“You need a job, Ivy, whether you like it or not. You can’t pretend that work doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not,” I say, tossing the towel on the counter. “Of course it matters. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since it happened, but I haven’t done anything else since I graduated, and I don’t even know if I’m happy anymore. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life working, shouldn’t it be something I enjoy?”
The sigh she heaves is so laden with feeling I’m shocked the phone doesn’t drop out of my hand from the weight. “Not everyone gets a choice, Gigi. If you need to find yourself, you can do it when you can keep a roof over your head. It’s only going to be harder if you wait. You know that. A big gap in your work history isn’t going to look good to future employers, and what are you going to tell them when they ask?”
“That I haven’t had a break in eight years.”
“Take this seriously, please.”
She isn’t listening. All I’ve done for past eight years is be serious. That’s the problem.
Somewhere along the line, life sped up while I wasn’t paying attention, or perhaps I’ve been willfully fast forwarding. “I don’t want to wake up one day and be too old to enjoy life.”
“Gigi, you have plenty of time for life later,” she huffs, and then there are cries in the background. “And now the baby’s awake. We can talk about this later.”
Of course it doesn’t stop Mom’s points from dangling in the air long after we’ve hung up. Needling at my resolve, unspooling my anxiety, thread by thread.
I hang my head in my hands, my hair falling around my face like a closing curtain. Not even my hair escaped her attempts to polish me into someone proper. Straightening out the curls, keeping it long.
Orderly. Responsible. Lifeless.
CHAPTER15
FLY AWAY WITH ME
LINCOLN
I enjoy my job, take pleasure in the delivery of other people’s desires, but I haven’t been this invested since I started. Each word spoken to one person in particular.
One night with Ivy has reinvigorated my work. Suddenly I can’t write ideas down fast enough. I’ve been jumping on audio prompts faster than I can find them.
The more inventive, the better.
When I originally auditioned for Pulse, I never intended to make narrating erotica a full-time job. But the team at the app has been nothing short of wonderful, and what started as a lark has become a passion.
The fact is, between planning, recording, and edits, it’s a hell of a lot more work than anyone would expect. The heavy breathing alone is hell on my vocal cords.
I’ve been careful not to mix business and pleasure, but it’s different this time. The simple fact is, I can’t stop thinking about Ivy.
Did I expect to be here when I left London? Absolutely not.
Am I complaining? Not even a little.
I want to see her again. I need to know what makes her different. Why she’s having such an effect on me.
I won’t stop until I know. Hell, I haven’t even gotten around to telling anyone about our fake breakup.
On paper, Ivy feels like the opposite of what I should want. The untamed energy of my youth paired with a propensity to say what’s she’s thinking at all times.
Naked honesty? I can barely imagine it.
If I started saying what I really thought, the universe might collapse on itself.
Delving into my relationship history is a short, uninteresting tread. There are carparks with more fanfare. I’d liken it to an abandoned Olympic Park: once a beacon of great enthusiasm and promise, now a rusted obstruction, home to more failures than successes.
I’m better at the short term, at wining and dining and athletic morning sex that stretches out to lazy dessert sex. Perhaps it’s not in my nature to do anything by half measures. If I want something, I don’t deny myself.
I may not have much practice, but I’m determined and not easily distracted. If Ivy shoots me down, so be it. But I have to try.
