Page 21 of Salvation
Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I should stop it. Ivy’s my best friend, and friends don’t kiss. But I can’t make myself care because I don’t want to be her friend, anyway.
I want to be her everything because she’s mine.
Chapter 11
Campbell
Ibreak every speed limit driving to Ivy’s house. My foot bounces up and down on the floorboard as my fingers drum against the steering wheel. A restlessness runs through my veins that I can no longer control, and when I get there, I park in the back drive so no one will see my truck. The last thing I need is for my mother to question why I’m here. Ivy and I need to settle this alone—without the gossips in Benton Falls.
Throwing the truck in park, I march up the path, straight to the front door, rapping my knuckles against the wood, and then I step back and wait.
I can hear her footsteps through the door. For someone so small, she’s always been heavy-footed. She used to try to sneak up and scare me when we were young, but I’d hear her coming every time. Shaking the memory from my head, I focus on the grain in the wood, standing tall with my hands by my side.
Anxiety feels like a fist gripping my chest, but I force myself to breathe through it. I’ve spent sixteen years wanting answers to my questions. I’d gotten to a point where I thought I’d never get them. It’s part of why I sent Ivy away that first night—that and the ring on her finger, because no matter how much I wanted to pretend it didn’t, knowing she’d moved on broke me, mostly because I am angry I can’t. It’s always been Ivy for me,and after everything she’s done, I hate her because I’m not it for her.
But something about knowing that Hayes is going to have a baby has forced my need for answers to the surface.
Pulling my wallet from my back pocket, I take out the letter Ivy gave me on her first night here. For reasons I can’t explain, I’d tucked it in there when I left for Hayes’s house this afternoon. I guess a part of me knew I’d end up here eventually.
The door opens, and I don’t give her a chance to say anything. I walk into her house without looking at her because I’m afraid the moment I do, I’ll lose the momentum driving me forward.
“We need to talk,” I demand, letting my eyes roam around the house. Everything is just like I remembered—everything but Ivy and me.
When she doesn’t say anything, I spin around, ready to demand answers, but then my eyes fall on hers and everything comes to a screeching stop. Ivy’s eyes are red and puffy, like she’s been crying. She’s pale, and her hands are shaking.
On instinct, I step forward, taking her face gently into my hands, the letter fluttering to the ground.
“What is it?” I ask. “What happened?”
She sniffs, looking away from me, but not before I see the void in her eyes. I’ve always compared her eyes to honey because of the warmness that lived in her irises, but as I look at them now, I can’t help but think they look dead.
“Why are you here, Campbell?” she asks, avoiding my questions, but she doesn’t pull out of my hold—which is good because I don’t think I could let her go. I’m holding on by a thread right now, and unfortunately, it’s the warmth of her in my hands that’s holding me together.
“For answers, Ivy.” My voice is softer than I expected it to be since I’d barged in here just moments before. This is why I’davoided this conversation for so long. I’ve always been putty in her hands.
She tries to pull away, but I hold her steady. “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for, Campbell.”
I scoff, finally letting go of her face and stepping back. “You’re the only one that does, Ivy. Why did you do it?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Do what?”
“Why did you get rid of our baby?”
The words fall between us like a gauntlet.
Ivy’s head snaps back, and she gasps.
“How did you know?” she whispers, and my anger comes back because she isn’t even denying it.
With slow, methodical movements, I bend down to pick up the letter, holding it up between us.
“Because I met with your grandfather after I wrote this letter to you. I wanted to talk to you—wanted to be there for our baby—but you were too busy ignoring me because you didn’t want to tell me that you had an abortion.”
I’ve played this scene in my head a hundred times over the years, imagining what Ivy would say—what excuses she would have—but I never imagined she would laugh.
It’s dry and humorless, sending a chill down my spine.
“Is that what he told you?” she asks, her laugh turning maniacal. “You know what? Don’t answer that because at this point, nothing surprises me. You want the truth? Fine.”
