“Thought so.”
“I call them once a month. I email regularly. We correspond. I get my regular parental dose of ‘you’re fucking your life up’ from them. And if I actually lived in the same city, I would visit. But I’ve never iced them out like you have. So what’s your excuse?”
I heave a sigh as I pull out. It’s time for some truth. “I haven’t been living in San Francisco for the past five years.” Truth in small doses is the best way with Ivy, I think.
She falters. “Where have you been?”
“Around.”
“For work?”
“Yeah.” That’s not a lie.
“When exactly did you move back?”
“I’m in the process of it right now.”
Her head falls back against the headrest. “So . . . there are no plumbing issues.”
“Depends on if you consider the cracked, leaking toilet in my shitty motel room a problem. I checked out of there a few days ago.”
She’s still trying to make sense of this; I can see it on her face. “Why’d you lie to me, then?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t give me the time of day if you thought I was just passing through.”
“But you’re not. Passing through, I mean. Right?”
I reach over and weave my fingers through her hand. “No. I’m not. Definitely not, now.”
THIRTY-NINE
IVY
I watch Sebastian’s long lashes flicker as he sleeps.
He finally lay down about an hour ago, after I woke up to find him sitting by the window again. Who knows how long he was there tonight.
Is he like this all the time? Or just for now?
The more I get to know him, the less I know about him, I’m realizing. He’s complicated. I sensed that from the moment I first met him. Dakota sensed it. This supposed “darkness.” But it’s more than just his ghosts—the little girl, his friends, his time in the war.
There’s definitely more.
Is Bobby right?
This stranger shows up at the shop one day, apparently on vacation, willing to pay just about anything to get a tattoo from me. He keeps coming back until I finally agree. And, except for a few hours apart while he “runs errands,” he has basically refused to leave my side since. Not that I’m complaining. Not once have I felt overwhelmed, or suffocated. I love having him around.
But aside from meeting his parents and what happened during the war, I know nothing about him. I don’t know where he actually lives because he lied about that. He’s never mentioned any friends. The one work phone call he received was him refusing to actually go to work and talking about mercenaries.
Was that a joke?
Nothing about his tone of voice that day would suggest it.
Everything that he’s said suggests he’s a loner. He shut his own parents out for five years. He’s back in San Francisco now; why, I have no idea, but he came with one small duffel bag that holds five T-shirts and two pairs of jeans. He comes out of a Home Depot restroom with a split lip that was not caused by walking into a wall because an ex–Navy SEAL who can take down three grown men without breaking a sweat is incapable of walking into walls. He sits by my window at night with his gun ready, waiting for something to happen, and his late-night confessions included doing things that he’s afraid I might not approve of.
Who are you, really, Sebastian?
Besides the stranger who strolled in and seized my heart?
FORTY
SEBASTIAN
“She probably thinks she’s alone.”
Ivy lies on her back next to me, staring up at the bedroom ceiling. “Both of our cars are parked outside.”
“Well, then . . . maybe this is payback. We haven’t exactly been quiet either.” I woke up to the sound of the front door closing about twenty minutes ago. Two voices—one, Dakota’s, and one, a male voice—carried through the small house, on their way to her bedroom.
Ivy woke up when the moaning began and the headboard knocking started.