Chapter Thirteen Ivy
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ivy
" S o, what are you saying?" Brad looks at me from our kitchen table, cell phone still to his ear, cowboy hat on his knee. He was having an early lunch when I came through the door from my appointment. In truth, my appointment was over hours ago but I just drove aimlessly after that, registering. I sniff and take a tissue to the kitchen window. Looking out at the pastures I love so much, I try to absorb the news the doctor just unloaded on me today.
"Dr. Marshall says I will have a hard time because my uterus isn't exactly hospitable. My cervix seems like it may just be too short to carry a baby to term. He said I should go on good birth control, to regulate my periods better." I'm tired of crying. I've been crying all day, since I was told this news. "I thought you'd be happy," I say to Brad as he sits, quietly nodding.
"You know how I feel about kids. But I'm not happy you can't have kids, Ivy. Just more relieved it's not in the cards for me when it wasn't in my plan. And you should go on birth control. I've been telling you that for two years," he says.
I flinch at his words as reality smacks me in the chest for the hundredth time. Always about what he feels, never about me, ever.
"Brad, I haven't even processed this yet, and I never wanted to take birth control. You know how I feel about messing with the natural order of things. But for now, I will. I'd be scared to get pregnant if it's not possible for me to carry a child," I say, feeling the tears welling up again, my body wishing, begging for him to come to me, wrap his arms around me and tell me it will all be okay. That he loves me enough anyway. That I'm still worth it.
"I'm sorry," I offer, looking for the common ground between us, knowing it's not my fault but still feeling the need to apologize.
"Hey, it works out good that we're together. Another man might be heartbroken over this." His comment isn't snide, but it still makes me feel worse all the same, and my heart shatters even more.
Brad looks up at me, no emotion on his face, and he says nothing. Five minutes passes, me looking out the window with my tears, Brad still sitting on hold on the phone.
"Uh, I'm gonna go for a drive, clear my head. Is there anything you need?" he asks.
Affection? Understanding? Love? the voice in my head screams.
"No." I sniff. "I'll be fine."
"Okay … and don't worry, honey, I'm the kind of guy who sticks things out, okay? Even through things like this. See why we're meant to be?" He smiles. "This is a lot for you to deal with, we'll go out for dinner tonight . I feel like Mexican anyway, Shafer was just talking about that new place on Baxter Street …"
I block out the rest of his rambling. That's the last thing I feel like doing, but I nod anyway robotically.
"… but I'll be back. I just need some time, fresh air," he finishes awkwardly as he grips the front door handle. The only thing I got from anything he said was that it was a lot for me to handle . Not us . Me. Brad says nothing more as the person he's on hold for comes on the line. His face goes blank as he swings the door open.
"Rick, I'm great, buddy, how are you?" He chuckles as the front door closes behind him like it's any other day. The moment I hear his truck fire up I let the tears consume me.
I open one eye, expecting to see my own cabin ceiling, then smother a tiny cry as I stretch. Right, ankle, pain. Shit.
The dreams of Brad not being there for me come a lot less now but they still come, and I wonder how I didn't see it when I was in the thick of it.
Can't go backward, only forward, Angel. My dad's age-old saying runs through my mind as mid-morning sunlight streams through the windows, little dust fragments floating in their beams as I gently try to move my foot. Miraculously, it doesn't feel quite as tight as it did when I fell asleep. It's still propped on the pillow Wade placed there for me; in fact, I don't think I even moved. I search for the clock, knowing my cell phone is still in my cabin, likely dead at this point.
Ten a.m. Good Lord. I just slept for almost nine straight hours. In Wade's cabin. My boss's cabin. The boss who tenderly blow-dried my hair last night and behaved like a perfect gentleman when I pulled him down on top of me in bed. The boss that didn't even bat an eye helping me even though it seems like making himself uncomfortable is the last thing he ever wants to do.
I sit up and stretch myself out. My ankle is still swollen but it definitely feels a little better than last night. When I get to the living area, I see the coffee table has been moved and a blanket is ready for me on the sofa, and my mouth falls open as I look to the kitchen in shock. Either Wade's gone overboard or a pack of yellow Post-it notes exploded. They are everywhere, in various places around the cabin.
The first note I see is on the very fancy-looking gas range stove and it says, " Don't fuck with my stove until I teach you how it works or there will be hell to pay ," in his angled, manly scrawl.
His coffee maker is ready with coffee to be brewed and Post-it instructions on which buttons to press depending on whether I like a light or dark roast. A mug sits beside it and my phone, which is plugged in and fully charged with two missed calls from Brad 1 and Brad 2 —Brad's ranch and house lines—beside a crockpot on the peninsula that is full of warm oatmeal, and a bowl, sugar, maple syrup and honey. The note in front of it reads, " Didn't know what you'd like so here is everything. "
A tight feeling takes over my body. Knowing he made the effort to go get my phone for me, and that he was in my cabin, doesn't even bother me. I'm grateful he even thought about it. I'm not sure how to manage the feeling as I wonder briefly when he did this. After he left me at one a.m.? Did he not sleep all night?
I press the button for dark roast because I need something strong this morning. This whole situation is a little overwhelming. In the time my coffee takes to brew I make my way around the comfortable cabin. I probably shouldn't venture into Wade's side of the house but I can't help myself. I move slowly down the dark hall and peek into his bedroom. The door is wide open and the entire space smells like Wade straight out of the shower. There isn't much in here, just a massive king-size bed, maybe the biggest one I've ever seen. The walls are deep wood like the rest of the space, and his large rustic headboard takes center stage. The bed is perfectly made with solid navy bedding, and one dresser with a simple lamp sits against the far wall. I make my way over to it and take in the things sitting on top. A docking station for his phone, antler bookends around vintage copies of The Great Gatsby , The Art of War , and a few others I don't recognize, a very old cowboy hat, and the culprit for his delicious scent.
I pick up the amber glass bottle and inhale. It's locally made. Cedarwood, bergamot, smoke, citrus, the label says. Whatever it is, it threatens to dampen my panties every time I breathe it in. I leave his room behind and move back to the kitchen, and sitting down on a stool at the counter I scarf down some oatmeal and peruse his other notes.
One on the drawer labeled " Cutlery. "
One on the pantry labeled " Dry food, help yourself. "
Another on the pantry that says " Don't eat my Pop-Tarts. "
I smile. Big mistake writing that, buddy.
I drink my coffee, then make my way to the living room, scooting up to the comfortable sofa. There are Post-it notes with the remotes on the side table that say what streaming services he has. I open my favorite one up and scroll through his "Watch Again" catalog, selecting one of my own favorites, and settle in. It's midway through Point Break that Wade finds me curled up on his sofa.
His eyes flit to mine as he takes his cowboy hat off and sets it down on the bench near the door.
"You behave this morning? No cooking?"
I nod, trying to ignore the odd way heat covered my body when he asked if I'd behaved.
"Yeah, I'm not taking any chances of making it worse."
"I don't know who the ‘Brads' are but they called you twice between the time I got your phone and plugged it in," he says. "I wanted you to have it in case you needed anything. I don't have a landline," he offers as what seems like reasoning for going into my cabin.
Always practical, always in control and always thinking of everything.
I'm starting to realize these are the cornerstones of Wade's personality.
Wade doesn't seem to be looking for an explanation but I give him one anyway.
I chuckle and then spill the tea. "The ‘Brads' are one person, my ex. The numbers are any line he tries to call me from. I worked with him during my time at Bellingham."
"As in Bradley? The Bellinghams' son?"
"Yes. You know him?"
"Met him briefly when I was a teenager, but probably couldn't pick him out of a lineup now. A little spoiled, if I remember right. He told us all more than once he was the boss's son and he'd take over the ranch one day."
"Sounds about right, and he's still waiting," I say.
"None of my business, but why don't you just tell him to stop calling if you don't want to talk to him?" Wade asks as he starts pulling things out of the fridge and fills himself a glass of water.
I laugh because yes, it should be that simple. "I've tried that, he doesn't listen. Doesn't take no for an answer very well. I've been meaning to get a new phone, but I'm trying to save every penny right now and blocking his numbers didn't work so well. He calls less than before but it's still frustrating."
Wade's jaw flexes in thought as he grabs a knife and cutting board. "No judgment, I have lots of experience in the shitty ex department, but bottom line, Trouble, a man should always respect a woman's wishes, even if he doesn't agree with them." He says nothing more on the subject and then looks up at me and asks, "Okay then, you like pineapple?"
I smile at both his assessment and his way of not scolding me for dating someone who is clearly an asshole.
Wade makes quick work in the kitchen as I continue the movie. I watch him in my periphery, as he washes his hands carefully then rolls his flannel up over his forearms, the little knot between his brows deepening as he works, slicing up cheeses and fruits, placing crackers and meats on a wood board.
"Never took you for the action movie type." He nods to the TV as he sets the rather pretty charcuterie board down beside me and seats himself on the other side of it.
"My favorite kind of movie," I say enthusiastically. "The classics especially, the more action, the better."
"Well, we have that in common," he says as he helps himself to some of his offerings.
"When did you do"—I look around and nod toward the Post-its—"all this? Did you even sleep at all last night?" I ask.
A look crosses Wade's face, one I don't quite understand.
"Slept great." He leans into me, his voice deep. "Running on ninety seconds, Johnny … pure adrenaline," he says, quoting a famous line that Patrick Swayze's character says in the movie.
I gasp dramatically, then laugh. "Wade Ashby, was that a joke ?"
"Nah … you should know by now I don't joke," he says, his face instantly unreadable again as he pops a grape into his mouth.
"Right, I forgot. Jokes bad, grunts and scowls good." I giggle.
He grunts with exaggeration at me and leans back into the sofa, relaxing his legs, but I don't miss it for a second. The full and devastating lopsided smirk that plays on his lips. A smirk that makes my stomach drop.
"Something like that, Trouble, something like that," he says, that smirk just enticing me where I sit. I can't do anything but stare at him for a moment.
It's like I'm seeing a whole other side to Wade Ashby, and try as I might I just can't seem to look anywhere else.