Wild Swans (6 page)

Gracie is staring at Alex. “You're Aunt Ivy's friend who's a boy but not her boyfriend, right?”

Alex winces at
Aunt Ivy
, but he recovers fast. “Yep, that's me.”

“She showed me a picture of you. Daddy says boys don't wear pink, but I like your tie. It matched Ivy's dress!”

Alex chuckles. “Thanks. That was the idea.”

“Alex is the first baseman for the Warriors,” Granddad brags. “Got a couple colleges already scouting him. And he made honor roll last semester too.”

Alex shoves his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Ivy's the smart one. Third in our class.”

“Of course she is,” Erica says.

I freeze.
What does she mean by that?

Granddad's jaw twitches. “Ivy works hard.”

I do work hard. I study my ass off. And he means it as a compliment, but I only hear how it's not enough. Third place, not salutatorian, not valedictorian.

Luisa leans out of the kitchen. “Dinner's ready, if you're hungry.”

“We're going out for pizza,” Erica says. “Come on, girls.”

Granddad's face falls. “Erica, stay. Please. Luisa went to the trouble of making a nice supper to welcome you all home.”

Erica pivots on one stiletto heel. “This isn't my home. I
hate
this house.” She slams a hand against the wall, and the photo of Dorothea getting her Pulitzer crashes to the floor. The glass shatters. Everyone flinches.

“Mama, I want to stay here and eat with Granddad and Aunt Ivy,” Gracie says.

“Smart girl,” Alex says. “Ma's spaghetti and meatballs are the best.”

“Alex.” Luisa beckons him from the kitchen. “Stay out of it. Let's go.”

Alex touches my arm. “You're still coming to the bonfire, right? Pick you up at nine?”

“Bonfire?” Erica raises her perfectly arched eyebrows. “You're kidding. You let her go to parties at the cove?”

Granddad nods, jaw tight. “I trust Ivy. She's never given me any reason not to.”

“Unlike me, you mean.” She purses her glossy red lips and grabs a set of keys from her bag. “Come on, girls. Let's go.”

“But Mama! Spaghetti and meatballs is my
favorite
,” Gracie whines.

“You can get some at Giovanni's. Now, Grace. I can't breathe in here.” Erica holds the door open and the girls scramble out and she slams the door behind her. Leaving Alex and Luisa and Granddad and me staring at each other in horrified silence.

Jesus. What a mess.

• • •

The little cove down from the Crab Claw is packed. The flickering light from the bonfire casts shadows over couples cuddled up on sun-faded beach blankets and big pieces of driftwood. Somebody's speakers blare a country song about getting drunk and kissing a girl in the back of a pickup truck. A few just-graduated seniors are dancing barefoot in the pebbly sand, hands in the air. Guys from the baseball team are drinking Natty Boh and roasting hot dogs. As we get closer, I lose the scent of summer nights on the Shore—brackish water and wet grass—and inhale smoke and beer and cheap cologne.

I am already having doubts about this.

Abby grabs me the minute we arrive. “You came! And you look so cute!” she squeals, pointing at my yellow sundress and green flip-flops with lemons and limes printed on them. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, and I took the time to put on lip gloss and mascara. I do look cute. But she takes another look and hands me a bottle of lemonade. “Here. I think you need this more than I do.”

“Lemonade?” I ask.

“Spiked with vodka. You can hardly taste it,” she promises, whirling away and snagging a can of beer from the communal cooler. “Want to go for a walk? You look like you need to talk.”

We leave Alex with his baseball bros and head toward the mouth of the cove. A rocky point separates the beach from the marina and the Crab Claw. We clamber over the rocks, me clutching on to Abby because my flip-flops are all slippery. On the other side, the night air smells like fish and salt and fried food. There's still a trace of music from the party, but now I hear the slap of waves against the dock and the creaking of sailboats moored in the marina.

I can't count how many times Abby and Claire and I have snuck over here during parties to talk. Mostly they do the talking—about their family problems and their boy problems—and I listen.

Something tells me this summer's going to be different, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I've always been comfortable listening. Advising. Talking about my own feelings? Spilling my fears? Not so much. Not even with Abby and Claire.

We walk down to the end of the first dock, where a couple big sailboats are moored. I kick off my shoes and sit, dangling my feet out over the dark water. Abby leans against a wooden piling, facing me, cross-legged. She's wearing red shorts—part of her waitressing uniform—but she changed out of her official Crab Claw polo into a white tank top.

I twist off the cap and take a sip of lemonade.

She's right. I really can't taste the vodka. I gulp down more.

“That bad?” Abby asks.

“Want to steal one of these boats and run away from home?”

She makes a face. “Don't tempt me.” Things have been hard at her house too, ever since last fall when her little brother, Eli, started wanting to wear dresses to kindergarten. It wasn't entirely out of nowhere; he'd always had his hair long and worn his big sisters' clothes and makeup around the house. Abby's mom has been really supportive of what she calls his
gender expression
. Abby's dad, not so much. Abby and her other sisters feel caught in the middle, wanting to support Eli but struggling to understand and worrying about how kids at school will treat him.

“How's Eli?” I ask.

“He started asking us to call him Ella. Dad is
not
having it. Every time one of us says ‘she' instead of ‘he,' he freaks the hell out. He and Mom had a huge fight about it last night.” Abby pulls her blond hair into a long ponytail. “How's your mom?”

“Kind of a bitch. Granddad is doing her a kindness by letting her come home, and she's picking fights with everybody. Him. Me. Even Luisa, who's never done anything to her.”

Neither have I
, I remind myself.
Unless you count being born.

Abby frowns. “What did she say to you?”

“She told me I was tall.” I take another drink. “Her first words to me in fifteen years were, ‘Jesus, you're tall.'”

“Seriously?” Abby fiddles with the silver infinity necklace Ty gave her, her blue eyes sympathetic. “And then what?”

“She told my sisters I'm their aunt. Her little sister.”

“She
what
?” Abby gasps.

“Yep. Gracie calls me ‘Aunt Ivy.'” I relate the whole awful conversation in the library, punctuating my story with sips of lemonade. “Hearing her say straight up that she doesn't care about my feelings, that I was a mistake—”

“You were not.
She
made the mistake when she left.
She
missed out, because you're awesome,” Abby says. “You know that, right?” Her phone beeps but she doesn't look at it. “
Right?
”

I nod, but my throat is tight because I don't feel entirely convinced.

Her phone beeps again, and this time she glances at it and her whole face lights up. “Ty's here!”

I wish I had somebody who made me smile like that.

Like a mind reader, Abby nudges me. “Hey, you know what I bet would make you feel better? Making out with Alex.”

Ever since I told her how Alex almost kissed me after prom, she's been relentless. She loves the idea of her and Ty and Alex and me double-dating, of us going to the movies and parties and cheering the boys on at their baseball games. But we do all those things already.

Abby means well, but I am tired of everyone telling me who I am, who I should be, what I should want. Who I date—if I date anybody at all—is going to be my own choice. “How many times do I have to tell you that Alex is like my brother?”

“Right. Your hot brother you want to make out with, maybe.” Abby drains her beer. “Like
Flowers in the Attic
.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, but I can't help laughing. “Go back to the party and see your boy.”

She tilts her head. “You sure? I can stay. We can talk more.”

“It's okay. I need some time.”

She and Claire are used to me being an introvert. Granddad calls me “Ivy Bear,” but Claire and Abby tease that I'm more like a prickly little hedgehog. Abby squeezes my shoulder. “Okay. See you in a few,” she says and bounces off.

Once she's gone, I slump against the wooden piling and stare at the sailboats silhouetted against the dark water.

This was a mistake. I should've stayed home and read a book instead of inflicting myself on other people. I don't want to pretend to be fine, pretend that I'm not reeling and angry and sad.

I finish my drink, then haul myself up and head back to the party. At the mouth of the marina, wooden benches line the brick sidewalk, which follows the arc of the shore. By the end of the night, a couple of the benches will be filled with couples making out.

I feel a tug of yearning. I don't want to mess up my friendship with Alex, but it'd be nice to be one of those couples. To have someone to kiss and touch.

As I round the corner, I see that one of the benches is occupied. Not by a couple. Just one guy, drinking what looks like a beer. I squint through the dark to see if it's anybody I know, and then I grin.

Connor Clarke is sitting there in khaki shorts and a brick-red T-shirt, like I conjured him right out of thin air.

I remember him checking me out. Twice.

This a bad idea, Ivy
, whispers a little voice in my head.
Find another boy. This one's too complicated.

I ignore it.

Connor lifts his bottle in greeting. “Ivy, hey.”

I approach cautiously, like he's some wild bird I might spook. “Hey. What's up?”

He shrugs. “Roommate said I couldn't miss the first bonfire of the summer.”

The first bonfire of the summer was after prom, and the second was last week, after graduation. But I don't correct him because those were high school parties and I guess I don't want to remind him that I'm still in high school.

I gesture back toward the cove. “Party's over there. What're you doing over here by yourself?”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, it occurs to me that maybe he's waiting for someone. Like a girlfriend.

“I didn't want to bail on Josh, but I'm not really in the mood for a party,” he says, and my mind races. Maybe he
had
a girlfriend and she broke up with him. Maybe he needs someone to console him. Maybe I could be that person.

“Me either.” I play with the empty lemonade bottle, peeling the label a little, but Abby claims that somehow signals you are sexually frustrated, so I get self-conscious and stop.

“Professor said he was taking a few days off to deal with some family stuff. Everything okay?” Connor gestures to the empty space beside him.

I sit, angling myself toward him. He looks like he actually cares, so I feel kind of obliged not to blow off the question. “Nobody's sick or anything. Just…my mother's in town. She and Granddad don't have the best relationship.”

Connor nods. “He mentioned that he and his daughter are estranged.”

I give a short, sour laugh.
Estranged.
Such a polite word. “She ran off when I was two years old. Granddad raised me. Today was the first time we've seen her since.”

“Holy shit.” Connor's gaze lands on the empty bottle in my lap. “And you're drinking lemonade?”

“With some vodka in it.” I give him a bashful smile. “What about you? Why are you drinking all by yourself? Or…you don't have to tell me if you don't want to talk about it.”

“It's okay.” He sets his empty bottle down on the sidewalk. “My grams is sick. Alzheimer's. It sucks. My mom called and said Grams didn't recognize her today. Called her Bess, who was Grams's sister. Mom cried when she was telling me about it. And she's not a crier.” His hand clenches into a fist on his knee, and I notice his fingers are ink-splattered again.

“That's… Jesus. I'm sorry.” I can't imagine losing Granddad like that, little by little, bit by bit. “Are you and your grams close?”

“Yeah. She babysat my sister and me when we were little, while my parents were at work.” He swallows. “She was diagnosed last year, so it's not unexpected, I guess. But it's hard. Especially on my mom. At first she'd forget little things, you know? Her keys or whatnot. I think she hid it from us for a while. Didn't want to lose her independence. But now? Now she'll have the same conversations over and over. She can remember stuff that happened thirty, forty years ago, no problem, but not what happened yesterday. When I went home a couple weekends ago, she played it like she knew who I was, but I don't think she did. At least not at first.”

“That must be hard.” I go to touch his forearm, just a friendly gesture of sympathy, but I chicken out and let my hand fall on my own knee instead.

Connor nods. “My great-granddad had it too. It scares the shit out of me, thinking my mom could inherit that. Or me. I've always had a good memory. I even won this contest back in high school for reciting poetry. I can't imagine reaching for words and not having them there.”

I fiddle with my ring, which has a little gold hedgehog on it. Claire gave it to me for my birthday. Thinking of Claire gives me courage. “That's a writer's worst nightmare, not being able to find the words for things. Not being able to communicate.”

“You know ‘Dirge Without Music'?” He waits for me to nod, and I do. It's one of my favorite Millay poems. He taps a spot on his chest right above his heart. “I got a tattoo with a couple lines from it when I was home over winter break. When I saw how Grams had started going downhill. I was so
mad
.”

I recite the first line, showing off a little. Connor doesn't seem to mind. He joins in. I only know the first stanza, so I trail off and listen as he recites the rest. It might seem crazy pretentious coming from someone else, but hearing him recite this poem—knowing what it means to him—it feels intimate.

“I love that poem,” I say when he's finished.

“Me too.” He gives a self-deprecating smile. “Obviously, I guess.”

I smile back, gesturing at the tattoo on his forearm. “Can I see?”

“Sure.” He flips his arm over, revealing some lines from Langston Hughes. I reach out, tracing my fingers lightly over the words, over his smooth, brown skin, a little surprised by my own boldness. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Six so far.” He points to Dorothea's poem on his bicep, then the Millay lines over his heart, and then tugs up his shirt to reveal words printed on his lower abdomen.

Jesus, he is cut. He actually has that vee that disappears into the waistband of his boxers, which I have previously only seen on TV. The vee, I mean, not his boxers. His boxers are blue plaid. Why I am thinking about his boxers?

I drag my eyes back up to his without reading the lines from the poem. All I can think about is tracing that ink with my fingers. “Nice,” I murmur.

He smiles a little, like he knows that I am admiring more than the tattoo.

He lets his shirt fall. “And two on my back. How about you?”

“Me what?” My brain is fuzzy, and it has nothing to do with the vodka.

“Any tattoos?” His pretty, tawny eyes scan me from head to toe, and I am suddenly conscious of how much of my own skin is showing. I'm hardly modest; I'm used to being in my swimsuit all the time. But now every uncovered inch of me feels different. Flushed and—waiting. Wanting.

I remember his question and shake my head. Granddad would have a fit if I got a tattoo. But Connor's in college. He's at least eighteen, maybe nineteen. He doesn't need his parents' permission for things anymore.

“Maybe someday. I don't know what I'd get though. Or where I'd put it.”

Connor looks at me—like, really takes his sweet time looking—and then leans in. I hold my breath as his hand brushes butterfly soft just below my collarbone. “A tattoo would look good here.” My skin goes shivery at his touch despite the sultry summer air. Sometimes I worry my shoulders are too broad, too muscled. I like that he thinks I should show them off.

I can't even breathe with how much I want to kiss him. The air between us goes electric. I lean in and he dips his head and then we are kissing, his mouth moving softly against mine. My eyes flutter closed. He tastes like beer and I don't even mind. His hand moves to the back of my head, his fingers tugging a little in my hair.

Tentatively, I slide a hand up his arm. His other hand slides down my spine, and it makes me shiver in the best way. We kiss and kiss and he tries to tug me closer, but it's impossible sitting side by side on this stupid bench with our knees in the way. Our kisses grow harder, hungrier. Ravenous. I want to be closer.

I gather the courage to kick off my flip-flops and swing one leg over his lap so that I'm straddling him. My dress inches up. Connor pulls back to look at me for a second, surprised but not displeased, and then I launch myself at him, kissing him hard. He makes a little groan at the back of his throat, and I am thrilled by my own power. One of his hands slides up my thigh and the other skims up over my ribs, grazing the side of my breast, and I know we are in public, but I want him to touch me.

“Ivy,” he says, and the sound of my name on his tongue is so hot. I never knew someone just
looking
at me could make my stomach flip, could make my whole body react like this.

Our lips meet again and my hair falls down around us in a tangled brown curtain, shielding our faces, creating our own little private bubble. Then the wind blows and Connor laughs, swiping a strand of my hair out of his mouth. I giggle too. I pull an elastic off my wrist and yank my hair into a quick ponytail. Then I blush as I realize that from this angle, me perched on top of him, he can see right down my dress. I'm glad I'm wearing a cute yellow bra.

But I'm not a little pixie like Abby. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. “Is this okay? Am I crushing you?”

Connor shakes his head. “It's way more than okay.” He sits up a little, holding me close with a hand at the small of my back. His mouth moves to my neck, which feels incredible, and I slide closer—close enough that I can tell he is as into this as I am, in case I had any doubts. I wonder what it would be like if we were somewhere private, how far we would let this go.

“
Ivy?
” Alex is standing a few feet away, a beer in his hand and a look on his face I've never seen before. He is
pissed
. I pull away from Connor, untangling my arms from around his neck, scrambling off his lap.

“What… Who the hell is this?” Alex demands.

I tug my dress down. I can still feel the warm imprint of Connor's hand on my thigh. “Hey. Hi. Um, this is Connor.”

Connor gives him a head nod, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Uh, hey.”

Alex ignores him, leaning over and picking up my empty lemonade bottle, which has rolled away from the bench. He looks from it to me like he's putting puzzle pieces together. “Ivy, are you
drunk
?”

“No!” I step back into my flip-flops.

“Right. Nice. You didn't notice she was drunk, or you didn't care?” He glares at Connor and grabs my elbow. “Come on. I'm taking you home.”

I yank away. “Wait a minute. Don't make it sound like that. It's not… It wasn't like that.” I look back at Connor, whose eyes are narrowed as he watches Alex and me. I want to be clear. I might have let things go further than I should have in public, but I wanted this to happen. I was a very enthusiastic participant.

“You sure about that? This isn't like you. I know it's been a rough day,” Alex says in a low voice, and for a second I
hate
him. Hate that he knows me so well, that he can say so authoritatively what is and isn't like me. “Come on, Ivy. Let me take you home.”

Connor stands. Alex is tall, but Connor is taller. Broader. My eyes trace his shoulders, where my hands rested just a few minutes ago. His lower lip, which I was biting a minute ago. “Wait, Ivy—”

Alex turns on him. “Leave her alone.”

“Look, I don't know who you are,” Connor says, “but I'd like to hear from Ivy what she wants to do.”

I blush as I step between them. “Connor, this is my… Alex,” I say. How to explain it? Ivy and Alex, Alex and Ivy. “My friend.”

“Your friend?” Connor looks from Alex to me like he's trying to figure out whether we might be more than friends. Given how Alex is acting, I can't blame him. “Do you want him to take you home?”

No. I want to stay here and kiss away every thought of what's happening at home. But the spell is broken. “I… What time is it?” I dig my phone out of my pocket—bless dresses with pockets—and check the time. We've been kissing for a while. Long enough that it's getting close to my curfew. “Gah. I should get home. I'm sorry. Granddad can be a little…” I trail off, biting my lip. Connor is his
student
.

Connor's gaze fastens on my mouth. He catches me catching him and grins. “Yeah. I got the sense the Professor is, uh—protective.”

I shrug. “He's all I've got.”

It comes out sounding sadder than I'd intended.

“That's not true,” Alex says. It's a nice sentiment, but he isn't saying it to make me feel less lonely. He's staking his claim.

I ignore him and look up at Connor. “I'm really sorry. Not about…just…” I flail.
I'm sorry we were interrupted. Sorry I have to go. Not sorry for kissing you.
But I can't make the words come out. Not with Alex standing right behind me, listening. “'Night, Connor.”

“'Night, Ivy,” he echoes, flashing me another grin.

It fades when Alex grabs my hand and pulls me back toward the beach.

I wait until we are out of earshot because, unlike my mother, I do not relish making a scene. But when we near the rocks that lead back to the cove and the party, I yank my hand away and stop dead. “What the hell was that, Alex? What were you doing back there?”

“Me?” He laughs and drains the rest of his beer. “What about you?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Whatever I was doing or not doing with Connor is none of your business.”

“Are you serious?” Alex stares at me. “I came looking for you because you were gone so long. I was
worried
about you. And I found you half-drunk and making out with some stranger. You honestly expect me to just turn around and walk away?”

“Yes! No. I don't know. I'm not drunk. And he's not a stranger. He's one of Granddad's students. He was at the house the other day for lunch.”

“Oh, well, that makes it okay then! I'm sure the Professor would be real happy about it.”

I draw a deep breath in through my teeth. Count to ten. Twice. It doesn't help much.

“Let's get something straight right now.” My voice is so cold it doesn't sound like mine. “It is not your place to say whether or not it's okay, and it isn't Granddad's either. Who I kiss is my own damn business. You don't get any say in that.”

I scramble back over the rocks to the beach, stumbling in my flip-flops and banging the shit out of my knee.

“Ivy!” Alex calls, but I ignore him and hurry across the sand. The music is blasting and a couple guys are chugging beers while the crowd chants and the bonfire sends sparks spinning up into the night sky.