I laugh. “Not the right ones, that’s for sure. I tend to attract the crazies or the wrong ones in general. I just broke up with a girl a few weeks ago that I still feel bad about. She was a great girl, really pretty, and we had a lot of things in common. I think she actually cared about me, too. She was the most normal girl I’ve dated in a long time.”
“That’s a shame. What happened?”
“She slept with my brother a few times before I hooked up with her.”
Ivy scrunches up her face. “Oh.”
“Yeah, exactly. I just couldn’t get past it. Do you think that’s wrong of me? Do you think I should be able to just forget about that?” I ask, wondering if there’s something wrong with me, or if maybe I’m too picky.
She thinks about my question before answering. “No, I completely understand. I think, for a lot of people, it’s awkward to be intimate with a person someone else you are close to has also been intimate with. Some things aren’t meant to be shared.”
“Exactly! I couldn’t see myself having dinner with her over at my brother’s house, sitting at his table, knowing he screwed her. It would make me crazy thinking about it, and I don’t think I could not think about. I can’t un-see that shit in my head, ya know?”
She laughs. “I totally agree. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. It just sounded funny, the way you said it,” she says. “I feel sick every time I think about the fact that Paul was having an affair for a whole year before I found out. Just thinking that he was having sex with another woman, and then coming home to me, pretending he had been at work and acting all normal, is disgusting.”
“Fuck yeah it is. Was he sleeping with both of you? Not at the same time, obviously, I mean, while he was married to you?”
“Apparently so. He’d stopped having sex with me for months. Almost a year.” She turns her head away from me, her face reddening with embarrassment. “I just thought he was tired from working. I didn’t think he was getting it better someplace else.”
“Shit. That sucks. I absolutely cannot stand cheaters. I feel really bad for you.”
She sighs and faces me again. “Please don’t feel sorry for me. I feel lame enough already.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I just feel bad for you because I don’t think you deserve it. He’s a shithead.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I add a few more flowers to her design before I get up the courage to ask her my next question. “Did you eat dinner today?”
“No . . . I didn’t have time to.”
“When we’re done here, we could go to this little cafe down the street. They’re open ’til midnight. I haven’t eaten yet either.”
Her leg muscles stiffen again beneath my hands, and I silently beg her to say yes.
“I don’t know . . . I should probably just go home,” she answers nervously, chewing her bottom lip.
“To the big empty house? Forget that and come with me. They have killer soups and sandwiches, and their lattes are awesome. Do you really want me to eat alone like a loser?”