Page 40 of The Plus One Pact

Ivy laughs. "You’re like siblings."

Sasha nods. "No one ever believes that." Without asking, she moves into the kitchen.

Ivy looks around the space carefully, noting the framed modern art prints, the sleek lines of the ivory shades, the big-for-California kitchen. "This is a nice place."

"Thank you," I say.

"Warm and clean." Ivy turns to Sasha. "Are you a tea drinker? That was my question."

"I'm afraid I'm on the dark side with Rome," Sasha says.

"Your mother called you Rome too," she says. "Is that your…"

"Non-stage name?" Sasha suggests. "Wait. Hold up. She's already met Amara?"

"On the phone," I say. "And I can speak for myself, by the way."

Sasha shakes her head can you though and turns to Ivy. "How was that? The conversation with Amara?"

"Have you met?" Ivy asks.

"A few times," Sasha says. "Rome brought me around as a friend a few times, but I'm pretty sure everyone thought we were having sex. I don't know why. We have noooooooo chemistry." She tosses her dark hair behind her shoulder. "Anyway, his mom was intense. A poet, you know? Like the way Sylvia Plath is a poet."

"I hope not exactly the way Sylvia Plath is a poet," Ivy says.

"Not quite, but she might threaten to fill the room with gas to make a point," Sasha says.

That's not completely wrong, but, hey, that's my mom. I shoot Sasha a cutting look.

Sasha shrugs. "She is sweet though. And I do know how to make tea. I swear." She places her hand over her heart theatrically. "One of my regulars owns some fancy shop in London. I had to really master the art, so I knew to punish him if he made it wrong." She moves to the cabinets and starts rifling through the space. "But does Rome have anything decent?" She pulls out an old box of English Breakfast and examines it carefully. "You two sit. I'll bring something out."

"And you should always follow her orders," I say.

"Or she might punish me?" Ivy plays along.

"If you're lucky," Sasha calls. "People pay handsomely for that privilege. Now, stop talking about me. Go pretend you're in love."

That little thing.

Ivy stands, three feet away from me, her attention split between me and my best friend. With her brow furrowed and her shoulders high, she looks as awkward as I feel.

No. She hides it well. That therapist mask. Or maybe a standard poker face.

What happened to Ivy to cause her to recede into herself? To hang out on the sidelines?

We're not that different, really.

Neither of us knows how to connect when we're on even ground.

I do what I always do when I'm uncertain. I fall back on my years of practice.

I bring my hand to her lower back and apply the lightest pressure. "Should we sit?" My voice drops to a tone I recognize. One that's pure bullshit.

No. Not pure bullshit. Only partially bullshit, but, at this point, I can't really tell when I'm at one percent or ninety-nine. Only that I'm incapable of inauthenticity.

Ivy doesn't call me on it. She lets me lead her into the living room.

She takes in the space with her soft green eyes, studying every piece of art, every line of hardwood, every fold of the couch. "Did you decorate the place yourself?"