𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕟

Chapter 12 : Twenty Questions

Luckily, it’s a warm night, and the streets are mostly empty.

Ivy and I fall into step easily, and she’s still drinking, but only in small sips.

After about ten minutes, she suddenly stops, lifts the bottle above her head, and shakes it.

“Damn…”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“My bottle’s almost empty!” Ivy whines. “We need to get another. Come on.”

She starts walking a bit faster, and I have to swallow a frustrated groan.

“V, you’re already drunk enough; you don’t need another bott—”

Ivy stops again and turns around, surprisingly smoothly for someone so drunk.

If the look on her face is anything to go by, she’s getting annoyed with my scolding.

“Listen up,” she snaps, pointing a finger at me. “I didn’t ask you to come along so you could tell me what to do. I’m twenty-two, and if I want to drink till I’m sick, that’s my choice. No one gets to decide for me—not you, not Tyler, not Rosa, or Michael, or Tristan freakin’ Deféo. So if you’re planning on being a downer all night, feel free to leave, because I’m not stopping for you. Got it?”

To emphasize her point, Ivy gulps down more vodka and then keeps walking.

I know she only mentioned Tristan because of the alcohol coursing through her veins.

I don’t want to argue with Ivy, and I don’t want her to push me away, because I know if she does, she won’t come home with me. I can’t leave her out here alone, especially when all I can see when I look at her are the bruises.

So, I decide to play along.

I catch up, and Ivy gives me a suspicious look, so I flash her an innocent smile.

“If I can’t be the downer, then you can’t be the only one having fun tonight.”

Ivy smirks and offers me the bottle, but I shake my head. “I don’t drink.”

She tilts her head as if that makes absolutely no sense.

“How can we both have fun if I’m the only one drinking?”

“I can keep you entertained?”

Ivy hums, and as she looks ahead, she points to a small shop with neon green lights and glass walls.

“This is where we’re getting more of this,” she sings, waving the bottle in front of my face.

Weirdly enough, being around alcohol isn’t as uncomfortable when it’s Ivy drinking it. Nothing about this situation feels dangerous or threatening.

Maybe a little sad, but not scary.

We walk into the shop, and the cashier, a man in his thirties, glances at Ivy, dragging his gaze over her. He licks his lips as he watches her, completely ignoring everyone else while she’s on the hunt for more vodka.

As much as I understand the reaction, I can’t stand the idea of anyone looking at her that way.

I think Ivy’s beauty goes beyond that.

The way her eyes are framed by long, dark lashes, how their color shifts from light brown in the sunlight to almost green when she’s tired. The pink of her lips, a color that never fades, matching the blush in her cheeks. The dimples that appear when she laughs loudly and her wild curls against her pale skin.

Ivy moves with a grace that’s sometimes distracting.
She’s a different kind of beautiful and deserves to be seen for that alone.

So, I walk over to the cash register and clear my throat, breaking the man’s stare.