I don’t remember falling asleep, but the sound of the shower wakes me. I push myself up on my elbows and listen to the rattle and spit of Bishop brushing his teeth. The bathroom door opens, and the dark outline of his body moves down the moonlit hallway.
“Did you just get home?” I call to him.
He stops in the doorway. The pale towel around his waist glows in the darkness. “A few minutes ago. Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“It’s okay. ” I scoot up to sitting. “Where were you?”
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Out walking. I’m sorry I left without telling you. I needed to be alone for a little while. ”
“I saw Meredith. She said Dylan had surgery and it went well. ”
Bishop doesn’t answer, shifting slightly in the doorway. I can smell the fresh scent of soap as he moves, tangy and sharp.
“He told her he’s signing the petition to end the marriage. ”
Bishop nods. I can tell he’s watching me, though I can’t see his eyes.
“You did a good thing,” I say. I hesitate, but he deserves to know all of it. “Even if Meredith doesn’t believe it yet. ”
“Did I?” His voice sounds ancient. “Can hurting someone ever be a good thing?” He blows out a breath. “I’m not that different from Dylan, really, in the end. ”
I push myself forward so I’m kneeling on the edge of the bed. I wish I were closer so I could touch him, although it’s a horrible idea. “Don’t say that. Sometimes pain is the only language certain people understand. And you are different than him. ” My voice is strained. “You wouldn’t hurt me that way, Bishop. I know you never would. ”
For a long time, there is only the ticking of the clock on my bedside table, the muted melody of water dripping from the showerhead across the hall. His eyes are on me and mine are on him and the tension swirling around us is so strong it’s like another person in the room, a living thing breathing heat into the space between us.
“You never say my name,” he says finally. His voice is low and rough.
“What?” I’m so confused that for a split second I think maybe I’m dreaming. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Just now. You called me Bishop. You’ve never said it before. ” He pauses. “I like the way it sounds. ”
He’s right, and I never even realized it. I haven’t said his name, as if by subconsciously keeping that tiny bit of distance I can make what’s happening between us less real. Like that might be the omission that saves me.
I am a fool.
“I’m sorry,” I say, willing myself to speak past the tears gathering in my throat.
“Don’t be sorry. ” I see the outline of his smile in the moonlight. “Just say it again sometime. ”
I nod. I will not allow myself to cry. “Good night, Bishop,” I whisper.
“Good night, Ivy,” he whispers back.
I stay kneeling on the bed long after he’s gone, until my legs are numb and my eyes are dry and I can’t feel anything at all.
President Lattimer looks genuinely pleased to see me. “Ivy,” he says with a crinkle-eyed smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” It’s possible he’s mocking me, but I don’t think so. He opens the front door wider. “Come in, come in. ” The air wafting out of the house is chilly and smells, as always, of flowers. Too sweet for my taste.
“Can we sit out here?” I ask, pointing to the front porch. “It’s such a nice day. ” It isn’t really. It’s hot and muggy, and I think I acquired a dozen new mosquito bites on the walk over, but I can’t stand the thought of being shut up inside the house with him. I need to be able to at least have the illusion of freedom, if not the reality.
President Lattimer glances at the front porch. The wrought-iron furniture arranged along its perimeter looks like it was picked for style, rather than comfort. But he nods and ushers me in front of him, closing the heavy door behind us.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever sat out here,” he says, confirming my earlier assumption. But he gamely takes a seat in one of the chairs and I sit down next to him, a small table edged with dust positioned between us.
“How are you, Ivy?” he asks.
“I’m fine. ” Ever since Bishop and I had dinner here and President Lattimer mentioned knowing my mother, I’ve wanted to come back and talk to him. Especially after I asked my father about it and it was clear he was keeping something from me. But fear kept me away. Fear that I would ruin the plan, say something in anger that would give away the game. Fear of President Lattimer himself. Fear of what I would find out. But the need to know has gnawed at me, not going away no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. I’m not sure where to begin, though, so I blurt out the question. “How did you know my mother?”
President Lattimer sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let that go. ” He lowers his hand and looks at me. “It probably would have been better if I hadn’t said anything. ”