Ivy of Our Hearts

Seven

When the stars burned out, Margaret comforted me. She stayed with me through the night. I felt her curled up like a kitten beside me in a bed that belonged to neither of us, this I was sure of because my own bed smelled of lavender and Margaret's like her cat Dorothy.

"Don't worry," she said, while she smoothed my hair. "He says you'll be better by the morning."

I gave an "mm-hmm" in reply, still too tired to open my eyes or to ask more about this stranger who'd given us his bed. I fell asleep again, letting his name settle in my mind—Phillip—so when I woke the next morning and Margaret wasn't beside me, for a moment I thought my nightmare hadn't been real, until I heard her laugh.

Then she said his name, "Oh, Phillip," like a schoolgirl to the handsome, strapping jock.

Her flirtatious tone was what made me throw off the covers. "Margaret," I called, like a mother to her lost child. "Stay where you are. I'm coming." I stepped out of the bedroom into a hallway that led into the room where they were. I saw her, her hands wrapped around a steamy mug of whatever he'd given her. From over the brim, she smiled at him—Phillip. The way she smiled at him.

I stormed in, bare feet slapping against the wood planks, shifting my gaze about the room, at the bookshelves lined against the back wall, the rain boots at the open door had mud on them, the brown couch sagged in the middle, a colorful hand-woven rug lay at the foot, on top was a table with clawed legs, but all of that didn't matter because here we were in his house. I had to be sure it was truly him.

I had to hear him say my name again, just like he did after dark. Ivy of my Heart.

I took in every detail of the quaint cabin, until my gaze fell on him, the one who'd left those marks on the tree. He shifted in his seat to see me. I wrapped my arms around myself, my heart stirring with fear and dread and longing, all of the feelings that someone would get in the midst of a person like him—enchanter of my heart, my mind, and soul.

Then, he said my name, "Morning, Ivy," and I knew, fearing for the organ nestled behind my ribcage, I had to get away from him before he consumed me entirely.

It had been him all this time but how?

He put his hand on the back of the chair beside him and pulled it out a little, inviting me to sit. The veins on his hands reminded me of tree roots, purple and spindly. I imagined what such hands could do to two teenage girls. They were lovely, slender hands, much like the rest of him. Every one of his features contrasted with the other, black hair, sharp, blue eyes, a full pink mouth, and yet he was lovely.

In my dreams, he'd devoured my heart still warm and beating. In real life, he didn't look like the devouring type. He didn't have fangs, or claws, or wings. He was just a boy. But his hands, I found myself staring at them far longer than I should have.

What could those hands do to me if they wanted to?

"Are you okay?" Margaret asked.

I went over to her and took her cup. I put it down in my empty space at the table.

"Hey," she said, her lips still glistening from whatever she'd been drinking.

"We're leaving," I said. A brief glance at Phillip told me he'd have us stay instead. Too bad for him. The sooner we left, the lesser the chance he'd disturb even more my already tremulous heart. Yet, there was still a small part of me who craved that disturbance.

Margaret didn't move, so I took her by the arm and yanked. "We have to leave now."

"Would you hold on?" She pulled away, grimacing and I realized I'd hurt her.

I let go and whispered, "He's the one who left us that poem. He's the one who's been stalking us. Don't you see that, Margaret?"

She jerked her head away from me. "I know."

I straightened up. "What do you mean you know?"

"He told me."

"And you're okay with it?"

She positioned herself the other way, avoiding the question. Phillip chewed on his nails.

"Margaret," I said.

"If it weren't for him, you'd be..." She turned to me. "It doesn't matter anyway. He's taking us home as soon as the rain stops."

Rain. But it hadn't been raining. I marched around the table to the window above the woodstove. Outside, it wasn't just raining. The trees would snap the way they bent and contorted into such unnatural positions. The wind blew right through the walls so ferocious it rattled my bones. And the rain struck against the pane, like fingers drumming their own symphony. But it hadn't been raining. I would have heard it.

Phillip got up from his chair, and there was even a strangeness to the way he moved. He didn't walk. He glided to the front door. And me, a useless, blubbering mess of a girl couldn't look away from the tautness of his back or the pallor of his perfect skin. I imagined placing a single kiss to his nape, where he wouldn't be able to see.

He took his boots and placed them near the wall. Although I saw him do it, the snap of the lock on the door made me jump. It was as if he'd declared to the world that we were his now. I was his. I had never felt such a spine-tingling bout of both thrill and terror.

He rubbed his hands together and said, "I wouldn't want to get lost in that." He smiled a bit, as if unsure if he should or not. "I have books and board games," he said gesturing behind him at the bookshelves. Sensing my uneasiness, he added, "And I have food if you're hungry. I would be if I were you."

He pointed at the cabinets along the wall behind Margaret. As he came towards me, I flinched out of his way. My back pressed against the woodstove. He stopped a foot away; still so close the aroma clinging to his skin filled my nose.

That smell, like the woods after a rainstorm. I had a feeling of déjà vu.

"You don't have to be afraid," he said over his shoulder. Again, he smiled as if unsure of himself. "I want to help you, Ivy."

"Don't you say my name," I said to my surprise and his. Margaret remained quiet.

"Okay, what do you want me to call you?" I noticed the change of his tone, almost melancholic.

I used it to my advantage. I leaned forward a bit and tried not to blink so that he'd hear me and understand that I wanted nothing to do with him. "Don't you call me anything," I said. I didn't wait to see if my words had hit where I'd wanted them to. I went to the door, unlocked it, and ran out into the rain.

"Ivy," Margaret called. "What are you doing?"

The rain and wind were so wild I fought to keep my eyes open. The wind pushed me, and I wrestled with it one step at a time, like a game of tug of war. It didn't want me to leave. The rain produced the same symphony it had on the windows against my flesh. I didn't shiver. I convulsed, but I fought against the rain and wind and made it to the fence that surrounded the cabin, telling myself that I'd find my way and come back for Margaret.

I'd find the trail, get someone, and come back for my best friend.

I placed one foot on the fence, the underneath of my toenails was blackened with dirt and my heels ached. On the other side of the fence, the ground sloped. It led deep into the woods. I blinked hard to clear my vision, but I couldn't see a path. There were trees and more trees that stretched for miles. There had to be a path.

"Please let there be one," I said. Still, I hesitated, lifting my other foot to put it down. I couldn't do it. Even if I managed to find my way, I couldn't leave Margaret. I clenched the fence hard, splintering my skin. My vision blurred again, but blinking made it worse. I wiped my eyes. "Stop crying," I said, slapping the fence. "Stop it right now." But I didn't stop. I curled over the fence, limp and trembling from the cold and my own confusion.

A warm hand squeezed the part between my neck and shoulder, silencing my quakes. He draped a blanket over me. I let him pull me up. One last time, I looked to the trees in the distance. I hoped a path would appear, like a mirage in the storm. When one didn't, I let him take me back to the cabin.

Risking my heart for Margaret was the bravest thing I had ever done.