She glances back toward me. Something flashes across her face, but it’s gone before I can pinpoint it. “Hey. Morning.” Her expression is neutral and her voice is low.
“How’d you sleep?”
She sets her cup down. “Great. The quiet of the engine seems to lull me to sleep every time I ride on one of these.” Her tone is sarcastic and I fucking love it.
I offer a smile, holding back my smirk. “Yeah, try sleeping on the bottom bunk with the floor vibrating underneath you.”
“I’ll pass,” she says and turns back to look at the cornfields and lush greenery of the Midwest surroundings.
I pour a cup of coffee and look over my shoulder. Lifting the pot, I ask, “Refill?”
“I’m good,” she answers, covering the top of her cup with her hand.
I move to sit across from her. “Mind?” I ask.
She shakes her head. I want to ask her a million questions. I want to know everything she’s done for the last twelve years, but when one of the songs from her first album comes on the radio, I settle for asking one simple question that has been eating at me. Her song “Hit It” surrounds us. The lyrics are about dancing but can very easily be misconstrued as being about sex. Since it doesn’t seem like a song she’d have sung, let along written, I nod toward the speaker and ask, “What made you take that road?”
Her eyes narrow on mine. “What do you mean by that road?”
“Ivy, you know what I mean.”
She turns to look at me full on. The look she gives me tells me right away that she’s offended, and her answer only confirms this. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain?”
Okay, if she wants me to spell it out, I will. I pause for a moment before answering, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this, but decide to just say it. “Why did you choose pop music? You were never one for the verse-chorus structure or catchy hooks like this.” When the hook plays, I lift my eyes to the speaker and add, “You have so much artistic depth. I just never thought you’d sell out for mass appeal.”
With a sigh, she stands up. Hurt quickly passes over her face before hate presents itself. Bracing her hands on the table, she leans forward. “You don’t know what I have anymore,” she says with a shaky voice. Then adds, “I’m going to get ready.” With that she brushes past me.
Rising from my chair, I call, “Ivy, wait. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole.”
But she doesn’t stop. Instead she hastily pulls the curtain back to huff forward. It’s then that she finally comes to a dead standstill. I’m on her heels and almost barrel right into her. She’s stopped, just staring, and I glance inside the galley to see what has captured her attention. It’s Garrett and he’s awake, doing his morning exercise.
“Is that a sex swing?” she asks him wide-eyed, her cheeks turning pink as soon as the words leave her mouth.
I burst out in laughter. I can’t help it. For some reason being near Ivy makes everything that’s mildly funny seem funnier. It always did.
A devilish grin appears on his face. “No. It’s a yoga swing. But thanks for the idea,” Garrett tells her.
“Fuck, no, not in here,” Nix calls out from behind one of the curtains. “No one wants to see your naked ass in the act.”
Leif comes out of the bathroom wearing some kind of sleep pants that make me laugh equally as hard—they’re baby blue with an elastic waist, and I wonder if they’re Ivy’s. Holding my stomach, I try to calm myself. Garrett gives me a perplexed look. I know he must be thinking he’s probably never seen me laugh this much, and I don’t remember the last time I did. Leif, with his toothbrush in his mouth, shrugs past as if nothing out of the ordinary is occurring and disappears into his cubby. Nix pops his head out and starts talking to Garrett about setting some new rules.
I take the opportunity to get Ivy’s attention. Moving directly behind her, I clutch her arm and pull her back to me. “Can I talk to you back in the lounge?” Her laughter stops when I whisper in her ear, “Please.”
She turns to look at me, her eyes unreadable. “Okay.”