Wild Swans

“I am. I’m not good at anything.” I can’t help it; I start crying again. “I love swimming, but I’m not good enough to go to the Olympics. I couldn’t even get to state. I love reading, but I’m not a writer, not really. I love baking, but I’m not going to be the next Julia Child. I love languages, but I’m not a natural polyglot. I’m just—mediocre. At everything.”

  Connor is frowning. “You’re, what, seventeen? You don’t need to have everything figured out. You don’t need to have anything figured out yet.”

  Jesus, I hate being patronized. “Dorothea did. Grandmother did. Erica knew what she wanted, even if she was too messed up to make it happen. And you do too.” I pull my hand away, annoyed. “You know exactly what you want. And Granddad says you’re talented. He doesn’t just say that, Connor. He doesn’t hand out praise lightly. You have to earn it.”

  “He says it about you,” Connor insists. “He’s really proud of you. Doesn’t he tell you that?”

  “No.” I can’t remember the last time Granddad told me he was proud of me. I was thrilled when I came in second at regionals, but he just said that next year I’d beat that girl from Salisbury. “Whatever I do, I should be doing more or better. I should practice harder, shave a few seconds off my backstroke. I should be journaling every day like Dorothea. I should be writing more poems and submitting them to literary journals. I should be taking classes this summer. Should, should, should. It never ends and I’m so tired of it.”

  “Have you told him how you feel?” Connor asks.

  As if it’s that simple. I glare at him. “Is that what you do with your parents? When they ask you what the hell you’re going to do with an English degree?”

  He has the grace to look ashamed. “No.”

  “Right.” I brush away tears with both hands and stand up. “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure.” He leads me through a cramped kitchen and down a short hall with two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom is gross, as befits the apartment of two college guys, I guess. I splash cold water on my face and wash my hands, and when I go back out, I feel calmer. I shouldn’t have snapped at Connor like that; he was only trying to help.

  I peek in the open door of the first bedroom. I suspect it’s Connor’s because of the two overflowing bookshelves. The bed is unmade, with a green comforter and rumpled blue sheets, and the only other furniture is a beat-up dresser with some framed photos on top.

  Connor’s footsteps hurry down the hall and I spin around, busted. “Hey. Can I look at your books?”

  “Sure.” He leads me in and immediately starts making his bed, which I could not care less about. I’m actually more interested in the photos than his books. There’s one of him in a graduation robe, flanked by his parents. His dad is tall and broad shouldered and white, with glasses and brown hair and a beard; his mom is tall and curvy and black, and she’s wearing a cute turquoise maxi dress.

  The picture next to it is of him and a short, skinny old lady with curly gray hair and wrinkled walnut skin. His grams. She beams up at him, the pride shining out of her like rays of sunshine. They clearly adore each another, and my stomach clenches at his loss. The third picture shows his family on the beach: his mom in a blue one-piece swimsuit, his dad in board shorts, Connor, and Ani, who is tall and skinny and could pass for a model in her tiny red bikini.

  “Is that your sister? She’s gorgeous,” I say. So are you, I think. In the photo, he’s shirtless, his tattoos and abs on full display.

  He laughs. “And she knows it. She just turned sixteen and she’s such a brat.”

  “Are you close?” I wonder sometimes what it would be like if I’d grown up with Isobel. We’re only two and a half years apart. Would we have fought each other for Granddad’s love and attention or bonded over his impossible expectations and been better for it? Would we have been the kind of sisters who borrowed each other’s clothes and asked each other for advice about boys?

  “Sort of. Ani thinks I’m pretty boring. I was kind of a nerd when I was her age,” Connor confesses. “Still am, really.”

  I scoff and pick up a photo of him and two other tall, muscular boys. “Let me guess—football team?”

  Connor laughs. “Yearbook coeditors. I went to a performing arts high school. We didn’t have sports teams.”

  I put the picture back and sit on his freshly made bed. The comforter is really soft. A little thrill runs through me at my bravery. I am in Connor’s apartment. Sitting on his bed. I’ve never been in a boy’s bedroom before, unless you count Alex’s. But Alex still uses his old brontosaurus sheets sometimes, and his walls are covered with posters of his baseball heroes. This feels so much more grown up.

  “Oh. I guess I just assumed… How did you break your nose?”

  “I got my ass kicked.” Connor shoves his hands in his back pockets. “I was bullied a lot in middle school.”

  “For what?” I can’t imagine him being unpopular.

  “Always having my nose stuck in a book. Raising my hand too much in class. Not being black enough—but not being white either. It was bullshit, but I was short and skinny, and I wore glasses, and I talked like an English teacher’s kid. I was an easy target.”

  I lean forward, intrigued. “What changed?”

  “I got my nose broken, and Dad took me to the gym and taught me how to box. Next time somebody hit me, I hit him back harder. I got suspended and Grams gave me hell for it, but kids left me alone after that.” He shrugs. “Then I transferred into Duke Ellington for high school. It was okay to be different there. Or maybe there were just more kids like me.”

  “Middle school sucks. Girls can be pretty vicious too. Not so much with physical fights, but gossip. For me it was all about how my mom was a crazy slut and didn’t even know who my dad was.”

  Connor sinks down next to me on the bed. “You’re not your family, Ivy.”

  “I know.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry for crying. And for snapping at you. I get so mad when people assume things about me, about my family. I shouldn’t have assumed it’s always been easy for you. I’m just…jealous. That you’re so focused.”

  He shrugs off the praise. “When I was getting shoved into lockers every day, I decided I was going to become the black J. K. Rowling and those middle school assholes would all be sorry. Then in high school I started writing poetry instead of Harry Potter fanfic, so I’m pretty sure I’m not going to end up rich and famous. Oh well.”

  Now I totally want to read his Harry Potter fanfic. “Which Hogwarts house are you?” This is one of my favorite questions. Claire is absolutely Gryffindor; Abby is Hufflepuff.

  “Ravenclaw,” he says without hesitation. “You?”

  “The Sorting Hat says Ravenclaw, but I think I’m probably Hufflepuff.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. Hufflepuffs: loyal and kind and hard workers, but not exactly setting the world on fire.

  “No way. You’re totally Ravenclaw,” he insists.

  I like the way he sees me. I like that he thinks I’m enough. Just me. Just Ivy.

  I lean in, then hesitate because I want to be really clear on this. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

  Connor grins, and for a second I get a glimpse of that shy, nerdy kid he used to be, and I am utterly smitten. “Yeah.”

  This time we both lean in. His mouth presses against mine, and his arm goes around me, resting on the curve of my hip. I run my hands up over the smooth muscles of his forearms, over his biceps, and he shudders a little beneath my touch. We kiss and kiss, and eventually fall back onto the bed, our legs tangling together.

  He kisses his way down my neck, and it tickles, but in a delicious way. When he moves the spaghetti strap of my sundress aside and presses a kiss to my shoulder, it’s my turn to shiver. He pauses. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, and he kisses my shoulder again. I trace his side, under his shirt, and he sits up and pulls the shirt off in one swift motion. Shirtless Connor is as hot as I imagined: all lean muscle and the Millay
tattoo over his heart. I push him back until he’s lying down and I’m leaning over him, tracing the words with my fingertips. Then I stop and read the lines just above his waistband. I explore those too, and the curve of his abdomen, the jut of his hip bones, until he grabs my hand and rolls me over so I’m beneath him.

  He braces himself on one forearm, kissing me deeply. I like the weight of him, the feel of us pressed together. It’s his turn to skim a hand up over my side, and this time he brushes a hand over my breast and I arch into him. He kisses a trail down my jaw to my ear, to this spot on my neck that feels amazing, down over my bare shoulder. I lean up to give him better access, and he slides my sundress down to my waist so I’m only in my strapless bra. He skims the lines of it, teasing until I’m trembling beneath him. Then he reaches behind me with one hand and unhooks my bra, tossing it aside.

  For a nerd, he’s sure as hell got game. Even I can’t unhook my bra one-handed.

  I fall back on the bed and he presses against me, skin to skin, and says my name. I look up at him. I have never been half-naked with anyone before and it’s a little scary. But his eyes are admiring. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I start to object but he interrupts me with another long, slow kiss. Eventually his mouth moves lower, to my breast, and the things he does with his lips and teeth and tongue have me squirming against him. I can feel him pressing against me through his shorts, and my stomach tightens with want.

  And then there are footsteps. “Connor? You home?” a voice calls, followed by the sound of the fridge opening.

  “Shit.” Connor leaps up. I grab the comforter and pull it over myself. “That’s Josh.” He raises his voice. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

  He gets up and yanks on his shirt and then steps out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him. I scramble to find my bra, which landed on the other side of the bed. I put it back on and wiggle the top of my sundress back up. When I stand and look in the mirror over the dresser, my hair is tangled and my lips are red and my chin is a little sore from Connor’s stubble. But I can’t stop smiling.

  Connor comes back a minute later. “Sorry.” He runs a hand over his head, looking embarrassed.

  “It’s okay.” But now that I’m dressed and vertical, I’m thinking again. About going home. About facing my mother and the mess she created. “Are we… What are we? I’m sorry, I should probably play this off like it’s no big deal, but—”

  Connor leans down and stops my words with a kiss. “Quit apologizing. I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Sorry, I—” I stop myself and laugh. Claire’s always scolding me about that too. “Are you seeing anybody else?”

  He shakes his head. “Are you?”

  “No. Definitely not. But what about working together?” I take a step back, out of the warm circle of his arms.

  Connor’s smile fades. “Are you asking me to quit working for the Professor?”

  “No, of course not. I know how important that is to you.” I would never ask him to choose. “I don’t want to quit either. I was just thinking that while we’re working, we could keep our relationship more…professional.”

  If Granddad knew, he would give me speeches designed to keep me from making my mother’s mistakes. Lecture me on not letting a boy distract me from writing and swimming and school. Would he feel the need to chaperone us constantly, to know where I am at all times? He certainly wouldn’t approve of me being at Connor’s apartment. I don’t think Connor and I would have gone much further if Josh hadn’t come home. I don’t think I’m ready. But I’d like to make up my own mind about that.

  Connor grabs my hand and pulls me in for another kiss. When we both come up for air, breathing hard, my hands laced around his neck, he grins. “So, just to clarify, none of that?”

  I smile up at him. “Definitely more of that. Just not around my family.”

  “I don’t love lying to the Professor. He’s been really good to me,” Connor says.

  “It’s not him. My mother… You saw what she’s like. If she finds out about us”—I can’t help smiling at the word, at the fact that there is an us—“she’ll make it into something ugly. She poisons everything she touches.”

  Connor takes my hand in his and I grin up at him, at this new effervescence between us that still feels fragile and as gossamer as a butterfly’s wings “Well, if you want to keep it quiet for now, I’m okay with that. We won’t let her poison this,” he promises.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  An hour later, I walk through the front door with a sense of dread. Granddad called twice while I was with Connor. I ignored both calls. I never do that, but after that scene Erica made, I think I deserved a few hours to myself without constantly gauging the temperature of the room, without that sick, anxious feeling that spins in my stomach as soon as I see her car in the driveway, without the constant tally in my head of whether the thing I’ve just said or done is something she would say or do, something a Milbourn girl would say or do.

  I’m so tired of the push and pull of living up to Granddad’s expectations or down to her example. It doesn’t feel like there’s any room left for me in between.

  “Ivy! Is that you?” Granddad calls, so I reluctantly make my way back to the kitchen. In the living room, a Disney movie murmurs, but Grace has fallen asleep in a nest of pillows, clutching her stuffed puppy. She looks so little. Vulnerable. She deserves a better mother.

  So do I.

  “Here she is. Liar number three,” Isobel mutters with a glare. She and Granddad sit at the kitchen table while Erica leans against the granite counter, her arms folded across her chest. To my surprise, she doesn’t have a glass of wine in her hand. Yet.

  “Where have you been?” Granddad asks. “Grace said you ran off.”

  “I went to Abby’s.” I fiddle with the strap of my sundress and try not to blush as I remember Connor sliding it off my shoulder and tracing its path with his mouth.

  I am a terrible liar, but it’s not like Granddad is going to guess that I was at Connor’s, making out with him and then playing video games with his roommate. Josh is really nice. When he met me, he said, “So this is the infamous Ivy,” and Connor punched him on the shoulder and told him to shut up. I couldn’t stop smiling because that meant Connor was talking about me to his friends, same as I was talking about him to mine.

  Granddad frowns. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

  We have a strict rule that when he calls, I pick up. He doesn’t check in much, so it’s not usually a problem.

  “Can you blame me for not wanting to come home after the scene she made?” I ask, waving a hand at Erica.

  “I need you to answer the phone when I call you,” he says.

  “I’m sorry.” I drop into the chair between him and Iz. “I just needed some time. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “Of course not. You’re too responsible for that,” Erica mocks.

  “Erica, we’ve already established that this situation is not Ivy’s fault.”

  Great. They’ve already been fighting about me.

  “It is too Ivy’s fault. It’s all of your faults,” Isobel grumbles, and there’s some truth to that. We all owe her an apology. “You made such a big deal out of wanting Gracie and me to feel at home here. How are we supposed to do that when you’ve been lying to us?”

  “I understand that we’ll need to earn your trust.” Granddad folds his hands on the table like he’s preparing for an inquisition. “You want to know something, just ask.”

  Iz only scowls. “That’s easy to say now. It isn’t like you told a little white lie to spare our feelings. This was a huge lie. We have a big sister we never knew about! For fifteen years, I thought I was the big sister!” Her voice breaks, her red-rimmed eyes welling up with tears. She swipes at them furiously, and I get the sense she doesn’t like crying in front of people any more than I do.

  “You are, Iz. You’re a great big sister. You always look out for Grace,” Eric
a says, and I am struck by her gentle tone. “The three of us, we’re a family. A real family. The kind that sticks together through ups and downs.”

  Granddad smacks the table with the flat of his hand, and Iz and I both jump in our seats. “That’s nonsense and you know it, Erica! I stuck by you through all your mistakes, and we both know there were a hell of a lot. You’re the one who walked out, on Ivy and on me.”

  I fold my hands in my lap so tightly that the knuckles go white. Granddad doesn’t lose his temper. He doesn’t cuss. He doesn’t hit things. This exhibition of temper isn’t like him, and I hate that Iz is seeing it without years of kindness to balance it out.

  “I didn’t have a choice! You were smothering me. I can’t breathe in this house. In this town. I was always Dorothea’s granddaughter, the Professor’s daughter, poor Grace’s—” Her voice breaks on her mother’s name. “New York, DC—they were perfect. No one knows what a Milbourn is supposed to be. No one gives a damn.”

  “And that’s how you want to live your life? In places where no one cares about you? Don’t you find that a little bit sad?” Granddad is a man of strong opinions. He hates comic books and broccoli and people who answer their phones during meals. But I’ve never heard him like this. Not when I took Alex’s “damn fool” dare and jumped from the sunroom roof. Not when one of his favorite students got caught plagiarizing a paper. Not even when he read a biography of Dorothea that included very unflattering things about the history of mental illness in the Milbourn family.

  And I see what he’s saying, but I also see what Erica’s saying about not getting the room you need to grow and change and be without the weight of Milbourn history crushing you. I wouldn’t put it like she does, but that anonymity…sometimes it looks real appealing.

  “I didn’t say no one cares about me. I said they don’t care that I’m a Milbourn. But I can see how you might have trouble telling the difference.” Erica gives him a serpentine smile. “Who would you even be without your wife’s name? Without your famous mother-in-law? Some nobody professor in some nothing town.”