“Ah, yes. My young love, ever the over shooter, even when it comes to time.”
The man wasn't lying when he said he'd drop me at a nice place. It is nice. But it doesn't have my father.
I follow, careful not to touch anything. Had I misread the burning man? I should have ran.
But he was so kind. Daddy always said to follow my mind and not my gut because the gut is always hungry, or whatever. My mind said to trust him because he knew things. He was also very kind. So kind.
I find the smallest room and lie down.
Every day moves slower than the last. No one comes.
On the fifth day, the sound of tires over gravel crunches outside the door, and I rush forward, desperate to see anyone human.
Peeping through the hole, I watch as a man dressed in a suit steps out. He isn’t the burning man. My mind says to open the door. My gut says to run.
My feet move before I think. Backward. Away. Far away. I don’t like this one. I don’t like this one at all. But I’m alone. I’m all alone.
He opens the front door and I stumble backward. “Morning, young love. You and I are going to be great friends.”
My laugh vibrates in my throat. I douse it in alcohol before I say something smart. Like how is it my fault our plane had to circle? Or why the fuck are you such a piece of shit?
“So, Camille,” I turn my attention to the new girl, “how long have you and Asher been together?”
She places her silverware down. “Truly, Ivanya? He's never spoken about me?”
The room falls silent. I feel like the stranger in the room.
I lean to the side, resting my head on my hand. Keeping my attention focused on her. “Truly. He hasn't.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Well, I guess that shouldn't be so surprising.”
“Mm-hmm.” I swing to Asher briefly, in time for him to answer, and hate how anytime I look at him I forget everything else.
“A year,” Camille answers casually.
It's a punch to the gut. Why didn't he ever tell me?
I exhale and cross my legs. “Impressive. Truly.”
“What she means,” Luce interferes, “is that Asher hasn't had a girlfriend for longer than six days?”
Yes. That's what I meant.
I roll my eyes and push myself up from the chair. We’re in the heart of winter. I'd much rather be eating alfresco. In the storm of snow, surrounded by nothing but ice.
I find the bar, pour another finger of whiskey and kick off my heels. The dress I'm wearing is practical, but it's not something I wear often. In the city, I'm in jeans and shirts, or leather and suits. I hate dresses. But of course, I find it the perfect time to wear one while on the coldest island off the coast of the USA.
My fingers trace circles over the small stereo in the corner. I stop outside the large window overlooking the back of the house. That's where we should be eating.
The cabana stands beside the pool, its fireplace commanding the center, surrounded by a dining table that could seat twelve. We'd freeze our asses off between courses, but at least the cold might numb the spreading ache in my chest.
Beyond the sunken firepit, the mountain shadows over us. Cable lines scar its face, climbing into the clouds. Private fucking access. Everything on this island exists to keep reality locked outside.
I press my forehead to the glass, the cold seeping through. Asher's voice echoes in my mind. Mount Crow and the folklore of the three mountains. “Probably protecting you.”
“Right, Ivy?” Punk's voice cuts through from behind.
I pivot to respond when my reflection grabs me. Dark auburn waves spill around my shoulders in an untamed mass of curls. My eyes a shade of moss.
