Where the Ivy Hides (9 page)

I smile.

I pause.

I breathe.

“Savvy.” I whisper.

My little brother proves his worth in weight over the next few months and somehow, I find small measures of happiness and contentment with his help.

I find myself in a new life and with my dad’s help and the assistance of his assistant, Andrew, I invest my part of Lucky Pipes into the Seattle community and stocks. And between me and you, I almost fell apart signing the paperwork.

This is it.

It’s not my life with Ryker, it’ll never be like that life. It’ll never be as high and intense, but it’ll never be as low and irrevocably devastating, either. It’s my life though, my new life, and I cherish it.

In all its monotonous, bland glory, I cherish it.

Chapter 11

To sum it up, my mother, Heather ‘Mac’Kenzie Payne is a cop turned stay-at-home-mom and my father, Roman William Payne I, is a perinatal specialist or OBGYN doctor. I was fucking kidnapped by my mother’s kidnapper’s sister, Lizbeth—or fucking Blythe, when I was three. My mother’s kidnapper, Sebastian, was my father’s illegitimate half-brother, and from there shit just gets thicker. So when my brother Rome suggests to, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’, I agree one hundred thousand percent.

I see no reason for my two lives to ever cross.

Other than answering the police and news reporter’s questions directly, there was no mention of any other details.

They never asked, thankfully. And I never told.

My parents, Rome, and the rest of my family welcomed me with open arms and as is, a recovering addict, but Roman and Mac Payne’s daughter none the less.

I was where I belonged.

And everyone made sure I knew it.

The evening I was discharged from The Seattle Center, Payne Manor was lit up like a Christmas tree and overflowing with friends and family present to welcome me back home.

It was humbling and surreal, and without my brother Rome there at my side making funny comments under his breath, I’d have never made it. I looked like shit—but didn’t realize until I passed a mirror. Everyone was so polite and genuine you would have thought I wasn’t dressed in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie with Ugg boots pulled up to my knees, but I was. And when everyone spoke to me, it was their genuine kindness and concern that strengthened my resolve around my new life and my willingness to make sure that this time, I will make it. This will work.

I know in my last life I believed none of us held any control over where we’re at, that it wasn’t up to any of us, but I decide to at least try to make the right decisions, so that in the end if I did have control, I used it correctly.

At the insistence of my father, I enroll in Seattle’s finest art school and begin classes the following fall.

And I gotta tell ya, it’s a fuck ton better learning shading techniques and brush angles than painting some same old home décor piece in front of thirty drunk moms.

There was a little more involved than me just moving in with Rome, but it didn’t take long for either of us to get into the swing of being brother and sister.

As for my love life or social life, I don’t possess one. I stick to my family for the most part. Rarely do I speak to anyone in my classes and even more seldom do I speak in public.

I tried to live a life with romance and deep rooted friendships, and I stayed on the razor’s edge of suicide or drug abuse, so maybe this time…I should pass.

I pour myself into my painting, every tear, every sorrow, and every old ache and pain I have at night while I lie awake thinking of Ryker and our daughter and our could-have-been, every morning after, I bleed it out on canvas until there’s nothing left, then I rinse and repeat the next day.

It’s the end of my first year when I finally snag my dream job as a bike design artist for one of the top marketing firms in Seattle. Harley Davidson was my only account, and I was perfectly accepting of that.

Keeping up with work and school meant I was running almost nonstop. I usually woke up before the sun rose, burned the midnight oil almost every night, and losing a weekend was not a rare occurrence, but shit, did it piss my mother off.

I jolt awake from another nightmare including Ryker, his whore, and her child. After swallowing a few times to clear the lump lodged in my throat, I lick my dry lips and look at my phone.

5:45.

It’s dark out and my sleepiness has me at a disadvantage, I can’t remember when I fell asleep. If it was early morning or evening.

A knock is the only introduction I receive before Rome walks in to my room. He flips on light after light as he explains, “Mom called. Today is the second day she hasn’t heard from you this weekend, or some shit. And if you don’t want her feelings getting hurt, you better get your pale ass up, shower and get dressed because we’re going to meet them for dinner tonight at grandmother’s favorite, Jaque’s, at eight p.m.” He glances at his watch. “We’re leaving in an hour and a half, I’m going to mix myself a drink, you.” He points towards the bathroom. “Shower. You want a virgin something or some tea?”

He stops on his way out the door and tilts his head to the side before smirking and looking over his shoulder at me.

“Fuck no, I don’t want a virgin. I’ll grab a Red Bull.” I shoo him off and close the door.

I don’t know why my mother is so sensitive, but if it’s a cage my brother avoids rattling, I’ll follow suit.

I appreciate Rome and the distance he seems to keep between himself and others. So much so, that I adopt many of his ways. Or as many as the ones we don’t already share.

Rome and I are a lot alike. It’s almost eerie. So much so, I’ve caught myself thinking the exact words he’s speaking more than once.

After I shower and dress in some loose fitting dark gray linen pants and a black cowl neck top, I comb my mousse covered fingers through my short hair and smear on some red lip gloss, grab my wallet and head downstairs.

Rome is pouring vodka in his Red Bull when he looks up and gestures at the bar, “Virgin Red Bull. On the rocks.”

I chuckle, “What is it with you and virgins, tonight, Rome?” I look over his attire, a wife-beater and some basketball shorts, and when my eyes land on his bare feet, I ask, “Are you ready?”

“Don’t know about the virgin thing, hopefully that’ll pan out later. And what do you mean, ‘Am I ready?’ Of course I’m ready.” He swallows the remaining liquid in his glass before setting it on the bar. “Be right back.”

And literally, five minutes later he saunters from his room and into the main area dressed to the nines in Michael Kor slacks and a form-fitting, probably tailored t-shirt, adjusting his watch band. When he looks up, he asks, “Ready, lil sis?”

I down my virgin Red Bull before standing, “Big sis. Remember?” And off we go to appease our mother.

On the ride to Jaque’s, Rome and I are our usual quiet selves until he turns his Range Rover left onto Fifth street. “Ives, have you asked what happened to Blythe? I know it had been several years since you two spoke, but still…ya know?”

Without thinking, I speak truthfully, “I don’t fucking care what happened to her. What…where in the hell is this coming from, Rome?”

As he pulls into the parking lot under the neon sign flashing Jaque’s, he smiles and shrugs, “I don’t know. Sorry, I was just wondering, Ivy. Lighten up, batter down the defense. I promise, I come in peace. Shit, little sister.” He chuckles, but the question is stuck.

What happened to her?

I never asked, they never told. I assumed she went to jail, but I never heard of a trail. Surely my parents wouldn’t have just brushed it off, called it a whoopsie daisy and set it all right. Right?

Maybe they didn’t know.

Maybe they wanted it the same way I did—clean, and without questions.

Gather the knowledge you want and leave the rest behind, for we call it the tree of knowledge and then arm ourselves with the tools it supplies to help aide us in our own self-destruction. Forgive my philosophical thoughts, as you remember, I do digress…

With full intentions of ‘letting sleeping dogs lie’, I smile before speaking to the hostess, “Party of four, the other two may already be seated, the Paynes?”

The sweetheart faced blonde hostess smiles and gathers two menus at the exact moment my brother declares under his breath, “There she is, I have found the aforementioned virgin I was subconsciously searching out earlier, Ives. And Jesus Christ had to’ve made that ass. Mmm.”

I cut my eyes at him and shake my head, “God, Rome. Seriously?” I hiss.

When we spot our parents, out of forced habit I smile and greet my mother first, “Mom.” I kiss her cheek. “It’s been a crazy week. Sorry.”

As I go to sit after hugging my dad’s neck, she waves her hand while sitting across from me, “Don’t be sorry, Ivy, that’s silly, and week? Honey, haven’t you slowed down enough to see that the week is over, hell the weekend is almost over.” She glances at Dad, “Roman, tell her to slow down.” Then averts her attention quickly back to me, “I don’t like you working and going to school, Winter Ivy. I told you I didn’t like it at the beginning of the year, and now I’m telling your father, Roman, I don’t like it.”

The conversation continues without my reply, and I follow my thoughts like the white rabbit down the hole of thought and wonder.

Do I care what happened to Blythe?

I’m able to smile and keep up the façade of being mentally checked in while handing the menu to the waiter and ordering promptly on cue as the wheels in my head spin.

When I ran away from Blythe’s the night after graduation, I ran smack into a bitch I swore I’d detest until my dying day, Delilah Foster, and when I say smack, I mean smack. Like there was a smacking noise that ricocheted off the asphalt when we both hit the ground after rounding the same opposing corner and crashing into each other.

The baggies that fell from her purse were all I needed to see as we quickly whispered our apologies and scooped up her belongings, shoving them into her bag while looking as inconspicuous as possible.

It was fate that night making sure I saw Delilah as the twin broken soul she was when her other bag fell down her shoulder causing her sweater to hang open, slightly revealing the pale pink scars crossing her ribs identical to the pale pink scars carved up my outer thigh.

I didn’t know varsity cheerleaders had so many of the same proclivities as I during high school, and later that night, I would learn just how far away high school is from reality.  I didn’t know shit about the real world. Not shit.

When my teary eyes met Delilah’s swollen ones, she handed me a joint, and as we smoked we shared stories.

I told her about mine and Aunt Blythe’s fight earlier that day.

I told her about how I came home and found her in another splitting rage yesterday afternoon and ended up taking the brunt of her pain in the form of my own, as she cursed her brother/lover Sebastian in between her random physical outbursts, screaming out her own rage and hurt. I told her how I finally snapped when she wouldn’t shut the fuck up about Ryker, a man named Roman, and how much they looked alike and how little of a man Roman was compared to her brother/lover, her Sebastian.

I smoked shit out of paper, I smoked shit out of pipes, hell I smoked shit out of coke cans, not one inhale did I ask what it was, we just talked and got high.

Me.

The loner with a few friends and Delilah fucking Foster, Valedictorian, class president, and head of the varsity cheerleading squad, cut out our hearts and bled them dry, without once judging the other.

The next morning, when the sun came up, I stumbled a bit, but once I got my footing, I hugged her neck and told her, “Delilah, I wish I’d have known years ago how wrong I was about you. Friends?” I’d never asked a girl to be my friend before, so I’m sure it was as awkward for her as it was for me.

“You didn’t have me any more wrong than I wanted to be seen as, Ivy bean.” She looked me in my eyes, “And fuck friends, we’re sisters now, bitch you’re stuck with me. Stay with me. I live in my mom’s apartment downtown now, you can sleep on the couch. Just don’t go back to Blythe’s. I have a feeling, and…I don’t like that bitch.”

And that was that. I stayed.

I stayed because it was easy.

See the common thread yet?

Easy.

I prefer easy.

I always have.

I glance from Mom to Dad then to Rome.

Rome doesn’t cause rifts. He keeps it easy.

I follow suit and let sleeping dogs lie.

“Actually, a really good friend of mine called today. He’s going to be in town in a few weeks on business, and I thought he could join us for a Saturday brunch at The Elk’s if that’s alright?” I ask.

“He?” Both father and son ask in unison.

Immediately, I staunch their concern and my mother’s blooming hope, “No. He’s not a ‘he’ like that. His name is Reese Bonacci. I grew up with him. He and I have been best friends since grade school.”

After they nod and mother’s face falls, I continue, “Daddy, you and Rome will like him. He’s big into bikes and politics and still enjoys his fine whisky. Mom, you’re going to love him. He talks like Matthew McCaughey and could probably out dance him on stage, it’s sickening, really,” I joke and warm nostalgia for Reese settles around my heart.