Writing On The Wall (The King Brothers Duology #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

IVY

Nobody likes showering at the gym. You never know what jiggly bits might assault your eyes while people with flushed, post-workout cheeks parade around naked in the locker room. But beggars can’t be choosers, and a girl’s gotta get clean.

I wave guiltily at the receptionist after swiping my membership card, heading straight for the locker room. I give the fitness machines a cursory glance as I pass them. It’s been a while since I nearly killed myself on a treadmill. My annual ‘I’m going to get fit ’ resolution only lasts two days for a reason. Those contraptions weren’t made for the accident prone, like myself. I hate how much I resemble Bella Swan in this shortcoming. But regardless of my lack of fitness, my morning has begun, and I still have to complete the slightly degrading task of showering before school. My car might be able to serve as a makeshift bedroom, but it can’t replace running water.

I’m enveloped in the humid aroma of chlorine and generic body wash as I walk into the locker room, clutching my bag. I round the corner to the showers, coming face-to-face with the first pair of senior citizen dangly parts for the day. That’s the downside to arriving before 7 AM—the bits that hang and swing around the locker room mostly belong to an advanced generation. Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with aging and being proud of what ya mama gave ya—it’s just a lot of pruney skin for 6:30 in the morning.

The first thing I do is brush my teeth, then I remove my shoes and shuffle into a pair of flip-flops before picking an empty shower and making sure the curtain is well and truly closed. I don’t quite share my fellow locker roommates’ affinity for nudity. Before I turn the water on, I hang up my clothes in the hopes that the steam from the shower might smooth out some of the wrinkles.

There’s still no response from Ross when I check my phone one last time before stripping down. My brother has been MIA, leaving me in a pile of trouble. He sends the odd text, like yesterday, telling me he can’t talk but never answers any questions or picks up the phone when I call.

I think I shed a few tears under the spray of the water, but one can never be sure when crying in the shower. Am I just silently making ugly faces in an attempt to process the crap storm that is my life? It’s a little less cathartic when you can’t feel the salty drops on your cheeks. I give myself sixty seconds. That’s all. Sixty seconds to cry (probably) and let out my frustrations.

That’s all I have time for, and it’s as much as I can allow myself to feel at the moment. If I were to try and face everything that’s happening at once, I’m not sure I’d be able to hide my desolation very well. The puffy eyes would be a dead giveaway, not to mention the fact that I’d be reduced to a pile of emotions, curled up on the floor. Because I need a place to live, and I can’t see any way of making that happen if Ross doesn’t pay me back.

So sixty seconds is all you get, Ivy June .

I twist my blonde hair into a neat bun, not wanting any visible evidence of being out of my element. A silky teal ribbon finishes the look. I chose it to match my teal wedges—perfect height extenders for the vertically challenged.

As I leave, the check-in lady’s eyes narrow my way, tracking my exit, and the shuffling of my heels quickens.

“I swear I’ll work out next time!” I grimace, timing my words so that I’m out the door before she can reply. There’s nothing in my gym contract that says I have to step foot in the workout zone.

I amble through five minutes of traffic, preparing to slip into my professional persona—Happy Ivy—carefree and committed to helping everyone, despite the extra hours of work that sometimes lands me.

It’s not hard to smile throughout the day when you get to spend it with a bunch of eager eight-year-olds. We’re currently learning about countries and cultures around the world, which feels like a delightful little escape on its own.

The school bell rings, signaling the end of the day and causing my shoulders to slump as I survey my empty classroom. There’s a sudden longing for the noise that I use to drown out the chaos of my personal life. I linger there as long as I can, delaying the inevitable for a while longer before finally getting into my car and stopping at the nearest grocery store for the day’s discounted hot meal.

When I’m done eating, I park on a side street within eyesight of Carl’s security booth at Crystal Retirement Village. That small fragment of familiarity and just knowing someone kind is near makes things feel a little less dangerous.

There’s a theory that the human psyche can survive anything—the harshest conditions, imprisonment, capture, extreme poverty, and trauma—when routine exists. The simple act of waking up and choosing to repeat the same order of mundane tasks each day and having the same place to store important things creates a sense of stability for the brain and allows it to find a semblance of normality amidst chaos.

Knowing that my sanity is hanging by a thread, I’ve quickly established my own routine. For instance, I ensure I have a full bottle of water by refilling it at the last place I visit. This is my final normal act before slipping into my alternate life.

My little routine is simple, but I know it’s important for my state of mind.

I wait until sunset to sort through the clothes I plan to wear tomorrow and lay them on the seat behind me, next to my wedges. I retrieve my toiletry bag from the glove compartment and use travel supplies to clean my face and brush my teeth. This is where the water comes in handy. After checking the road for lurkers, I do a quick swish and spit onto the sidewalk. It probably looks gross, I know, but this isn’t a long-term thing—so don’t judge me.

Next, I recline my seat as far as it’ll go, grabbing my pillow and blanket from underneath the piles of things behind me. Pro tip: When living in your car, the actual sleeping accessories are the most important things to hide—they’re a dead giveaway and raise too many questions. Not that I want anybody to ever end up in this situation.

I get through the night relatively well. It’s not comfortable, but again, I don’t plan on doing it much longer, so I muster through because Ross said he’ll have my money soon.

Waking up is another thing. The level of where the hell am I? in those first few seconds is unmatched.

There’s a chill in the car this morning, even though the temperatures don’t usually drop too drastically in this part of Texas. I start the engine, holding my hands over the vents to warm them. But the thing I miss the most about having my own apartment isn’t a warm bed or a hot shower. Nope. It’s having a place to pee at 5 AM in the morning. Even in the most primitive form of camping, you can find a bush to squat behind. But when you’re parked on a quiet suburban street, those kinds of things are frowned upon.

I reach for my stash of breath mints in a cup holder and suck one while driving the two minutes it takes me to get to the nearest Starbucks. This is my pee stop. As much as my veins crave a caffeinated fix, I’d be less than broke too quickly if I added daily coffee purchases to my routine.

After Starbucks is a ten minute drive to the gym for a shower, and then the transformation from my night-life to my day-life is complete.

At the end of the school day when I’m alone in my classroom again, Toby walks in, holding two cups of coffee.

“Oh my word, you’re an angel!” I sing, practically snatching one out of his hand.

“Those could have both been for me, you know.”

“Uh-uh” I mumble over a sip, the steam fogging my glasses. “That would be weird. That’s good coffee. Where’d you get this?”

“I may have put my own machine in the utility closet in my classroom.”

A burst of laughter wants to erupt, and I barely avoid a spit-take. “You did not.”

“I swear. The coffee here sucks. It’s a matter of survival.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just you.” He grins over his cup.

“You’re my supplier now. I can’t go back to the bad stuff.”

“A wonderful sentence for a second-grade teacher to be saying.”

“We can call it a girlfriend perk.” I slump back, tilting my head wistfully. “It really is a pity I don’t find you wildly attractive. ”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. It would be convenient if I didn’t already think of you as a sister. It’s too bad you’re not my type, either.”

“I’m not sure I’m anyone’s type,” I grumble with only a tinge of sarcasm. That statement is a little too on-the-nose.

“Vee—”

“This isn’t about me,” I swat his words away, shifting onto a desk, and Toby scoots beside me. “Let’s talk fake relationship. How’re we doing this thing?”

“I’m thinking a few dinners, maybe some photos of us together to sell it? I’ll tell my parents it’s just casual and new. My mom will love you, though, which will momentarily distract her from my other shortcomings.”

“They’re only shortcomings to her, Bee. You’re a catch.” I sip, swinging my legs as they hang off the desk. “How long are we doing this thing for, anyway?”

“Till my brother moves back in two months? By then, mom will have a new grandbaby to focus on.”

“Cool.” I nod. “Should we take a photo now so you can have it ready to send the next time she bugs you?”

“Yeah, but it can’t look like we’re at school. She doesn’t need a reason to think I’m making all this up.”

Toby pulls out his phone, and we giggle through the awkwardness of pretending to be an item. And through it all, I find myself wishing I had someone to do this with for real. I want there to be one part of my life I don’t have to pretend or fake. I want a genuine relationship with someone I could confide in. But that would mean relying on another person and making myself vulnerable, and facing all the scary parts of giving my heart away.

Instead, I’ll be leaving school alone to go to sleep in my car.

It’s still way less risky than trusting someone with my heart.