The Book of Ivy

Page 36

 

  A sharp burst of hysterical laughter threatens to escape me. Callie would be doing a victory dance if she could hear him, but all I feel is dismay. “Why me?” I ask.

  “Because everyone needs someone to put their faith in,” Bishop says. “Life’s too lonely otherwise. And I’m putting mine in you. ” He lifts my wet hair off my neck, gathers it in his hands, and lets it fall down my back. The rain pounds on the pavement behind me, rushing off the eaves of the porch like a miniature waterfall. He skims his thumb across my cheekbone. “If I’d known about your mother,” he says quietly, “I would have told you. ”

  I believe him. He would have told me. He would have trusted me with the truth. He, of everyone, would have trusted me to be able to take it. “Bishop,” I murmur. We are standing so close together that our chests touch, his shirt wet from mine. I slide one hand up to his chest, pressing the damp cotton against his skin. He sucks in a breath and his heartbeat stutters drunkenly under my palm. His skin is warm, even through the cold cloth.

  I’m not a toucher by nature, so the contours of his body under my hand are foreign to me. I might have been more comfortable with touching if my mother had lived or my father were a different type of man. As it was, Callie was the only one who ever offered a kind caress, and that was usually when she wanted something from me. I’m guessing Bishop isn’t a born toucher, either, considering the woman who raised him. But I think if we were given a chance, we might be able to learn it together, guiding each other over unfamiliar topography. But we aren’t going to have that chance, not one based on honesty and trust. Our story was written long ago, and it does not have a happy ending. Bishop has put his faith in the wrong person.

  I let my hand drop.

  Maybe my father was right in suspecting I’m too delicate for this world. Because right now, I have never felt more fragile. I feel like a mouse being played with by a cat, batted around until I have lost all sense of direction. I still believe in my father’s cause, but now, standing next to Bishop, I am no longer convinced of anything except how much I do not want him to die. I recognize I’m right on the edge of disaster, although I can’t imagine there’s anything left of me to break. A detached, coldly curious part of me wants to push over the precipice just to see how far I fall.

  Bishop leans forward, and his breath stirs the tiny hairs on my neck. He smells of rainwater and soap and long-ago sunshine. “Ivy,” he whispers. His mouth rests below my ear as he breathes my name, his lips brushing feather-light against the sensitive skin. The raw, hollow space inside me opens briefly, singing with need. I have never wanted anything in my life the way I want him at this moment—my father’s approval, my sister’s admiration, they are pale desires in comparison.

  I wrench away before he can touch me again. “I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I can’t…”

  I barrel past him as he reaches for my arm. I stumble inside and down the hallway until I’m safe in the cool white porcelain bathroom, back pressed against the locked door. He knocks and I count my breaths—in out, in out—until I hear his footsteps walking away. Until the only sound left is a sharp buzzing silence in my head.

  “How come my lunch never looks as good as whatever you order?” I ask Victoria. I poke at a piece of chicken that more closely resembles a shriveled worm. “I’m not even sure this is food. ”

  Victoria laughs, but her gaze skims over my face with too much interest. “Rough night?” she asks.

  I touch a self-conscious hand to my eyes, which I know are still puffy and swollen from tears and too little sleep. “Allergies,” I say.

  “Uh-huh. ” Her tone lets me know she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t press, for which I’m thankful. It was difficult enough facing Bishop this morning across the breakfast table, his eyes worried and his jaw tight. I wanted to close the distance between us and put my arms around him again, feel his wrapped around me, but instead, I picked at my oatmeal in near silence and escaped to work as soon as I could.

  “Well, it’s your lucky day because we have a relatively light afternoon,” Victoria says. “You can go home early if you aren’t feeling up to being here. ”

  “No,” I say too quickly. “I’m fine. ”

  Victoria gives me a sad smile. “Marriage can be hard work. ”

  I open my mouth to protest, but deception takes more energy that I have today. “Yeah,” I say. “I think Bishop would have been better off with a different girl. ” I didn’t know I was going to say that until it was out of my mouth.

  “Oh, I don’t know. ” Victoria grins at me. “I think he’s pretty happy with who he got. ”

  “Why would you say that?” I ask, even as my stupid, self-destructive heart tap-dances in my chest.

  “I’ve run into him a few times since you got married. Bishop’s not an easy guy to read, but there’s something in his face when he talks about you. ” Victoria shrugs. “I don’t know, just an impression. ”

  My cheeks are burning and I lower my head to study my salad. I want Victoria to be right at the same time I know I should be hoping she’s wrong. I don’t want to talk about Bishop and me anymore. It’s a minefield with a million potential ways to ruin me.

  “Are you married?” I ask Victoria. She doesn’t wear a ring and she never mentions a husband, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Rings are hard to find; a lot of people don’t have them. We don’t have the resources to make jewelry, so the only rings available are those scavenged or passed down from before the war. And maybe her husband died, or she doesn’t like him, or she wants to keep her relationship separate from work. There is a multitude of valid reasons why she might choose not to talk about him.

  “I used to be,” she says. “It didn’t work out. ”

  “What happened?” It is probably rude to ask, but Victoria won’t answer if she doesn’t want to. I’m imagining a marriage like Meredith’s, although I can’t picture Victoria taking a fist to the face without throwing one right back.

  Victoria swallows a long drink of water, crunches an ice cube between her teeth before answering. “He was from your side of town. Kevin. ” She says the name like it hurts her to speak it. “We were married for ten years. But I could never get pregnant. ” She turns her head away to look out the smeared cafeteria window. “In the end, I let him go. ”

  My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

  “He wanted children. And I couldn’t give him that. I told him a hundred times I’d sign the petition to end the marriage. I knew President Lattimer would sign off on it if my father asked him to. But Kevin wouldn’t do it. But the hundred and first time, he finally agreed. ” Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears.

  “Did you love him?” I ask, although the answer is already clear on her face.

  “Not right from the beginning. But they did their job well pairing us up. We were such good friends, almost from the start. And the love grew from there. ”

  This is the side of the arranged marriages that Bishop was talking about when he said that sometimes they work. Victoria and Kevin. Stephanie and Jacob. They are the matches that end in love and have the potential to make it long term. It’s probably about the same percentage of marriages that work when people decide for themselves. No better, no worse. But at least with the old-fashioned way, the decision was in the hands of the ones actually getting married. And they weren’t still essentially children when they were joined for life.