Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(23)

“So . . . Once the store is cleaned out? What are you going to do?” she pushes, back to the serious side of things.

“Once the legal stuff is sorted out, we’re going to sell it. Ian can’t run it and I don’t want to. We also need to get rid of this house and its giant mortgage as soon as we can. Then I’m ghosting.”

“Seriously? You know you could run that shop. Isn’t that what you’ve always talked about?”

It’s my dream for an older, tamer version of myself. A quiet little shop with character, a steady clientele. “Yeah, but I never wanted it at the expense of my uncle’s life.”

She sighs. “I know . . . I’m sorry. It’s horrible to talk about it like that. But maybe you shouldn’t sell so quickly. Can you afford to sit on it for a few months?”

I scowl at the dirty ceiling above. It’s the first time I’ve actually lain in bed in daylight and bothered to look. Now I see that it’s in desperate need of paint, as much as every other room in this house. “Did Ian call and ask you to convince me to stay?”

“Ian doesn’t have my number, Ivy. Unless you gave it to him.”

I roll my eyes. As smart as Amber is, sometimes she doesn’t get my jokes. “The shop has a hundred K mortgage on it. Plus, I don’t want to stay. It’s just not the same here anymore. Everything about San Francisco changed when Ned died. The shop is haunted. This house is big and empty and eerie and . . .” I shudder. “Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched. It’s just . . .” I work at my laces, unfastening them so I can kick off my boots. “I agreed to finish someone’s tattoo for him tomorrow afternoon and I don’t want to do it. I don’t even know if I can do it.”

“I’d hate to be that person.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I mumble, unfastening my jeans. I slide them over my hips and kick until they fall from my feet.

“It sounds like you’re done for the day. You should get some sleep,” Amber chides. “I’m sure you haven’t been doing much of that either.”

My pillow feels so soft and welcoming beneath my head. “That’s the best idea you’ve had in forever.”

She laughs. “Yeah. Okay. Call me anytime. Or text. If I don’t answer, it means I’m working or sleeping. Because that’s all I’ll be doing for the foreseeable future.”

“Night. And . . .” I hesitate, because saying anything that may hint at feelings has always been hard for me. “Thanks for calling.”

“Of course, Ivy. Now sleep. Nurse’s orders.”

I press End with a nostalgic smile. Those few weeks with Amber in Dublin were some of the best I’d had in a long time, and I now consider her one of my best friends. Clearly, that says something about me and my ability to make—and keep—friends. Speaking of which . . . I scroll through my texts, squinting to read the words through my bleary eyes. One from Dakota, who’s checking to see if I’m still coming over for our usual Wednesday night dinner at her place. As much as I could probably use the semblance of something familiar, dinner is never dinner with just Dakota. It’s with her and an array of very unusual people, some whom she may know well, or not at all.

I’ll have to call her, but not tonight because that’s an hour-long conversation about nothing. I like Dakota a lot, but the girl tends to go off on weed-induced tangents that I don’t have patience for.

There’s another message from Fez, the pizza delivery guy from down the street from Black Rabbit whom I’ve befriended over the months.

The cuts 2nite?

That sparks my interest. As exhausted as I am, my body is thrumming with tension. I could probably use a night out, to release some of this pent-up anxiety. And if I fall asleep now—which I’m about to—I’ll be wide awake by two at the very latest, twiddling my thumbs and needing to get the hell out of this eerie house.

I hit Dial, because the last time I tired-texted, auto-correct somehow turned my errors into a sexual proposition, and Fez definitely doesn’t interest me in that way, even if I know he’s secretly in love with me and would screw me in a heartbeat, given the chance.

“Hey, Bae.”

I roll my eyes. At thirty-five, Fez speaks in slang, clichés, and short form. Not just Bay Area slang either. He’s like a mishmash of all the latest slang running through social media, along with oldies that no one uses anymore. I blame it all on YouTube and his attempt at being world famous by videotaping hours of himself every week and posting it online. It’s all he talks about. I think it’s his way of feeling better about the fact that he still lives with his parents and works at their pizza shop.

Half the time I can’t understand what the hell he’s saying. The other half, I don’t want to know what he’s saying. “What time are you going?”

“Sundown.”

“Where exactly?” “The cuts”—what he refers to as the rougher part of the Mission District, is a six-block stretch of city, going from Ninth to Fifteenth.

“The ol’ depot. You down?”

“Yeah. I’m just going to grab a few hours of sleep, but I’ll be there. Wait for me.”

“Fo sho. Gonna be epic!”

“See you later.” I hang up before he can say anything else. I’m too tired to deal with him right now. Plugging my phone into the charger by my nightstand, I briefly consider just passing out, but I run hot when I sleep, and I always regret it when I wake up sweaty and uncomfortable. Forcing my tired body to a sitting position, I grasp the hem of my shirt and peel it over my head and toss it toward the hamper. I miss. Oh well. Something new to add to the pile.