Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(21)

“Did you get far with the shop today?” Ian asks through a yawn. He must be exhausted. Sitting at JFK for almost three hours because of plane issues—after already flying across the country—has to suck.

“A dent. I called that painter but I’m waiting for him to get back to me. Any specific color you want me to tell him to use?”

“You pick. I trust you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Thanks, Ivy, for doing this. I know I’ve left you alone to handle all of this at the worst time.”

That’s right, you have! the bitter little voice in the back of my head screams. I keep it at bay, though, mainly because I don’t know why I’m hearing it now. I’ve never minded being alone. I’ve preferred it, actually. Only now alone feels very different. It’s not thrilling and liberating. It’s scary and overwhelming.

“Being busy is good for me right now,” I say instead. That’s probably true as well. “Safe flight.” I hang up and toss my phone onto the mattress with a deep yawn. I had every intention of working on the shop into the night so I could maybe be done with it, but I hit a wall around six and was ready to curl up into a ball in the back room.

I’m guessing it’s because I haven’t really slept in a week and it’s finally catching up to me. The first night—the night that Ned died—I didn’t even walk through the front door downstairs until seven the next morning. I didn’t sleep the rest of that day, either, and drifted off only when Ian arrived on the doorstep. Every night since then I’ve found myself staring out the window for hours, until I finally drift off from sheer exhaustion, only to wake up in a cold sweat and with a knot in my stomach a few hours later.

I glance at my alarm clock. It’s almost seven. If I go to bed now, I’m afraid I’ll be lying awake and restless in bed by midnight. I stretch deeply and glance around the perpetual mess that is my room. I guess I could kill time by putting away my clothes.

My least favorite thing to do, next to folding laundry. But I may as well start the process. Once the shop is in order for sale, the house will be next, and no real estate agent will agree to put this place up looking like it does right now.

Scooping up the items that I know are dirty, I half stagger over to the hamper sitting next to my chest of drawers. A wave of my perfume hits me and I automatically inhale. It was a birthday present that came in the mail from my friend Amber a few weeks ago. I stole enough squirts from her bottle when I saw her last to flag that it might be something I would like. I must have put too much on earlier, if it still lingers in the air now. That or my senses are overloaded from exhaustion.

A basket full of freshly washed, now-wrinkled clothes sits next to my bed. I dump everything onto my mattress and fish out the long black dress with deep slits up the sides that I wear often. This I definitely want to hang in my closet for when I’m not elbow-deep in packing.

I head for the narrow slatted door ahead, turning the dress right-side out on my way.

My cell phone rings, stopping me in my tracks.

I’m relieved, happy to abandon my half-assed efforts to tidy and have an excuse to dive onto my mattress again. When I see who’s calling, I’m even happier. “Hey, you.”

“Hey. How are you holding up?”

A few years ago, if someone told me that Amber Welles and I would become good friends, I’d have laughed in their face. She’d been my enemy since sophomore year of high school, though she had no idea, and it turns out I didn’t really have a good reason for hating her. But I didn’t know that until last summer, when a night of Jameson whiskey, unbridled words, and an Irish bartender revealed the former rodeo queen’s vulnerabilities, I guess. It allowed me to confront all the ways I thought she had wronged me but hadn’t. It also forced me to confront all of my insecurities.

It was a chance to hit the Reset button, and I’m glad I took it.

“I’m okay,” I say through a yawn, growing more tired by the second. I lie back and hit Speakerphone before setting my phone on my chest.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral.”

It’s the third time she’s apologized. “Seriously, I would never expect you to cancel your trip to Dublin for my uncle’s funeral. I sure as hell wouldn’t cancel my trip anywhere for your uncle’s funeral.” That sounds awful now that I’ve said it out loud. But she knows what I mean.

“Still . . .” Silence hangs between us.

“How was your latest reunion?”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “Amazing. And also terrible. It’s getting harder and harder to come home.”

I knew this long-term relationship arrangement would not work for Amber. “You should just stay over there. I don’t know why you’d want to come back.”

“Because I have family here, Ivy!” she exclaims, exasperated. Amber is a daddy’s girl, through and through. “Just like you do, by the way.”

“Right. I do, don’t I?” I say dryly. A mom and dad and two younger brothers, whom I love very much but don’t feel related to. “I just saw my parents a few days ago, for the funeral. They came down and stayed with my aunt Jun at a hotel for two nights. It was long enough.” My dad glared at my sleeve of tattoos with disappointment. I’ve sabotaged any chances for a decent job and respectable husband, he told me. My mom didn’t say much of anything at all, having already given up on her daughter. Her focus is now on her two boys—Jin, the nineteen-year-old, who’s on his way to med school in another two years, and my twenty-one-year-old brother Bo, who also has Spanish citizenship and was just added to the roster of their national soccer team. “You know, the more I think about it, I wonder if Ned and my mom had a secret affair and I was the result.” I frown. “But I guess that wouldn’t explain the whole Chinese thing. Maybe I’m just Ned’s child, and I have no mother. I just appeared one day.”