Wild Swans (13 page)

“Yes,” I say, and he kisses my shoulder again. I trace his side, under his shirt, and he sits up and pulls the shirt off in one swift motion. Shirtless Connor is as hot as I imagined: all lean muscle and the Millay tattoo over his heart. I push him back until he's lying down and I'm leaning over him, tracing the words with my fingertips. Then I stop and read the lines just above his waistband. I explore those too, and the curve of his abdomen, the jut of his hip bones, until he grabs my hand and rolls me over so I'm beneath him.

He braces himself on one forearm, kissing me deeply. I like the weight of him, the feel of us pressed together. It's his turn to skim a hand up over my side, and this time he brushes a hand over my breast and I arch into him. He kisses a trail down my jaw to my ear, to this spot on my neck that feels amazing, down over my bare shoulder. I lean up to give him better access, and he slides my sundress down to my waist so I'm only in my strapless bra. He skims the lines of it, teasing until I'm trembling beneath him. Then he reaches behind me with one hand and unhooks my bra, tossing it aside.

For a nerd, he's sure as hell got game. Even I can't unhook my bra one-handed.

I fall back on the bed and he presses against me, skin to skin, and says my name. I look up at him. I have never been half-naked with anyone before and it's a little scary. But his eyes are admiring. “You're beautiful,” he says, and I start to object but he interrupts me with another long, slow kiss. Eventually his mouth moves lower, to my breast, and the things he does with his lips and teeth and tongue have me squirming against him. I can feel him pressing against me through his shorts, and my stomach tightens with want.

And then there are footsteps. “Connor? You home?” a voice calls, followed by the sound of the fridge opening.

“Shit.” Connor leaps up. I grab the comforter and pull it over myself. “That's Josh.” He raises his voice. “I'll be out in a minute!”

He gets up and yanks on his shirt and then steps out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. I scramble to find my bra, which landed on the other side of the bed. I put it back on and wiggle the top of my sundress back up. When I stand and look in the mirror over the dresser, my hair is tangled and my lips are red and my chin is a little sore from Connor's stubble. But I can't stop smiling.

Connor comes back a minute later. “Sorry.” He runs a hand over his head, looking embarrassed.

“It's okay.” But now that I'm dressed and vertical, I'm thinking again. About going home. About facing my mother and the mess she created. “Are we… What are we? I'm sorry, I should probably play this off like it's no big deal, but—”

Connor leans down and stops my words with a kiss. “Quit apologizing. I want you to be honest with me.”

“Sorry, I—” I stop myself and laugh. Claire's always scolding me about that too. “Are you seeing anybody else?”

He shakes his head. “Are you?”

“No. Definitely not. But what about working together?” I take a step back, out of the warm circle of his arms.

Connor's smile fades. “Are you asking me to quit working for the Professor?”

“No, of course not. I know how important that is to you.” I would never ask him to choose. “I don't want to quit either. I was just thinking that while we're working, we could keep our relationship more…professional.”

If Granddad knew, he would give me speeches designed to keep me from making my mother's mistakes. Lecture me on not letting a boy distract me from writing and swimming and school. Would he feel the need to chaperone us constantly, to know where I am at all times? He certainly wouldn't approve of me being at Connor's apartment. I don't think Connor and I would have gone much further if Josh hadn't come home. I don't think I'm ready. But I'd like to make up my own mind about that.

Connor grabs my hand and pulls me in for another kiss. When we both come up for air, breathing hard, my hands laced around his neck, he grins. “So, just to clarify, none of that?”

I smile up at him. “Definitely more of that. Just not around my family.”

“I don't love lying to the Professor. He's been really good to me,” Connor says.

“It's not him. My mother… You saw what she's like. If she finds out about us”—I can't help smiling at the word, at the fact that there is an
us
—“she'll make it into something ugly. She poisons everything she touches.”

Connor takes my hand in his and I grin up at him, at this new effervescence between us that still feels fragile and as gossamer as a butterfly's wings “Well, if you want to keep it quiet for now, I'm okay with that. We won't let her poison this,” he promises.

An hour later, I walk through the front door with a sense of dread. Granddad called twice while I was with Connor. I ignored both calls. I never do that, but after that scene Erica made, I think I deserved a few hours to myself without constantly gauging the temperature of the room, without that sick, anxious feeling that spins in my stomach as soon as I see her car in the driveway, without the constant tally in my head of whether the thing I've just said or done is something she would say or do, something a Milbourn girl would say or do.

I'm so tired of the push and pull of living up to Granddad's expectations or down to her example. It doesn't feel like there's any room left for me in between.

“Ivy! Is that you?” Granddad calls, so I reluctantly make my way back to the kitchen. In the living room, a Disney movie murmurs, but Grace has fallen asleep in a nest of pillows, clutching her stuffed puppy. She looks so little. Vulnerable. She deserves a better mother.

So do I.

“Here she is. Liar number three,” Isobel mutters with a glare. She and Granddad sit at the kitchen table while Erica leans against the granite counter, her arms folded across her chest. To my surprise, she doesn't have a glass of wine in her hand. Yet.

“Where have you been?” Granddad asks. “Grace said you ran off.”

“I went to Abby's.” I fiddle with the strap of my sundress and try not to blush as I remember Connor sliding it off my shoulder and tracing its path with his mouth.

I am a terrible liar, but it's not like Granddad is going to guess that I was at Connor's, making out with him and then playing video games with his roommate. Josh is really nice. When he met me, he said, “So
this
is the infamous Ivy,” and Connor punched him on the shoulder and told him to shut up. I couldn't stop smiling because that meant Connor was talking about me to his friends, same as I was talking about him to mine.

Granddad frowns. “You didn't answer your phone.”

We have a strict rule that when he calls, I pick up. He doesn't check in much, so it's not usually a problem.

“Can you blame me for not wanting to come home after the scene she made?” I ask, waving a hand at Erica.

“I need you to answer the phone when I call you,” he says.

“I'm sorry.” I drop into the chair between him and Iz. “I just needed some time. I didn't mean to worry you.”

“Of course not. You're too responsible for that,” Erica mocks.

“Erica, we've already established that this situation is not Ivy's fault.”

Great. They've already been fighting about me.

“It is too Ivy's fault. It's all of your faults,” Isobel grumbles, and there's some truth to that. We all owe her an apology. “You made such a big deal out of wanting Gracie and me to feel at home here. How are we supposed to do that when you've been lying to us?”

“I understand that we'll need to earn your trust.” Granddad folds his hands on the table like he's preparing for an inquisition. “You want to know something, just ask.”

Iz only scowls. “That's easy to say
now
. It isn't like you told a little white lie to spare our feelings. This was a huge lie. We have a big sister we never knew about! For fifteen years, I thought
I
was the big sister!” Her voice breaks, her red-rimmed eyes welling up with tears. She swipes at them furiously, and I get the sense she doesn't like crying in front of people any more than I do.

“You are, Iz. You're a great big sister. You always look out for Grace,” Erica says, and I am struck by her gentle tone. “The three of us, we're a family. A real family. The kind that sticks together through ups and downs.”

Granddad smacks the table with the flat of his hand, and Iz and I both jump in our seats. “That's nonsense and you know it, Erica! I stuck by you through all your mistakes, and we both know there were a hell of a lot. You're the one who walked out, on Ivy and on me.”

I fold my hands in my lap so tightly that the knuckles go white. Granddad doesn't lose his temper. He doesn't cuss. He doesn't hit things. This exhibition of temper isn't like him, and I hate that Iz is seeing it without years of kindness to balance it out.

“I didn't have a choice! You were smothering me. I can't breathe in this house. In this town. I was always Dorothea's granddaughter, the Professor's daughter, poor Grace's—” Her voice breaks on her mother's name. “New York, DC—they were perfect. No one knows what a Milbourn is supposed to be. No one gives a damn.”

“And that's how you want to live your life? In places where no one cares about you? Don't you find that a little bit sad?” Granddad is a man of strong opinions. He hates comic books and broccoli and people who answer their phones during meals. But I've never heard him like this. Not when I took Alex's “damn fool” dare and jumped from the sunroom roof. Not when one of his favorite students got caught plagiarizing a paper. Not even when he read a biography of Dorothea that included very unflattering things about the history of mental illness in the Milbourn family.

And I see what he's saying, but I also see what Erica's saying about not getting the room you need to grow and change and
be
without the weight of Milbourn history crushing you. I wouldn't put it like she does, but that anonymity…sometimes it looks real appealing.

“I didn't say no one cares about me. I said they don't care that I'm a Milbourn. But I can see how you might have trouble telling the difference.” Erica gives him a serpentine smile. “Who would you even be without your wife's name? Without your famous mother-in-law? Some nobody professor in some nothing town.”

Granddad takes a deep breath, holding on to his temper by the thinnest leash. “I have never claimed to be a perfect husband or a perfect father.” Erica howls with laughter at this, but he plows on. “Or a brilliant scholar, for that matter. Studying Dorothea led me to your mother, and for that I will always be grateful. It gave me three beautiful grandchildren, after all.”

“And one fucked-up daughter you'd rather forget,” Erica snaps. “It's not hard to read between those lines. You'll use my girls as your second chance. Your third and fourth chances if I let you. I've got a mind to leave before you sink your claws into them any more than you already have. Did you think I wouldn't find out about the classes you signed my baby up for? Drawing? Gymnastics? Wouldn't want her to get bored, would we? And you're so sorry Iz is missing out on her theater camp. Yeah, right.” She turns to Isobel. “Don't believe a word out of his mouth, Iz. It all comes with strings attached. Every goddamn word.”

“I don't trust
any
of you. I want to go home.” Iz fishes her phone out of her pocket. “I'm calling Dad.”

Erica leans over her and plucks the phone from Isobel's hands. “Absolutely not.”

Iz gawks at her. “Give it back!”

“Not until you've calmed down.” Erica shoves the phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “Rick driving over here tonight is the last thing I need.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Iz glares. “I'll tell him everything when we see him on Saturday. Then he'll take us home. Gracie and me both.”

“Actually,” Erica says, “I rescheduled your visit.”

Isobel's face falls. “What?
Why?
When did you even talk to him?”

“I called while you were putting the movie on for Grace. Told him we have fun plans with your granddad and it would be disruptive for him to come visit. He was glad to hear you were settling in so well.” Erica puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Iz jerks away. “He'll know something's wrong if you don't let us call him. We call him every night before Gracie goes to bed.”

“Or he'll think you're busy, having fun with your new friends.”

“What new friends?” Iz shouts. “All I do is take care of Gracie while you go off and drink!”

I shrink back. Expect Erica to call her a bitch or slap her or something equally terrible.

Instead Erica shrugs. “Whose fault is that? I didn't ask you to stay in every night. I'm sure Ivy would love to take you to the bonfire this weekend. Wouldn't you, Ivy? Is it Friday or Saturday?”

“I'm not going anywhere with her,” Iz snaps.

“Isobel isn't old enough to go to a bonfire party,” Granddad says. As if that is the important thing here, asserting family rules.

“Lucky for you, Iz, your grandfather doesn't get to decide that.” Erica puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder again. Laying claim. This time Iz sits stiffly beneath her touch. “I don't blame you for not wanting to go with Ivy, honey. I doubt she's any fun at a party. Let's see if we can get the housekeeper's kid to take you.”

“His name is Alex, and you leave him out of this,” I snap.

“You're awful possessive for a girl who says she's not dating him.” Erica's voice is smug as hell. “What do you care if he goes out with your sister?”

“Mama, stop it. I have a boyfriend. I can't go to a party with some other boy!” Iz blushes.

“You think Kyle's going to wait around for you all summer?” Erica laughs. “He's a teenage boy, honey. Save yourself the heartbreak and move on.”

“That is terrible advice,” I say.

“Like you have so much experience with boys?” Erica asks, and I am so glad—
so glad
—she doesn't know about Connor.

“I hate you. I hate all three of you!” Iz jumps up, pushing her chair back so hard it crashes to the floor, and runs from the room.

I lean over to pick up the chair. “Wow, you're great at this whole mothering thing. I really feel like I missed out.”

“Shut up,” Erica growls.

Granddad is leaning back and steepling his fingers together. “I'm of a mind to call Rick myself,” he says. “It isn't right, Erica, making the girls keep this secret for you. Keeping them away from him. He's Grace's father, and obviously Isobel considers him a father figure too.”

“You pick up that phone and I'll never forgive you,” Erica snarls. “Whatever you hope is happening here—whatever chance you think you've got to make this right—it'll be gone. Forever.”

“Then you've got to do better,” Granddad says. “The divorce, moving out here—it's hard on them and you're making it harder.”

“So it's all my fault as usual.” Erica opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of wine.

“Well, who else's fault would it be?” Granddad asks, throwing up his hands. “No, let me guess. It's my fault. Ivy's. The whole damn town's. Nothing is ever your fault, is it? Sooner or later, you've got to accept responsibility for your choices, Erica. You're the one who keeps saying you're a grown woman. And you're right. You're not a confused, depressed teenager anymore. You've got two children to care for, and you need to start doing a better job of it.”

Two children. Even Granddad doesn't count me as hers.

I'm sitting right between them, but I feel invisible. They could argue about me and Gracie and Iz all day long, but my feelings—what I have to say—wouldn't really matter.

Granddad watches as Erica opens the wine and pours a very full glass. “I know you've always been resistant to therapy, but maybe it's time to think about professional help. Rehab. If you don't want the girls to go to Rick, they could stay here with me.”

“You'd love that, wouldn't you?” Erica takes a very long sip of wine, then nods at me. “I already gave you one kid. Wasn't she enough?”

I wasn't. I never am. No matter what I do or how hard I try.

If Granddad had custody of Gracie and Iz, even temporarily, I bet he'd be able mold
them
into perfect Milbourn girls. An actress. An artist—or maybe a gymnast. But at what cost?

The thing is, part of me wants him to turn the weight of his expectations on them and leave me be. When did my thinking get so twisted? When did I become a person who's willing to sacrifice my little sisters to get some peace?

Granddad and Erica are still arguing. I head for the sanctuary of my room, and neither of them says a word. I wonder how long it will take for them to notice my absence.

The living room is dark, the movie is off, and Gracie is gone. Upstairs, I pause in the hall outside my sisters' bedroom. Raise my fist and knock quietly on their door. “It's Ivy,” I say.

I know they're in there—can hear someone's footsteps—but no one answers or comes to open the door.

Why didn't I tell them the truth that first day? Regret fills my throat. I'm a terrible sister.

I pace the stuffy attic like a restless cat, too frustrated to even cry. I pick up the prom picture of Alex and me on my nightstand. If we were talking, I could run down to the carriage house. Luisa would make me dinner and Alex would make me laugh and I'd feel better. But no. He's still sulking because I want to kiss another boy. As though all I ever was to him was a potential girlfriend.

I shove the picture in the drawer. I don't want to see his stupid face right now.

I sit at my desk and pull out last year's Christmas journal. Yesterday, after Granddad interrupted our lunch, I scribbled a poem about Connor. About wanting him. My own words make me blush. Maybe there's a little bit of Dorothea in me after all.

I open my laptop, drumming my fingers impatiently while a bookmarked page loads. I compose a new email, following the submission guidelines. The deadline is midnight. Publication is online only, not print—but it's a start. I hit Send.