Mended (Connections, #3)(23)

I stand up and toss my plate in the trash. My phone rings again, but this time it’s my mother and I decide to bite the bullet and get it over with.

“Hello.”

“Ivy, it’s your mother, honey,” she says, as if I didn’t have caller ID or recognize the sound of her voice.

“Mom. Hi.” I drop down to sit on the steps.

“I’ve been calling you. Why didn’t you call me when you broke off your engagement with Damon? I had to hear it from him.”

“I’m sorry. I just have a lot going on right now.”

“Well, sweetie, I’d like to have lunch this week if possible.”

I take a couple of deep breaths. “Mom, I’m going on the road with another band for a few months and I’m busy getting ready, but I promise I’ll call you as soon as I get settled.”

“Ivy, honey, it’s important. Your sister’s tuition is due and I don’t have the money and somehow I missed the mortgage payment last month.”

“Mom, I’ll see what I can do. Money is tight right now.”

“Oh,” she responds. “Do you think you could ask Damon?”

“No! I should be able to get you some money in a few weeks.”

“I can’t wait that long. The bank will take the house.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Listen, come get my car. I’ll text you where it is. I’ll leave the keys and the signed pink slip under the mat. That should hold you over for a bit.”

“Ivy, that would help tremendously.”

“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you soon.”

“Thanks, honey. I knew I could count on you.” She hangs up.

Her response was as automatic as mine. She knew all she had to do was ask. But what bothers me is that she didn’t even ask where I was going or with whom. That just wasn’t as important as getting a check.

My body fills with so much tension I feel paralyzed. I put my head in my hands and sit alone for the longest time, wondering how I’m ever going to free myself from her. Finally, I stand and head backstage to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. The floor is slatelike and my heels click against it with each step, but that’s not the only sound I hear—I hear Xander’s voice. With just one simple word he’s back in the front of my mind again and I stand frozen in place in the almost nonexistent space between the stage and backstage.

“Fuck,” he says, and the way the word rolls off his tongue catapults me back in time.

I had missed a week of school and band rehearsals. I was in the tenth grade and Xander had just gotten his license. I was sick, but I still had to babysit—my mother was working. The doorbell rang and when I opened it all I could see was a finger hooked around a hanging plant of ivy. I slammed the door shut, thinking it was the neighbor kids playing a practical joke and almost caught his finger.

“Fuck!” he yelled, and I immediately opened the door again.

He came into view and handed me the pot. I raised an eyebrow and just looked at him.

He grinned. “What?”

I eyed the ivy plant.

Shrugging, he said, “Roses are so cliché.” Then he kissed me and snickered. “I prefer Ivy.” He made the statement sound simple, but it was so full of meaning. His gift was a symbol of our love and it was something that could last forever . . . like I thought we would. He stayed that night to help me babysit. Once the girls fell asleep, we watched the Grammys and we talked about our dreams for each other—his was that I would be up on that stage one day. That made me laugh and made me cry. After that night he’d bring me ivy plants of all kinds—sometimes as a gesture to make up, sometimes for my birthday, sometimes just because . . . and I loved them all. I planted them in the garden I started with my sisters or hung them in my room, and they never died, but I did dig them all up and throw them away the night I saw him with Tessa.

Shaking off the memory, I divert my attention away from him and try to push him out of my mind. But when he yells, “Come on, motherf*cker!” I can’t help but steal a glance. He’s talking to some guy I don’t know and the motherf*cker in question is a coin. Watching him as he throws his muscled arm up to release the coin and yells, “Heads,” subconsciously I yell, “Heads” in unison. I know his call—it hasn’t changed. The way his lip curves around the word as he says it gives me a sudden urge to suck on it. Turning, he looks at me and his eyes lock on mine. His mouth forms that same slow, easy grin that always made me weak at the knees. But I can’t smile back . . . I want to, but I’m afraid that if I do I won’t be able to compartmentalize him anymore. What’s between us has to stay professional; if not, things will get too messy. A flash of something mars his finely chiseled face, but he catches the coin without faltering. Covering it with his other hand, he cocks his head and bobs his chin, calling me over. I stay where I am. I hate him. I hate him. I have to keep saying it or I’ll forget.

Shrugging, he lifts his hand. “Heads it is.”

The tall, skinny man standing next him sighs. “Okay, we’ll drive straight through to Denver, but if I crash the bus I’m blaming you.”

Xander lets out an exaggerated laugh and slaps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “First of all, you have Brad, and second, you won’t crash the bus. You’ve made runs like this a million times.”