Quinn:What the fuck happened at the apartment?!
Quinn:Ava said you got into a fight with that bitch from your high school?!
Quinn:Ivy where are you?? Do I need to run interference?
Quinn:Please text back!
I type out a response, though she’s probably asleep by now.
Me:I’m okay. At Wes’s. Thanks for checking.
To my surprise, she texts back within the minute.
Quinn:Are you hurt?
Me:I’m fine. Just a black eye.
Quinn:A BLACK EYE?!?!?
Me:It’s okay. Really. It barely hurts. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Quinn:Okay. I’m sorry this happened. She’s a snake.
Me:Understatement.
I set my phone down on the wooden coffee table as Wes reemerges with the pillow, a second blanket, and the bottle of painkillers.
“Thank you,” I say again, even though I’ve said it about a million times tonight.
“Get some sleep, Ives. Hopefully that couch isn’t too horrific.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you need anything or if the pain’s too much, come wake me up. I won’t mind.”
“I’m sure it will be okay, but thank you.”
He hesitates for a moment, almost like he wants to say more, but in the end all he says is, “Goodnight, Ivy.”
And so I say, “Goodnight, Wes,” right back.
He flicks out the light on his way up the stairs, and I settle under the blankets, resting the good side of my head against the pillow and closing my eyes.
Dozing near sleep, my mind goes rogue, conjuring up dangerous, destructive thoughts. Wishing I was next to Wes in that bed, wrapped in his strong arms, nestled against his broad chest. Wanting to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing, bury my nose in his scent, insulate myself in his warmth. Because he’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe.
My final thought is this.
You, Ivy Combs, are a fucking idiot.
FIFTEEN
My eye is purple.
“My eye ispurple,” I repeat, this time aloud, as I emerge from the downstairs bathroom. My eye is purple, swollen, and absolutelyalarmingto look at.
“It’s okay,” Wes assures, noting my distress. He rests his hands on my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “It’s just the body breaking down the hemoglobin in your blood. It’s going to look worse before it gets better, unfortunately. How does it feel?”
“Bad,” I mutter.
