Ivy
This wine leaves an aftertaste of disappointment. Much like my husband.
“You're breaking up,” Parker says through the phone, his voice cutting in and out. He could be calling from another planet instead of Geneva. “I said I can't make it back for your birthday.”
“I heard you the first time.” I swirl the Malbec in my glass, watching it cling to the sides. Three months since Veilarath. Fivemonths of this dance with Asher where we orbit each other, but never quite touch.
“Don't be dramatic, Ivy. It's only a birthday.” Parker’s annoyance would trigger me if I gave a fuck.
Thankfully, it’s just like everything else in our marriage. Fake. Only he doesn’t know it as well as I do.
“I'm not mad.” And I'm not. Relief floods through me. I won't have to pretend tonight. Won't have to play the devoted wife while my friends watch with knowing stares. “Lucinda and Jord are coming over. Punk too.”
“And Asher?” His tone shifts, something sharp sliding under the casual question.
“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes. I couldn’t give a shit what Parker thinks about me and his friend growing so close. It’s become evident how much he hates it, which in turn, only makes me love it more.
Silence pulls between us. Is that a fucking fluff in my wine? I study it closely.
“He's been strange lately. Have you noticed?” Parker asks, and out of all the questions I expected him to ask, that wasn’t it. Of course I had noticed it. Every time Parker’s in the room, Asher’s eyes turn a shade colder. The only difference is that I didn’t know them together before we got married, so I can’t decide whether this is something new or if Asher has always been this way with his old friend.
“—it’s like he hates me coming near you. I’m your fucking husband.” Huh. Why’s his reception suddenly clear?
“He's protective.” I take another sip of wine. “It's his nature.”
“Protective,” Parker repeats, tasting the word. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Well, what would you call it?” I ask, gripping my wine glass tighter than usual.
“--I have to go. The meeting's starting.”
The line goes dead. No goodbye. No happy birthday.
Silence.
I set the phone down and drain my glass.
Placing my empty goblet into the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A mesh dress that leaves nothing to imagination, black lingerie visible underneath, hair twisted up in a knot that's already falling. Birthday girl playing dress-up for friends while her husband makes deals that promise him a one-way trip to hell.
The doorbell rings.
“I've got it!” Asher's voice carries from the living room. His footsteps cross the carpeted foyer, and I hear Lucinda's laugh before she even makes it inside. It’s sad when I think about it. How much Asher could have fit into our life easily. If I wasn’t me. If I wasn’t a monster.
“Where's the birthday girl?” Lucinda sweeps into the kitchen, a hurricane in Valentino. Jord trails behind her with a bottle of Dom in each hand.
“Drinking alone like a proper twenty-year-old.” I hold up my empty glass to accentuate my small fib.
“Twenty-nine,” Jord corrects, popping the champagne. “But who's counting?”
I widen my eyes at my sassy best friend. “You, apparently.”
Also me, since Asher is twenty-four.
Lucinda scans me—the mesh dress, the wine, the phone face-down on the counter. She doesn't ask about Parker. She doesn't need to.
“Punk's on her way,” she says instead, accepting the champagne Jord pours. “Said she has something for you.”
“If it's another encrypted phone, I'm going to—”
