The next time Ivy actually gets to talk to Selina isn't until a week and a half later, when the pool's opened up to the public for open swim rather than just having lap swim reservations. She's just got off a triple shift, back aching from standing still for too long, and face suspiciously hot to the touch despite having reapplied sunscreen each time she had a break, and all she wants to do is drown herself under a stream of cold water.
Grabbing her backpack from the locker off the break room, she pulls out her water bottle, taking a long drag from it before sticking it back in the mesh holder and swinging the backpack over her shoulder. She's just making her way towards the exit when a familiar voice calls her name. "Ivy! Hey, Ivy!"
Turning, she catches sight of Selina, dripping wet, towel wrapped around her shoulders like a cape, hair in a messy braid, clearly just having come out of one of the lap-swim lanes. Stopping, she waits for the other to catch up to her. "Hey," she says, "what's up?"
Selina grins. "Maybe I just wanted to talk to an old friend," she says.
Ivy rolls her eyes. "You always have ulterior motives," she points out. Unsaid is the fact that they both do—it comes with the territory of having been in and out of the foster care system, half the time scraping by on the streets.
The other shrugs; lithe frame shifting with the motion; and Ivy reflects that it's really kind of unfair how nice she looks, even like this, in nothing more than a black one-piece and a cat-print towel. "Okay, you got me," she admits, without shame. "But listen, it's in your favour—I was going to ask if you maybe wanted to go for a coffee? There's a place across the street that makes a great beetroot-dandelion mocha."
Ivy's heart is suddenly in her throat; her grip on her the strap of her backpack weakening, palm hot. "Never thought you'd become the sort of person to drink hippie drinks," she manages; but only just barely.
Selina laughs; the sound rich and cool; settling over her and banishing the oppressive heat. "I'm not," she says; features lit up by her smile. "But my friend Bruce introduced me to it a while back—I thought it'd be gross, but it turns out that it's actually really good."
Bruce. Ivy's heart dislodges itself. Of course this is a purely friendly type of thing. Assuming otherwise is ridiculous. Part of her wants to decline, but—well, she's missed Selina, a dull ache in her ribcage at the other's absence in the years since she left. Swallowing, she says, "Alright—but you're paying, and if I hate it, I get to choose where we go next time."
The next time slips out without her meaning to say it, but Selina's already nodding. "Alright," she agrees, "just give me ten to change."
"Okay," Ivy says; and finds herself following after Selina to the changing rooms, waiting outside the room the other chooses, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to not further the ache in her lower back. She's just resorted to counting the tiles on the wall when the door opens, and Selina emerges, wearing a fashionable grey and black sundress, carrying herself with a regal lightness, looking for all the world like she could attend a gala despite the informality of what she's dressed in. She looks—good. Really good.
Ivy looks away as soon as she realises what she's thinking, cheeks heating; and hopes that the other marks it down as simply sunburn. "Ready to go?" she asks; the words directed towards her shoes.
"Yep," Selina says, brightly; shouldering the canvas bag with her stuff in it, and takes the lead, and they make their way out the gates, cutting through the large, verdant lawn, and making their way across the shiny black asphalt to the shopfronts across the street.
They stop in front of a small storefront, with a sign that declares it The Firefly in spindly, orange writing that trails off slightly toward the end. The dot over the i is a flame; and when they enter, the seating comprises of leather chairs and stools with filigreed bronze backs. In the corner, an electric fire crackles, and on the wall, over the chairs, is a shelf with leather-bound books, bookended by heavy, vintage-looking candle-holders with tall, deep orange taper candles.
"Really leaning into the fire aesthetic, huh?" Ivy murmurs. "Very... quaint. "
"Be nice," Selina scolds. "I'm friends with the owner."
Ivy shrugs. "I'm more of a flora type of person," she says; and then looks to the menu, which is also written in the same spindly font, this time red on black chalkboard. All of the drinks are fire-themed.
"The Wildfire is the beetroot-dandelion mocha," Selina says. "That's what we'll be getting."
"Bossy, bossy—maybe I wanted to try the Flame of Passion," Ivy says, despite the main ingredients being chile pepper flakes and cloves, two flavours she's less than fond of; just to be contrary.
Selina scoffs. "No you don't," she says, with conviction. "Trust me—one sip of that, and you'll want to drink a pool's worth of water."
They move up in the line, coming to the front; and the dark-haired woman behind the counter drones, without looking up, "What can I get for you today?"
"Hi, Bridgit," Selina says; cheerily; "two Wildfires, please."
At her voice, the woman—Bridgit—looks up; flat expression turning into one of pleased surprise. "Cat," she says. "Nice to see you again. It's been too long. You want extra whipped cream on those?"
Selina looks at Ivy, who shakes her head. "Just on the one," she relates to Bridgit. "How's the project coming along?"
"Oh, great!" Bridgit says; typing onto the screen with only a cursory glance. "I finally managed to get that part I needed for the main chamber—thanks for putting me in touch with those guys, by the way. Uh, and that'll be seven eighty-five."
Pulling her wallet from her bag, Selina pays; and they move to the other side of the counter. A few minutes later, Bridgit comes over, two drinks in hand, and sets them on the counter. "Here you ladies go," she says. "Enjoy!"
Selina grabs the cups, taking them over to one of the tables in the corner, and sits down, pushing one of the cups towards the other chair in a clear gesture for Ivy to sit as well. She does, and then uncaps the cup, peering at the contents. The whipped cream is topped with a sprinkle of red powder, and the scent rising from it is actually surprisingly good.
She takes a tentative sip, and then lets out a hum of appreciation. "You were right," she admits, "this is actually really good."
Selina grins. "Told you," she says.
They spend the next half hour making quiet conversation; and when they part ways—after Selina extracts a promise that they'll do this again some time—Ivy finds herself with a pep in her step and a smile on her face that refuses to go away.