I thought it might be cooler outside, but I was wrong. It’s late afternoon, and the greens and squash leaves are wilting, curling in on themselves. The only plants people are allowed to water during the drought are food plants, nothing decorative, and only then after the sun’s gone down. I helped Daddy pack the garden with thick mulch to help the moisture stay in throughout the day, but it can only do so much.
The house is stifling hot, even with all the windows open and the fans on. Daddy did not think to add air-conditioning to the old church when he rebuilt the insides. Even though it’s been decades since it was true, old-school Seattleites still think they don’t need air-conditioning. Living without it is their weird version of macho.
I don’t hear any footsteps, but somehow I know Ivy is behind me, even before she says, “What are you doing?”
“Looking at dying plants.”
“Sounds fun.”
“How’d you get here without being seen?”
“I have my ways.”
“Huh.” I pretend to be looking at the plants some more, but mostly I’m waiting for Ivy to ask me if I’m mad at her. Papa would say I’m being passive-aggressive. Daddy would say something about honesty and practicing wise communication. Lily would say something about how Ivy’s not even worth it.
Ash is out of town visiting his dad in rehab, so that means Ivy has time for me again. I’m the leftovers.
“Want to come over for a swim?” she says. “The air’s clear today. Who knows how long that’ll last?”
I don’t say anything. I am looking at dying plants.
“I need your help with something,” she says. “Are you still my assistant?”
I turn around and look at her, and for a second she seems so normal—beautiful, but normal—with her long dark hair around her bare shoulders, her black tank top, her cutoff shorts, her sandals, her face raw and free of makeup or pretense, maybe with even a hint of loneliness. When no one else is looking, maybe she is more like me than anyone thinks.
“Okay,” I say. So she is not perfect. She is someone who can neglect a friend for a few days while she’s distracted by a boy. How much more normal can you get?
“Oh good!” she says, and seems genuinely excited. “I’ve missed you, Fern.” And her voice turns my name into music.
She is more comfortable in the forest than I expected she’d be. But she walks fast, with a purpose, a destination, while I usually meander, trying to notice every little thing, identify every mushroom and slug and sprout with the names Daddy has been teaching me since birth.
These are different trails than the ones I walk on the interior of the island, the ones Ash runs. We’re on the other side of the forest, between my house and the waterfront. Our feet follow the narrow paths made by generations of deer and raccoons, smaller and wilder than the ones I’m used to. The paparazzi cannot find us here.
We reach Olympic Road far from her house, past where the street curves to the right, hiding us from where the handful of cars are parked outside her house. Funny how the paparazzi are allowed to camp out there all day and night, but if island security even suspects someone of living in their car, or if they just think the car is an eyesore, the vehicle is impounded and the people are arrested, no questions asked.
Ivy peeks out of the forest and looks both ways, then grabs my hand as we dash across the street into the bushes on the other side. The branches grab at me, spiderwebs twist around my wrists and ankles, and I am stumbling blind through brambles, Ivy leading me through some hidden back way to her house that she and Ash created. Now I am in on the secret too.
An old stump sits at the foot of a wall, just high enough for us to use as a boost to throw ourselves to the other side. Ivy is unscathed, but I am covered with scratches and mosquito bites, the crosshatching of thin lines of blood all over my arms and legs, leaves and dirt stuck to the sweat on my skin, like I am some kind of magnet for the earth, and she is impenetrable, only made for sparkling things. “Come on,” she says, and I follow her across the manicured grounds to a sliding glass door, where I can see all the way through to the other side of the house, everything inside the glass walls flawless and still.
Upstairs, there are thick plastic sheets on the floor, everything covered with a layer of white dust. “My mom’s redoing some rooms neither of us ever use.”
“Why?”
“What else is she going to do?”
“She does the work herself?”
Ivy doubles over herself with laughter.
“Oh my god,” she says after she calms down. “Fern, you’re hilarious. No, she does not do the work herself. She hires people to do it and then tells them how to do their job.”
Ivy loans me one of her many swimsuits and we get changed in her bedroom. I can tell a housekeeper has been here recently because I can actually see the floor. Everything is put back in its place. All the broken things have been thrown away. I try not to look at the unmade bed, try not to think about what has been happening in there since I was here last, try not to picture Ash under those sheets, in the place where I once, briefly, was. Where Ivy probably faced him, looked into his eyes, and touched him back.
I wonder if she even remembers the morning she called me to her bed. Maybe she was in a blackout. Maybe what happened has been erased, or maybe it was never even recorded.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror, in the tiny bikini I would never choose for myself. I do not recognize the girl I see, this girl with so much skin, with long legs and curves all over the place. I am not who I used to be. I am not my fathers’ daughter.
“Hey there, beautiful,” Ivy says with a grin, locking eyes with me in the mirror. I can’t tell if she’s serious or if this is some joke imitation of a catcall, but either way, I blush and look away.
“Don’t be so modest,” she says. “You’re one hot mama.” I laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of her words.
“‘Hot mama’?” I say. “You’re such a nerd.” And she smiles like that’s the nicest thing I could ever say to her. Ivy Avila has been called many things, but “nerd” is probably not one of them.
It’s almost too hot to be outside, but the pool makes it bearable. Ivy pours us mimosas, heavy on the champagne, in cups that fit nicely in the cup holders of our inflatable rafts. We lie on our backs, drifting until we get too hot, then we roll into the water. We do this again and again, falling into a kind of rhythm of swimming, then floating and drinking until our skin dries, then swimming again until we cool off. And I realize this is some people’s whole life—plenty of people on this island—just moving from one lovely thing to the next, trying to get a little more comfortable. And still they find things to complain about.
“It’s working, Fern,” Ivy says dreamily. “Ash is turning back to the boy I knew. His real self.”
I wonder if his “real self” according to Ivy is the same Ash I remember from when we were kids, the one who, even back then, already knew the rules of being perfect, but would crack that shell for a select few so we could see inside, just a little.
“Tami really fucked him up,” Ivy says. “She’s abusive. I’m serious. She belittled everything good about him until he just packed it away, put all his feelings and creativity into little boxes inside himself that he keeps locked up so he won’t get hurt. His whole ‘I’m too cool to care’ thing is just how he protects himself. It’s how he tries to stay in control.”
So what does that mean? Is being out of control the solution? But I don’t ask.
“I’ve got him all figured out,” Ivy says.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m getting better,” she says. She reaches out and grabs my hand over the water. “I feel strong. I think I’m ready to start working again. You’ve helped me more than any shrink.”
“How?” I say.
“Just being here. Just listening, without judging me. You don’t tell me to be anyone different.”
“Okay,” I say. I am useful for doing nothing. This is what she pays me for.
“People like Tami, they always win,” Ivy says. “But not this time.”
I don’t know how much I drink because Ivy keeps refilling my cup, but after a while I realize I am drunk. I am under the water, eyes open, watching how Ivy’s shadow moves across the bottom of the pool, erasing the glittering web of the water, how everything pops and bubbles in my ears, how it’s so peaceful down here, I almost don’t mind not breathing. But my survival techniques get the best of me and force me to the surface.
I suck in air and the world comes back into focus. Champagne sloshes in my stomach as I bob in the water. I open my mouth to call to Ivy but stop when I realize she is talking to her mother standing at the side of the pool. The brightness of the day has suddenly turned oppressive. Chlorine burns my eyes, and the acid of champagne and orange juice burns my esophagus. I find the side of the pool and walk myself to the shallow end with my hands. I am hiding.
“Ivy, get out of the pool,” her mom says. “I want to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me right here.”
Ms. Avila sighs, puts her hands on her hips. “Dr. Chen says you haven’t been returning her calls.”
Ivy’s sigh is identical to her mother’s. “Dr. Chen is not a good therapist. She shames me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She doesn’t trust me to make my own decisions.”
“Why would she? You’re a fucking mess. I pay her good money to help you make decisions.”
“Are you serious? You pay her good money?”
“Don’t start that again. I’ve worked my ass off for you since you were nine. I’ve earned that money.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Where do you go all day when you disappear?”
“None of your business.”
“Are you using again?”
“Mom, shut up.” Ivy pushes off the wall with her foot and glides across the pool.
“Why hasn’t Ash been over today or yesterday?”
“I told you already. He’s visiting his dad.”
“I don’t think you’re making enough of an effort with him. You need to work harder.”
“He’s my boyfriend, not yours.”
“No, he’s still Tami Butler’s boyfriend. That’s my fucking point. You already lost him once. But you’ve still made it further with him than any of the other ones we tried.”
“You’re obsessed.” Ivy glides across the pool again.
“Listen to me,” Ivy’s mom says. Her heeled rhinestone sandals click on tile as she stomps around the pool. She catches Ivy’s floatie under her foot and wedges it against the side so Ivy can’t move.
“Hey!” Ivy says, grabbing on to the side of the pool. “You’re going to flip me over.”
“I know you don’t believe me, but you’re not going to be young and beautiful forever. Your career has a shelf life, and it’s shorter than you think. For all we know, it may already be over. You have to start thinking about your future. Our future.”
“Let me go, Mom,” Ivy says, pushing against the pool wall, but she’s not going anywhere.
“You’re damaged goods, Ivy. Girls like you are fun for flings, but no one wants a crazy girl long term. Maybe we set our sights too high with this one. Maybe it’s time to forget about Ash Kye and find someone dumb and rich who’ll be grateful to have you.”
Ivy stops pushing. I feel her heart stop beating in my own chest.
“Work harder with Ash,” Ms. Avila says, and then kicks Ivy and her raft into the middle of the pool. “You need him.”
“You mean you need him.”
“I’m going to get a massage,” Ivy’s mom says as she walks away, her heeled sandals clicking on the patio tiles.
“Of course you are. Go relax after all that hard work you do.” No one hears Ivy but me. No one else hears the crack in her voice.
Ivy slides off her raft into the water. I wait a long time for her to surface. Is she down there thinking the same things I was, watching the shadows and the light, questioning if she even wants to come back up again?
When she finally comes back up, I gulp in air with her, and I realize I was holding my breath the whole time she was under.
“Are you okay?” I say when we’ve both caught our breath.
She doesn’t answer me right away. I watch her climb out of the pool, the water glistening as it rolls off her skin. She walks a few steps to the outdoor bar, leaving puddles in her wake.
“She’s leaving the day after tomorrow,” Ivy says, her back to me as she pours vodka into a glass. “For two whole glorious weeks. I just focused on that the whole time she was talking. I’ve made an art form of tuning her out.”
“Where’s she going?” I ask, even though that’s not anywhere near an important question.
“Some overpriced health spa where rich women pay a bunch of money for bullshit treatments to cure their meaningless lives. Like getting sound healing and putting crystals in her vagina and eating nothing but juice for two weeks is going to make her any less repulsive. Maybe one of her colonics will backfire and she’ll end up in the hospital. A girl can dream.”
Ivy pours a splash of club soda and squeezes a lime into her glass. “Are you making one of those for me?” I say, even though I have a headache, even though the sticky remnants of orange juice and champagne have turned my mouth sour, even though my stomach is still sloshing.
“Of course,” she says with a smile.
I am sitting on the side of the pool with my feet dangling in, my ass burning on the hot tile. I can’t decide if I want to be in or out.
“Ash is getting back tomorrow,” Ivy says as she hands me my drink and sits beside me. “You should hang out with us. With me and Ash.”
“I don’t want to be the third wheel,” I say.
“But what if we’re a tricycle?” she says, weaving her fingers through mine. “Did you ever think of that?”