She grabbed her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she made the transfer. Watching her hard-earned money vanish from her account.
Still, she wasn’t ready to sink. She dialed her former job at the café. "Hey, Donald. I hope it’s not too late to call... I just wanted to tell you I’ll be resuming back on Monday."
"What? No... no... I told you I would be back. The gig was just for a month. Donald, don’t do this to me. I need the job. Donald... Donald?" Thɪs chapter is updated by novèlfire.net
But the line was already dead.
Ivy lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen as if it might magically light back up with an answer.
She leaned back on the sofa, her head falling into her palms, fingers tugging at her hair. Donald had replaced her. Because the café couldn’t afford to be short of staff for a month. "Fuck!!!!" she yelled into the empty room. Where was she supposed to go? The city was a jungle—every café, diner, and boutique filled to the brim with college kids willing to work for half of what she needed. She could almost hear Flick laughing already. Cancel the date with Steve, she told herself bitterly. She’d need every second job hunting, pray for a miracle, and maybe, just maybe, land a job before Monday.
Joey had been dropping by, each visit identical: check the fridge, check the bar, even check the couch cushions as if she might’ve stashed a flask under the throw pillows. Then he’d sit stiffly across from her, sip his coffee, and leave as soon as politeness allowed. It was maddening. He was supposed to be her old flame, the man who once made her body sing, the man she still dreamt about when she was lonely. And here he was, reduced to a parole officer.
This time, Sylvia decided, things would be different.
She dressed with care, in a clingy tank top that cupped her breasts just enough to make them threaten mutiny. Her loose cotton trousers, innocent in theory, somehow made her ass look bigger. She spritzed perfume at the crook of her neck, enough to linger when he leaned close. She was going to throw herself at him—if that’s what it takes—but she would remind him of what he once had.
When Joey arrived that evening, the routine began. He nodded in greeting, already rolling up his sleeves. First stop: the fridge. He swung it open, scanning the shelves. Then to the bar. Finally, he crouched at the couch, running a hand between the cushions.
Sylvia leaned against the counter, arms folded, her chest pushing forward deliberately.
Sylvia let him run through the drill. Instead, she poured coffee and carried both mugs into the living room, deliberately ignoring the kitchen island where they usually sat. No, tonight she wanted closeness. Or at least the chance to test if the fire between them had truly burned out.
She plopped down onto the long sofa and set the mugs on the coffee table. Joey, however, refused to take the bait. He picked up his cup, his fingers curling around the ceramic, and sank into the single armchair opposite her, deliberately choosing distance over temptation. Sylvia’s lips curved into a sly smile. That tiny act of self-preservation told her everything she needed to know: he wasn’t over her. Not completely. A man who was truly done would have sat beside her, unbothered. The fact that he needed a fortress of space? Delicious.
"Is the wife back?" Sylvia asked casually, swirling her coffee before taking a slow sip.
Joey cleared his throat, eyes flickering to hers then away again. "Er... no. She decided to stay a week longer since I’ll be busy at work now that Winn isn’t here. She doesn’t like being left alone."
"Did you tell her you’ve been babysitting me?" Sylvia tilted her head. Then, with a wicked glint, she added, "Or should I call it sober sitting?"
"I think it’s safer and better for everyone involved that she doesn’t know," he said carefully.
Sylvia leaned back, a sly little smirk tugging her mouth. "Why?" she purred. Of course she knew why. She was his first love, the one who had kissed him until his knees shook and touched him like he was the only man alive. She was the ghost that lived in his bones. No ring, no vows, no carefully constructed domestic life could erase that. His wife knew it, whether she admitted it or not. And Sylvia? She was more than happy to remind him.
"Let’s not talk about this." Joey sat rigidly in the armchair.
Sylvia got to her feet. She crossed the distance, ignoring the careful breath Joey took. Then she sank to her knees before him.
"What are you doing?" Joey asked, alarm in his voice.
She tilted her chin up, smirking faintly. "You didn’t tell her," Sylvia said. "Because she knows, you know, and I know that you still love me."
"Don’t be delusional." His throat worked as he swallowed. "I loved you. Past tense. Not anymore."
"Then why are you still so mad at me?" she countered. "My sobriety doesn’t concern you anymore, but you’re still angry. Still watching me, judging me." Sylvia’s hand pressed against his thigh. "You don’t get mad if you’ve really moved on."
Joey dragged a palm over his face, his sigh heavy. "Syl... just go back to your seat." He gestured vaguely toward the sofa, desperate for distance. "I have to leave anyway."
"Does she fuck you the way I fuck you?" Sylvia asked suddenly. She saw the twitch in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. She knew she’d hit the nerve. Slowly, her fingers slid up his thighs, the warmth of his body bleeding through the denim.
Joey’s reaction was immediate—he caught her wrists, holding her hands away. "Syl... stop." His grip was firm. She recognized that kind of restraint—it wasn’t the best he could do. If he truly wanted her gone, he could’ve shoved her back in an instant. Instead, his fingers lingered, trembling against her skin. "Please... don’t do this...I have to leave."