Page 49 of Saving Ian Pope

I got ready for bed and for the first time since Ian came into my life and spent that first night with me and many after, I pulled on some pajamas—a pair of blue, cotton PJ bottoms with white, fluffy sheep and a white camisole.

I climbed into my lonely bed and curled up on one side, just in case he decided to join me. The glow from the TV flickered in the bedroom, casting shadows and hues across the walls. I tried to fall asleep, but the activity of my mind kept me alert, prolonging my misery.

After an hour with no progress in the sleep department, I slipped out of bed and padded to my bedroom door. Again, I listened before easing open the door and stepping into the hallway.

The blue light from his laptop illuminated the angles of Ian’s face, and turned the tattoos on his arms dull, all the images and words running together into an incomprehensible blur.

He’d slumped back against the cushions, tilting to one side, as his computer teetered dangerously on the edge of his knees. I tiptoed toward the sofa and moved his laptop, securing it on the coffee table and shutting the lid.

He stirred, emitting a soft moan from his lips. He couldn’t sleep like this. He’d be stiff and sore for his plane ride tomorrow. Bad enough he hadn’t eaten anything all night.

I circled the sofa, coming up behind him and putting my hands on his shoulders, stroking his neck with my thumbs. “Baby, come to bed. Don’t sleep out here.”

He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes, looking around him as if he’d found himself in some alternate universe, less real and more unwelcome than his dreams.

I floated back to my bedroom. He could make his own decision.

Lying back in bed, I closed my eyes; I held my breath as I tracked Ian’s footsteps to the hallway. Would he stop, take a blanket and return to the sofa? I’d left my bedroom door ajar, and Ian eased it open.

I eked out the pent-up breath and froze under the covers. I didn’t want to scare him off.

He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth and splashed some water around. When he opened the bathroom door, I raised my eyelids ever so slightly to watch his movements. He stripped down to his briefs, and my heart caught in my throat.

Then he glanced at the bed, turned his attention to his suitcase on the floor, and made a move. Crouching before his bag, he dragged out a pair of gray sweat shorts and a T-shirt. I hoped he wasn’t looking for the one stashed in my dirty laundry.

And like me, for the first time since we met, he slid under the covers wearing nightclothes. At least he’d decided to come to bed. He settled on his side, his back to me, his body on the very precipice of the mattress.

I didn’t move a muscle, almost forgot to breathe. I’d left the window open, and the misty night air made its way into the bedroom, cooling down the room, spreading goosebumps across my chest.

I inched my foot close to his leg and combed the hair on his calf with my toes. He shifted away from me. A sob rose in my throat, but I clenched my teeth and beat it back. I gave it a few minutes and then stretched my arm toward him and ran my knuckles down his back. He stiffened. But he didn’t scoot away this time—of course, he had nowhere to go except the floor.

Heaving a sigh, he rolled onto his back. “What do you want from me, Ivy? Do you want me to fuck you? What would be the point?”

The sharpness of his tone sliced me open, and his crude statement poured acid into the wound.

“I...” WhatdidI want? I wanted Ian on top of me, inside me, his hands all over my body, his lips in my hair. I wanted him to love me again. I found my voice, high and breathy. “I know I don’t have any right to ask you, but could you just hold me? Just for tonight. Just one last time.”

His arm shot out, and he curled it around my waist and dragged me toward him. My body met his, and I molded my form to his muscles and hard planes, soaking in his warmth, a perfect fit. My head dropped naturally to his chest, and my hand covered his heart over the soft cotton of his T-shirt. It pounded beneath my palm.

Tears rolled down my face, soaking his shirt, but I couldn’t stop them this time. Couldn’t pretend that I didn’t want him, need him.

Stroking my hair, he soothed me. “It’s alright. It’s gonna be okay.”

Why was he comforting me when I was the one who’d taken an ice pick to his heart?

“Go to sleep, Tinkerbell. I’ve got you...for tonight.”

In the safety and comfort of Ian’s arms, I managed to drift off. The next day, he left.

Chapter 17

IVY

About a month after Ian’s departure, actually thirty-two days, seven hours, eighteen minutes, and a smattering of seconds, after his departure, I sat on the sofa in Ian’s spot, one leg curled beneath me, and my laptop heating up my thighs.

I stared at the screen and the nonsensical words I’d written. Had I typed those words on the page? My finger hovered over the delete button, but I reconsidered. Better to have bad words on the screen than no words at all. I could always fix bad words. Too bad I couldn’t fix my bad life.

Leaving the words, I plunged a spoon into my pralines and cream ice cream, making sure to hit that vein of caramel.

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