Wild Swans (7 page)

“Ivy, slow down. Let me walk you home.” Alex jogs ahead of me and stops in my path. “I'm sorry, okay? I was trying to stop you from making a mistake. You're upset about Erica and—”

I throw my hands up in the air. “You don't get it. I didn't kiss Connor because of Erica. I didn't kiss him because I was drunk. I just wanted to kiss him, okay?
I wanted to kiss him.
It wasn't a mistake.”

Alex takes a step back. “So kissing this dude wasn't a mistake, but kissing
me
after prom would've been?”

Shit.

Not all of my anger evaporates, but a good bit of it does, because I know what Alex sounds like when he's hurting—and it sounds like this.

I hurt him.

“Is that what this is about?” My voice is softer now.

“I've been waiting for you to change your mind,” Alex says. “Nobody would treat you better than me. Nobody knows you better.”

“Maybe I don't want somebody who already knows me,” I say. I say it fast, without thinking, and it's only in that moment that I realize it's true. That's the reason behind all my excuses. I love Alex. Always have, always will. But the only times I've wanted to kiss him were when he looked at me like I was a little bit new.

My words hang unanswered in the air between us. I look away, pretending fascination with the star-drenched sky above us, with the soft, slow shush of the tide washing in.

When I can't stand the silence another minute, I look at Alex. His jaw is clenched; his brown eyes are narrowed. “For somebody who's worked so hard to be nothing like your mom, you're sure acting a lot like her.”

I shrink away as though he's slapped me. That's the problem with fighting with your best friends. They know the words that will hurt you most.

You hurt him first
, my conscience needles. But that doesn't justify what he said.

Or is Alex telling the truth? Drinking, making out with someone I barely know—those are the kind of reckless, impulsive choices I've been warned against all my life. They're the choices my mother made. That a Milbourn girl
would
make.

Connor made me feel pretty and smart and
wanted
. Is that so wrong?

“What the fuck did you just say to her?”

Claire sails between us like an avenging goddess. Her sundress is short and fire-engine red, her gold platform wedges are a good four inches high, and the look on her face says she's about two seconds from throwing her drink in his face.

“Stay out of it. This is between Ivy and me,” Alex mutters.

“Not anymore.” Claire stands tall, without wobbling, and as a girl of flip-flops and ballet flats and sneakers, this impresses me. She props one hand on her hip and stares at Alex with her big, unblinking brown eyes. Waiting for an explanation.

He falters beneath that gaze. Most people do.

“She was kissing some guy. Some college guy. And she's drunk,” he says.

“And?” Claire retorts. “You've never gotten drunk and hooked up with somebody? What about Ginny West last Fourth of July? Or Madison's cousin on Labor Day weekend? Or Charlotte Wu at Dave's Halloween party?”

“Wait, Charlotte Wu?” I ask. I heard the gossip about the girls Alex hooked up with last summer.
Everybody
heard about Ginny. She was a just-graduated senior, two years older than us, and the guys on the baseball team were gross about Alex “scoring a triple” until Claire overheard and shut them down. She and Alex have been sniping at each other ever since.

But Charlotte is on the swim team with me. We used to be friends. This could explain why she froze me out all last season. I thought she was mad because I kept beating her in the one-hundred-meter freestyle, but maybe she was mad that Alex hooked up with her and then never pursued anything. Maybe she thought he wasn't pursuing her because of me.

“Didn't know you were keeping score, Claire,” Alex says.

She rolls her eyes. “Don't flatter yourself. I don't care who you hook up with. I'm just making a point. How come what's good for the gander isn't good for the goose?”

Alex squints at her. “What the hell is a gander?”

“A male goose, asshole!” Claire throws up her hands, sloshing white wine out of her cup. “My point is, you're saying it's not okay for Ivy to hook up because she's a girl, and that's some sexist bullshit.”

“No, I'm saying it's not okay for Ivy to hook up because it's
Ivy
!”

“Ivy gets to make her own decisions, Alex. Just because she hurt your feelings making out with some other guy doesn't mean you get to be all judgy.”

Ouch.
People see Claire's short skirts and long legs and they assume she's dumb, but she can suss out in two minutes what it took me an entire conversation to see.

“You know how Ivy feels about her mom. You owe her an apology.”

“Forget it,” Alex says, red faced, and stalks off.

I sigh. “Claire. That wasn't very nice.”

She flips her long, dark hair over her shoulder. “I don't give a shit about being nice.”

She really doesn't. I envy that sometimes.

“I know you can defend yourself,” she continues. “But I heard what he said about your mom and I saw the look on your face. That was not a cool thing for him to say. Today of all days. You know it's not true, right?”

I bite my lip. “Right.”

Claire raises one eyebrow. I've always been jealous she can do that. “Did you have sex with this guy?” she asks.

“No! Jesus! We were just kissing!” Having sex would be skipping several steps for me.

“And he wasn't pressuring you? You were into it?”

I think about Connor's hand on my thigh and his mouth on mine, and a shiver runs down the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the breeze coming off the Bay. “Um. Yes. Very.”

Claire laughs her full, throaty laugh. “Oh my God, you're blushing! Ivy! Okay, I want to hear more about this in a minute. But look, you actually had fun for once! That's okay. Don't let Alex make you feel bad about it.”

I frown, a little stung. “Are you saying I'm not usually fun?”

“No, I'm saying you'd usually rather be home reading a book than at one of these parties,” she says, and she is not wrong. She links an arm through mine. “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

I look down at her gold platform wedges. “You're going to walk a mile in those shoes?”

“I'd walk
ten
miles in these shoes for you. Besides,” she says, shimmying a little, “they make my ass look fabulous.”

• • •

It's almost midnight. Most of the old colonial houses along Water Street are dark. My flip-flops thwack on the uneven brick sidewalks. We're halfway through the park, crossing a wooden bridge over a marshy inlet, when Claire lets out a yelp and yanks me to a stop. She points into the marsh, where a big blue heron stands, its eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Ivy!” Claire whimpers, gripping my forearm with pinching fingers as the bird turns its head to stare at us. She's terrified of birds, even Abby's sisters' parakeet.

It takes several minutes for me to convince her that this four-foot-tall blue heron is not going to peck us with its long bill or chase us with its long legs, and then she literally runs across the bridge like there might be trolls beneath.

I laugh. It's weirdly reassuring to know that Claire is scared of
something
, even if it is waterfowl. She's so brave most of the time. Like last January when Logan McIntyre told everyone that she gave him head on New Year's Eve. When she realized why everyone was whispering, she didn't go home sick or cry in the girls' bathroom. She went right up to him between chem and English and announced that at least she'd had the class to keep it to herself that the good Lord only gave him two inches.

Then this past spring, she revived the dormant Gay-Straight Alliance at school and came out as bisexual. That earned her a lot of shit about how she's a slut who's down for anything. She said their ignorance only made her more passionate about sex education, so this summer she's volunteering at the women's clinic outside town, even though it means getting insulted and having to walk past posters of fetuses coming and going.

It sucks that Claire had to deal with any of that. But sometimes I envy that she knows what she wants. Sometimes it feels like everybody knows but me. Claire wants to get the hell out of Cecil, to go to American University in DC and major in women's, gender, and sexuality studies. Spend a year abroad in London or Paris or Rome. Abby wants to go to the University of Maryland and study elementary education while Ty gets his degree in business. Then they'll get married and come back to Cecil, where he'll help run his dad's hardware store and she'll teach first grade and they'll have three kids. She even has the names picked out! Alex doesn't have his future quite as mapped out, but he wants to stay in Cecil and play baseball.

And Connor—I remember how passionate Connor was as he recited the Millay poem.

The only thing that turns me on that much is
him
.

• • •

When I fit my key into the back door, it's ten minutes after twelve. The only sounds are the cicadas in the trees and the soft lap of waves against the shore. The house is dark and quiet, and I'm relieved that no one's waited up for me.

Inside, I kick off my flip-flops and pour a glass of water by the light of the stove.

“You're late.” Granddad's voice floats out of the darkness.

Startled, I smack my hip on the counter and cuss, then walk down the hall into the library. The lights are all off and I can barely make him out in the gloom, his white polo shirt stark against his leather recliner. I lean over and switch on the lamp. “You waited up for me?” He's hardly a night owl, and by the end of last summer, I thought he trusted me.

“Wanted to make sure you were all right. We didn't get a chance to talk, just the two of us, before you left.” A book is propped open on his chest, like he drifted off at some point. He's still wearing his reading glasses.

“I'm fine. Sorry I'm late.” It's not like I rolled in at dawn, but Granddad's a stickler for curfew. “Claire walked me home and we ran into a heron. You know how she is about birds.”

Granddad returns the recliner to its upright position and sets his book on the end table. “Claire? Where's Alex?”

“Still at the party.” I lean against the doorjamb, arms crossed over my chest.

Granddad doesn't let it go. “You two have a fight?”

“Sort of. It was nice of you to wait up, but I'm tired. Can we talk tomorrow?” I am skirting the edge of politeness, but I cannot bear another confrontation or another discussion about my mother.

Granddad stands, stretches, and strides toward me. “I know this wasn't an easy day, Ivy. It will get better. Erica just needs some time to settle in, feel accepted.”

I bite my lip, stung by the implied criticism. “I'm
trying
.”

“Not you, honey. That's not what I meant. It's me. She feels I'm still treating her like a child, and here she is with children of her own. She doesn't want me coming between her and the girls. So she's trying to assert herself.”

“Assert herself?” I let out a little laugh. “She was a straight-up bitch to everyone.”

“Language, Ivy,” Granddad chides. “I'm not asking you to like her or even respect her. But we need to keep things civil, at least in front of the girls. She's their mother and… Well, I really do think she's doing her best.”

“What if her best isn't good enough?” I ask. “What if they'd be better off with her ex?”

Granddad runs a tired hand over his chin. “I don't know. I think we owe her a little time.”

“I don't owe her
anything
,” I snap.

He sighs. “You're right. I misspoke.
I
owe her this. And I'm sorry if that seems unfair to you.” He pulls me into a hug. I lean on his shoulder and let out a sigh. I can give him this, this chance at a reunion. It's just a few months. I can be selfless that long. Can't I?

Granddad stiffens and pulls back, his blue eyes narrowing. “Have you been drinking?”

There's no point in lying. “Little bit.” I lift my chin. “Nothing for you to worry about, I promise.”

“I do worry. That's my job.” He glances out the french doors toward the carriage house. “Is that what you and Alex were arguing about?”

“No, that was—” What am I supposed to say?
That was because I was making out with your work-study student and Alex got jealous.
I can hardly tell him
that
. “The fight Alex and I had tonight… It was a long time coming. I really don't want to talk about it.”

I blink away sudden tears. I was stupid to think things could stay the same, Ivy and Alex, Alex and Ivy. I knew how he felt. Keeping him at arm's length was only going to keep him there for so long.

Granddad frowns. “Well, you know how I feel about you drinking. I suppose it might not be realistic, expecting a girl your age not to have a drink now and again, but your mother… A lot of the poor choices she's made were because she was abusing alcohol. She didn't come right out and say it, but I gather that was part of the reason she was fired from her last job. Milbourn women never do things in moderation. So there's a history there.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I know this is a lot to handle. Having your mother here, and your sisters, and her telling them what she did. I thought I'd made it clear, but Erica—she never was very good at following directions. If this is all too much for you—”

“It's not. I'm fine.” I don't know how many other ways I can say it. “Really. We'll get through this. It's just for the summer, right?”

“You're a good girl, Ivy. Got a good head on your shoulders. But this is asking a lot of you. Maybe too much. I don't know.” Granddad stares at the portrait of Dorothea like she might offer some advice. “You never did like to ask me for help. Even when you were little, you were always determined to do everything on your own. I'd hate to see Erica's visit throw you off track. Maybe we should set up some plans for you. Keep you busy. Focused.”

I open my mouth to protest, then snap it shut. I want to prove I'm nothing like Erica, don't I? That I can handle responsibility without running away from it?

“What did you have in mind?”

Granddad steeples his fingers together. “How would you feel about a part-time job? You'd get paid, and you could work your hours around your time at the library and the pool.”

My mind goes straight to the English department. To Amelia. Maybe she needs help with something Austen or Bronte related, a research assistant to read through dusty old documents on interlibrary loan. I am intrigued. “Tell me more.”

“Well, next spring is the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of
Second Kiss
.”
Second Kiss
was Dorothea's sixth collection of poems, the one that won her the Pulitzer Prize. “I'm putting together a festival up at the college, but it's coming together more slowly than I'd like. Not much money in the budget, unfortunately. One of the big projects is transcribing all her journals to add them to the online archives.”