for pictures. When the Cupid Shuffle comes on, I go out on the dance floor and make a show of it because that’s what people are expecting. But no matter how hard I try to avoid it, my eyes always find Ivy. And she’s always laughing with Tyler or holding hands with Tyler or her dimple is fucking popped for fucking Tyler, and all I can think about are those damn foil packets.

I can’t let her do this.

She doesn’t love Tyler. She can’t lose her virginity to someone like Tyler. He’s not good enough for her. He can’t even make her laugh for real, because I know when she’s fake-laughing and that’s what she’s been doing every time Tyler cracks one of his lame as fuck dad jokes.

When Ivy gets up to use the bathroom, I make the decision to follow her. If I get her alone, I can talk to her and hopefully make her see reason. Luckily, Shelby is in a group with some of the other volleyball players and doesn’t even realize I’m leaving.

I make it out to the hallway, just in time to see Ivy walk into the restroom, so I post up on the wall across from the door and wait. In a few minutes, she comes back out, and when she sees me standing there, a confused-but-happy smile plays on her lips.

“Kelley.”

“Ivy.”

I walk up to her and take her hand, quickly leading her down a hallway away from the room where the dance is being held. She follows without hesitation, which makes me feel way better than it should, and she doesn’t ask questions until I pull her into a smaller room on the opposite side of the building.

“What’s going on?” she asks as she looks around. “Where are we?”

“It’s a men’s lounge,” I tell her. “I knew where it was because Pops and my gramps come here sometimes.” Yeah, my parents belong to this swanky ass country club. “They also use it as a groom’s room when there’s weddings here,” I add so I don’t feel like such a douche.

“Oh,” she breathes, and she runs her fingers over the back of a gray leather sofa. “Why are we here?”