Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(31)

Yeah. Em could keep her secrets. I had mine.

As we stepped inside the elevator, her eyes swung my way, the brilliant blue there as hard as I’ve ever seen. “You don’t owe him anything, Pepper.”

“Maybe,” I allowed. But I still had to see him again.





Chapter 11

Hey, Gram, how’s it going?” I sandwiched my phone between my shoulder and ear as I kicked off the khaki pants that were regulation for all Little Miss Muffet Daycare employees.

“Oh, Pepper, dear, when are you coming home?”

It was the same question she always asked. Even though I wrote the dates of my breaks on the calendar beside the fridge, she never referred to it.

“Thanksgiving week. I’ll be there the Wednesday before. I have to work that weekend.” I winced at my reflection in the mirror as I unbuttoned my blouse. The tightly constructed braid had deteriorated hours ago. It hadn’t held up well against wrangling toddlers. I tugged the band loose from the already unraveling mess.

“They need an accurate count for Thanksgiving dinner.”

I shook my head at her reprimand, but said nothing. “Well, RSVP for two.” Dinner was usually catered by Hardy’s, a local cafeteria that did a decent roast turkey and dressing. The seniors packed into the hall as early as 10 A.M. I would be the only one in the room under the age of seventy. But at least I didn’t have to worry about my grandmother cooking a huge meal anymore.

My first Thanksgiving with her she insisted on cooking everything herself. She was going to fry the turkey. Fortunately, a daughter visiting her mother next door to us noticed Gram setting up the fryer outside and came to investigate, stopping Gram seconds before she dropped a frozen turkey into the pot of boiling oil and burned down our house—and us.

“I will. Just two?”

I hesitated. She had never asked that before. “Yes.”

“Because Martha Sultenfuess’s granddaughter just got engaged. You don’t have a boyfriend yet, do you?”

“Isn’t Mrs. Sultenfuess’s granddaughter in her thirties?”

“Is she? I thought you were about the same age.”

“I’m nineteen, Gram.”

Rosco started yapping in the background. I could picture the Yorkie standing at the screen door, begging to be let out. “Your father married when he was nineteen.”

I fell silent, stunned she had even said that. Was she honestly holding up my parents’ marriage as some sort of example I should follow?

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that Gram had always been a little flighty. Once, in eighth grade, I opened my lunch sack to find a can of green beans, a bottle of prune juice, and the remote control inside. That had gotten a lot of laughs and earned me a few unpleasant nicknames. But lesson learned. I packed my own lunches after that. By my freshman year, I took care of her more than she took care of me. Leaving home for college hadn’t been the easiest decision, but I’d forced myself to do it. I couldn’t devote my life to her. She didn’t want or expect that from me.

Now, at seventy-nine, there was no predicting what she would say or do. The latter was a very real point of concern for me. I worried that she would soon need to move into a full-scale nursing home. I hated to consider it. And so did Gram. The first and last time I mentioned it to her, she started crying so hard I hadn’t had the nerve to bring it up again.

I’d watch her over Thanksgiving and decide if we needed to revisit the conversation.

“I’ll meet someone someday,” I assured her. For some reason the image of Reece flashed across my mind. What would Gram think if I brought home a pierced, tattooed bartender? She’d probably think I was a lot like my mother.

“Well, I won’t be around forever, Pepper. I’d like to see you settled before my time comes.”

“Oh, Gram. You’re going to live forever.” It’s what I always said whenever she brought up dying.

She laughed. “God, I hope not.”

I fell silent at this. I didn’t want to think about losing her. When Gram was gone, I’d be truly alone. Emotion welled up in my throat. When I first went to live with her, the thought of losing her terrified me. I’d already lost everyone and everything. No one ever stayed. I assumed I’d eventually lose her, too. It took a few years for me to accept that she wasn’t going to abandon me. I used to freak out every time she caught a cold. When she broke her leg and had to stay a few days in the hospital, I couldn’t eat or sleep until she was back home.

“I gotta go study, Gram.” I managed to get out without sounding too choked up.

“All right. You be a good girl.” Gram said that at the end of every call. Be a good girl. If she only knew that I was on a path of sexual exploration.

After hanging up, I finished changing clothes. Dressed in comfy sweatpants and a Dartford Uni sweatshirt, I fell back on my bed with my copy of Madame Bovary. I was almost finished with it, which was good considering I had a test in World Lit tomorrow.

Highlighter and pen in hand, I lost myself, following the exploits of Madame Bovary and vowing never to become a slave to my credit cards. It was bad enough that I had school loans. As I continued to read, I felt an uncomfortable similarity between Madame Bovary and myself. Just like me, she was so committed to an idea of what she thought her life should be.

Shaking my head, I told myself my infatuation with Hunter wasn’t shallow and unhealthy. He was good. Kind and reliable and safe. He was all of those things. I was no Madame Bovary.