Better With You (Better Love 2)

Unknown:Right before I made you come on my face.

Jesus. Now it’s in my head. The whole night, every lick and bite and kiss. All of it.

My entire body warms, my face flushes, and I release a small puff of breath. I’m thinking of how to respond, of what I could possibly say to regain the upper hand, when he sends me one last text.

Unknown:Sleep tight Sundance.

I put the phone back on my nightstand without replying. Then I pull out my vibrator and turn off the light.

* * *

“Coffee,”Ivy sings when I come stumbling out into the kitchen two days later, turquoise hair in a rat’s nest and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged. I’m fucking gorgeous in the mornings.

Ivy and I had some much-needed girl time last night, and I may have hit the wine a little hard since I don’t have an early class on Wednesdays. I haven’t heard a damn peep from Alex. Not a single word since he sent me that stupid picture of my underwear on Monday night. At first I was kind of bummed, and then I was pissed that I was bummed, but I’m good now. He was always temporary, anyway. I’m just mad I lost a pair of panties.

Ivy is already showered and dressed in her typical campus outfit—leggings and one of Kelley’s old shirts—when I plop into the chair in the kitchen. She slides a coffee mug in front of me, already poured and doctored in the way I like, and leans her hip on the counter.

“How you feelin?”

I close my eyes and take a sip of my coffee, then release a pleased sigh. “A little fuzzy, but mostly fine.”

I hear her slide something on the table and open my eyes to find two ibuprofens next to my coffee. I blink up at her. “I love you. You know that?”

“I love you, too.” She smiles. “Any plans with the baking aisle boy?” She eyes me with a small, knowing smile.

I mentioned Alex briefly, very briefly, last night. It was maybe two sentences, tops. But she senses something—the tiny droplet of blood in the water of my calm, cool demeanor. It’s that killer attorney instinct of hers, her mom-like intuition. Bitch is too freaking observant. For as oblivious as she is about her and Kelley’s “friendship” (heavy on the quotation marks), she doesn’t miss a thing otherwise. I’d be irritated if I didn’t love her so damn much.

I pop the pills in my mouth and shrug off her question with another sip from my coffee mug. I feel her eyes on me, so I keep mine closed as I swallow. She waits another second, just long enough to determine that I am not, in fact, going to talk about it this morning, and then she changes the subject.

“Kelley’s soccer thing is just drills tonight, but they’ve got a scrimmage next Wednesday if you wanna come with me. I asked Jesse already and he’s down.”

Kelley plays on an intramural soccer team that meets Wednesday nights. Ivy watches him play most nights, even when it’s just practice, but Jesse and I usually tag along when there’s a game.

It’s a whole thing.

Kelley will kick ass on the soccer field, Ivy will unconvincingly pretend like she’s not drooling over his hot bod the entire game, and Jesse will irritate the shit out of me with his constant bouncing, rambling, and immature jokes. Then we’ll all go get tacos.

It’s fun.

And anyway, is it really your found family if you don’t want to pummel at least one of them from time to time?

“Yeah, I’ll go. As long as I don’t get called in to the bar, I’m there.”

“Good.” She hits me with one of her warm, concerned mom looks. Her voice is soft and low when she asks, “And how’s your head? So far.”

I resist the urge to rub at my chest, to look at the calendar on the fridge, and answer her honestly. “So far, I’m okay. It’s already not as bad as last year.”

She nods. “I’m here if you need anything, you know? Anything at all.”

“I know, V.” She’s probably the only person who’s ever said those words to me and meant them unconditionally. “Thank you. I promise to let you know.”

Ivy smiles in that sunshiny way of hers, with her dimple on display and her blue eyes bright, and slips her messenger bag over her shoulder, just as my phone vibrates on the table beside me. I flick my eyes to the screen and my breath catches the teeniest, tiniest bit when I see a text from an unknown number. Alex.

“I’ve gotta go,” she says as she walks toward the door. “Tell baking aisle boy I said hello, if you see him.” She waggles her brows and I roll my eyes at her. Too. Freaking. Observant.

“Love you, V,” I say as she opens the door.

“Love you back, B,” she sings right before the door shuts behind her.

In spite of the pull to do so, I don’t touch my phone. I finish my coffee. Eat a pop-tart. Take a washcloth to my disaster of a face and a brush to my bigger disaster of a head. I get dressed in a pair of black fishnet tights, black cut-off jean shorts, and a The Used shirt. Then I throw on some socks, apply my standard eyeliner, mascara, and ChapStick, and slip into my Docs. Despite being September, it still feels like summer in Indiana, so I forego a jacket.

After I slip my backpack over my shoulders, I pick up my phone.

Unknown:Thoughts on John Hughes movies.

Unknown:And not just if you like them or not.

Unknown:Deeper.

Unknown:Go.