I check inside the house to see Ivy and my mom in the kitchen, their backs to me. Ivy’s peeling something, from the looks of it. I probably shouldn’t have left the two of them in there alone, but there’s not much my mother can tell her that Ivy doesn’t already know, and there’s no way my dad told my mom anything about Bentley.
It’s always been that way between the two of them. My mom, happy and oblivious in her world of gardening and catering to my father’s every need. They’re straight out of the 1950s as far as their marriage goes, and both are content with that.
“Where’d you meet her?”
“Here. In San Francisco.”
He nods, his mouth opening to say something, but hesitating. Captain George Riker forms opinions of people quickly. I’m sure he’s already formed an opinion of Ivy, and that’s without seeing all her tattoos.
A feature he would definitely not appreciate as I do.
“She seems nice,” is all he says. “How long have you been in town?”
“Not long.” I can’t bring myself to admit to having been here for a couple of weeks already.
His jaw tenses, like he’s figured that out already. “Staying?”
“I wasn’t planning on it but . . .” I glance back at Ivy again. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I am.”
Astute eyes settle on me. “Does she know?”
I shake my head.
He takes another long puff of his cigar. “You gonna tell her?”
“I’m not sure I’ll have a choice but to.”
His eyes narrow. “How so?”
I hesitate. “She’s tied to an assignment that I shouldn’t have been brought in for. I don’t think I can keep it from her forever.” The guilt will eat me up more than it already has.
“He’s got you doing something wrong, doesn’t he?”
“Something to cover his ass, yeah.”
My dad nods, like he expected this all along. And he did. This is exactly the kind of thing he warned me about.
He’s always loved being right. But right now, I see only worry. “You’re going to do the right thing. Right?”
I puff quietly on my cigar, not sure how to answer that.
If only it were that easy.
“It was so nice to meet you, Ivy.” My mom’s eyes light up as she shakes Ivy’s hand, and I know she approves. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she would. Ivy’s nothing like the girls Mona Riker always tried to steer me toward growing up. She’s the opposite of Sharon in every single way, and Mom was heartbroken when Sharon called off the wedding.
Maybe she’s just so happy that I’m here, that she doesn’t care who I bring home. Either way, I’m happy that tonight ended peacefully.
“So . . .” My mom’s gaze shifts to me and I see her fighting off tears.
“We’ll be back to visit very soon,” Ivy says for me, in a voice that tells me she means it, and a sharp look that tells me I’m going to get an earful from her later.
“Okay.” After a moment of hesitation, my mom ropes her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight. “I hope so,” she whispers, making my chest tighten with guilt and regret.
My dad gives me a single nod, his arms settled over my mom’s shoulders.
I feel their eyes on our backs the entire way to the car. Ivy must as well. “Your mother is incredibly nice,” she murmurs, slipping her fingers through mine affectionately.
I smile. “She is.”
“My own mother isn’t even that nice to me.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Just you wait . . .”
I open the door for her to climb into the passenger seat, and then I come around to the driver’s side.
A sharp pinch on my triceps has me wincing in pain.
“Five years? You live in the same city and you haven’t visited that poor sweet woman in five years?” Ivy barks. “When you said you weren’t close, I thought you meant you did the occasional drive-by, half-assed attempts at calling. But they haven’t seen or heard from you in five years!”
I knew that was going to come out somehow.
I can only offer, “I know.”
“She doesn’t care about your less than honorable discharge, Sebastian. All she cares about is that her son is happy and safe.”
“I send her birthday cards,” I mumble, earning her sharp glare.
“A card.” Her tone is flat but her glare is scathing. “That doesn’t even begin to count.”
I didn’t think Ivy of all people would get so fired up over this. “What? How often do you see your parents?”
She sputters for a moment.
“Thought so.”
“I call them once a month. I email regularly. We correspond. I get my regular parental dose of ‘you’re fucking your life up’ from them. And if I actually lived in the same city, I would visit. But I’ve never iced them out like you have. So what’s your excuse?”
I heave a sigh as I pull out. It’s time for some truth. “I haven’t been living in San Francisco for the past five years.” Truth in small doses is the best way with Ivy, I think.
She falters. “Where have you been?”
“Around.”
“For work?”
“Yeah.” That’s not a lie.
“When exactly did you move back?”
“I’m in the process of it right now.”
Her head falls back against the headrest. “So . . . there are no plumbing issues.”
“Depends on if you consider the cracked, leaking toilet in my shitty motel room a problem. I checked out of there a few days ago.”
She’s still trying to make sense of this; I can see it on her face. “Why’d you lie to me, then?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t give me the time of day if you thought I was just passing through.”
“But you’re not. Passing through, I mean. Right?”
I reach over and weave my fingers through her hand. “No. I’m not. Definitely not, now.”
THIRTY-NINE
IVY
I watch Sebastian’s long lashes flicker as he sleeps.
He finally lay down about an hour ago, after I woke up to find him sitting by the window again. Who knows how long he was there tonight.
Is he like this all the time? Or just for now?
The more I get to know him, the less I know about him, I’m realizing. He’s complicated. I sensed that from the moment I first met him. Dakota sensed it. This supposed “darkness.” But it’s more than just his ghosts—the little girl, his friends, his time in the war.
There’s definitely more.
Is Bobby right?
This stranger shows up at the shop one day, apparently on vacation, willing to pay just about anything to get a tattoo from me. He keeps coming back until I finally agree. And, except for a few hours apart while he “runs errands,” he has basically refused to leave my side since. Not that I’m complaining. Not once have I felt overwhelmed, or suffocated. I love having him around.
But aside from meeting his parents and what happened during the war, I know nothing about him. I don’t know where he actually lives because he lied about that. He’s never mentioned any friends. The one work phone call he received was him refusing to actually go to work and talking about mercenaries.
Was that a joke?
Nothing about his tone of voice that day would suggest it.
Everything that he’s said suggests he’s a loner. He shut his own parents out for five years. He’s back in San Francisco now; why, I have no idea, but he came with one small duffel bag that holds five T-shirts and two pairs of jeans. He comes out of a Home Depot restroom with a split lip that was not caused by walking into a wall because an ex–Navy SEAL who can take down three grown men without breaking a sweat is incapable of walking into walls. He sits by my window at night with his gun ready, waiting for something to happen, and his late-night confessions included doing things that he’s afraid I might not approve of.