Page 42 of Strange Love

My attention keeps drifting towards Natalie. She has bright eyes and a contagious laugh, and just looking at her makes me smile. She’s giddy with excitement for her sister’s date - maybe even more than Ivy herself. But as I look at her, I can’t help but think about the impact of Ivy’s abduction and how it must have affected Natalie. Though Ivy returned home almost two years ago, the trauma still lingers in their family.

“So you play for the Mavericks?” Paul asks.

“Yes, Sir,” I respond. “For about two years now.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” he says. “Are you hoping to go to the NHL?”

“That’s my goal,” I tell him.

“You know I haven’t been able to attend many hockey games,” he says. “But I’d like to.”

“I’d love for you guys to come out and watch a game,” I tell him.

“Can we go, Dad?” Natalie asks eagerly.

“Sure, Kiddo,” he replies.

Irene’s curious gaze lingers on Ivy and me as she asks, “Where will you two be going on your date tonight?”

“Ivy picked the plans for tonight, so it looks like we’re going to catch a movie and then go eat some ice cream,” I reply with a smile.

“That sounds like Ivy,” Natalie adds with a giggle.

We chat for a few more minutes until Ivy’s parents appear comfortable enough to let her leave the house with me. We exchange our goodbyes, and Ivy rushes us out the door in a whirlwind.

Sitting in my car, she turns to me with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry about all the questions.”

“Don’t apologize. They’re awesome. I was excited to meet them,” I reassure her. “You have a wonderful family.”

“I do,” she agrees. “Not exactly typical, I guess,” she says with a pause.

“But whose family is?” I reply.

As we go to the theater, Ivy informs me she’s chosen to see Mannequin. I don’t mind a good romantic comedy, but the idea of a mannequin coming to life is more like a horror story.

The theater is mostly empty as we sit in the middle row and settle into the plush comfort of the new chairs. The aroma of warm, buttery popcorn wafts through the air.

Ivy’s excitement is palpable as she shifts in her seat, her body unsure of what to do. I take her small hand in mine and place it on my leg, intertwining our fingers as we watch movie trailers and dancing refreshments sashay across the screen, reminding us to visit the concession stand. Soon the lights dim, the screen comes to life, and I can feel the warmth of her joy radiating from beside me, filling me with contentment and happiness.

The movie was okay, not anything I’d want to see again, but I enjoyed it more than I expected, mostly because Ivy couldn’t stop giggling throughout the entire thing. I’m glad I asked her on a date. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend time with. Lately, I’m happier when I know she’s happy.

At some point soon, I’m going to have to examine my very real feelings for my “fake girlfriend.”

We leave the theater and she grabs my hand, leading me to our town’s favorite ice cream shop, Dawson’s. The neon sign flickers above us as we enter, and the smell of freshly made waffle cones fills the air. We order our flavors, mint chip for me and cookies and cream for Ivy, and sit at a small table in the corner. I can’t resist stealing a few bites of Ivy’s ice cream as we chat and laugh. She playfully scolds me but eventually gives in.

Afterward, we head to the park because neither of us is ready for this night to end. I’ve gathered bits and pieces of what happened to her through context and pieces of conversation, but of course, since I like her, I’m curious to know more about her life and who she is. I carefully broach the subject, hoping it won’t ruin a nice evening that we’ve created.

“Do you ever talk about what happened?” I ask her.

“Sometimes,” she says honestly. “Sascha’s aware of bits and pieces, and of course, I talked to my family, and when I first got back, I had a therapist I talked to a lot. Not as much anymore, although I still check in with him sometimes.”

“How long were you gone?” I ask her. “You mentioned it was a few years.”

With a deep inhale, she closes her eyes before exhaling.

“Four years,” she says, the weight of the time evident in her voice. “At first, it all blurred together. Some days I woke up ready to fight my way out, but others...I couldn’t find the strength. Those days were the worst. It was like I became a numb robot going through the motions of a new reality.” She opens her eyes again, staring into the distance as if reliving those difficult days.

“I can’t imagine what that was like,” I say softly, reaching to take her hand.