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“Yeah.” I’m trying not to sound pissed, because if I think about it, I will be. “We’re going to have words about that later.”
Ivy’s head nods, but she grips me tighter. I reach past her and grab the tissue box someone left on the side of the bed. Ivy blows her nose, then settles back onto me.
We’re quiet for a long time. My left hip is numb and my shirt is damp with her tears. But I don’t move.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say. “About things. My mom died a slow, painful death.” I breathe past the tightness in my chest. “Drew lost his parents overnight... Truth is, life ebbs and flows no matter what we do. All these years, I’ve been trying to get some control over that by not giving a shit about anything. What kind of life is that?”
Ivy’s fingers play with mine as she leans more of her weight on me, sinking into my strength for support. I’m glad I’m strong, that my body can be used for more than sex or football. That it can be used in service of her, to protect, comfort.
“Bad things happen, Mac,” I whisper thickly. “And this? It tears my heart apart.”
Ivy shudders, a little sniffle coming out. I hold her as close as I can without squeezing her too hard, and then press my lips to her head. “I hurt for you. For me. For... Shit.”
A choked sound comes out of me. And then it’s Ivy holding me tight, her face pressed against the crook of my shoulder. “Gray...”
“I know, honey. I know. Hell, I’m not saying this right.” Gently I cup her cheek, tilting her head back so she meets my gaze. Her dark eyes swim with tears, and it guts me all over again. My thumb glides over her damp skin. “We can’t control the bad things, Ivy. But we can be there for each other when they happen. And the good stuff? It’s worth everything and anything if I can share the good stuff with you.”
Tears spill over Ivy’s cheeks as she reaches for me. “Cupcake.” Her lips find mine.
And I don’t want to talk anymore, or to think. I just want to kiss her and hold on. Forever.
Ivy
We go home the next morning. Gray doesn’t leave my side. Not for three days. He holds me when I cry; he holds me when I don’t. He takes me to the doctor to get a checkup, then takes me home and makes me cream of tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches, because I’d once told him that it was a childhood favorite. And when I want to watch a movie, he drags the TV into our bedroom and creates a makeshift theater.
This morning I assure him it’s fine to leave me alone for a while. He’s got more practice and a meeting with his team to start prepping for the National Championship.
It’s evening when he comes home, catching me in the act of dancing around the living room to “Why Can’t I Be You?” A tilted smile graces his face as I stumble to a stop, my breath light and panting. Flushed, I push a hand through my sweaty hair. “Hey. Gotta love the Cure, eh?”
“I’ve never heard them before.” Gray sets his duffel bag down. “Sounds like something Anna would listen to. She has a thing for Siouxsie and the Banshees.”
“Oh, they’re great too. I used to find a lot of vintage records of theirs in London. Mom has a player...” I pick at the hem of my shirt. “I was restless. Felt like dancing.”
I don’t know why I’m explaining. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I’m weirdly guilt-ridden.
Only that smile of his is still there. “I can see that. Feel free to carry on.” He leans a shoulder against the wall and waggles his brows as if encouraging me.
With a huff of laughter, I turn off the speakers. “Why do I have the feeling you like watching me dance? And not because I’m great at it?”
Truth is, I know I’m not great at dancing. But I like doing it, so I don’t really care.
His smile grows. “Because you’re cute as a bug.”
Slowly he strolls over to me. His body is warm and smells of soap. I hum in pleasure as he hugs me close and peppers soft kisses over my face. “I’m glad you felt like dancing, Ivy Mac.”
With his arm wrapped around my waist, he guides me over to the couch, his nose nuzzling my hair. “It’s okay to let yourself be happy again, honey.”
I know he’s right. Somehow, his words make me feel free to let myself relax.
We settle down, Gray propping his big feet on the coffee table, and me leaning on his chest. His hand rests on my thigh, and I notice that all his fingers are wrapped in bandages. On both hands.
“What happened?” Alarmed, I pick up one of his hands. “Did you get in a fight?”
“Nah,” he says easily. “Nothing like that.” Gray shifts around a bit and starts pulling the bandages off his left hand. “Got this done earlier.”
Past the slightly puffy redness of his skin, I see that he now has a black number tattooed on each of his four fingers. “One-one-eight-four,” I read out loud.
“Yep.” Gray unravels the rest of the bandages. He holds his other hand out in front of us, his fingers spread wide and displaying the numbers one-two-one-zero, before letting it rest on my leg once more. “I’ve been wanting another tattoo. I’ve thought about using an amicable number pair for a while. But after New Orleans, I knew.”
