Chapter Ten – Ivy
The text from Celeste sits unread at the top of my phone like a bruise I keep poking.
Tomorrow. Noon. Nashville. No heart. No question mark. Just inevitability.
I flip the phone face down and press my forehead to the heron lamp’s cool metal shade.
The cottage smells like lemon cleaner and the faint, smoky hint of Rowan’s laundry soap on the blanket he insisted I keep on the back of the couch.
Outside, late summer hums—the whirr of cicadas, a tractor way off beyond the creek, the staccato cluck of indignant hens who have opinions about everything.
“I don’t want to go,” I tell the empty room.
For the past hour, I’ve been doing the thing I do when I’m cornered: cleaning what isn’t dirty and making lists I’ll throw away.
My “pros” column has one item: Rip off the bandage.
The “cons” column takes up half the page and spirals into small, tight handwriting: spin , misquotes , being handled , feeling twelve , the way my chest caves when Mom says brand like it’s my middle name .
Another vibration. I don’t check it.
My head’s thick in that way that feels like the air is heavier than usual, like I’m breathing through a straw.
That happens when I’m stressed—I sleep light, wake heavy, and grow clumsy with my own body.
I rub the heel of my hand between my eyes and go for water, telling myself the chalky taste in my mouth is just from not drinking enough and not because anxiety has set up camp in my throat.
If I let it get too bad, then the real fear of my epilepsy making an appearance becomes an issue.
Half a glass later, the floor tilts a hair to the left. I brace a palm on the counter until it steadies.
“Okay.” I try for light. “That’s new.”
I pull on shorts and the softest T-shirt in my bag and take the footpath to the main house.
The air is warm already, the kind that sticks to the back of your neck.
At the top of the path, I pause. Staple sounds: the thunk of a stall door, a low horse snort, Rowan’s voice—quiet, steady, a word I can’t make out.
Something in me unclenches at the sound.
I don’t go inside. I turn toward the oak, settle on the cottage steps, and text Bailey.
Me:
Real question: are summer colds a thing here, or is my body staging a coup? Bailey:
Oh no. Tell me everything. Me:
Head feels stuffed with wet cotton. sore throat. kind of floaty? Bailey:
? ? could be a cold. also could be your nervous system yelling “hey girl take a nap.” fever? Me:
idk. I feel hot then cold. Bailey:
I’m grabbing OJ and soup. Be there after I drop off an order. Nap now. No arguments. Me:
Bossy Bailey:
Useful ? ? lie down. text if you get worse. I mean it.
I set the phone on the step. The shade from the oak shifts, dappled sunlight crawling across my knees.
Somewhere close, Butterscotch bleats like she remembers the exact pitch of my voice when I named her.
The sound makes me smile, then ache. I want to go pet her soft nose and tell her secrets, but when I stand, my legs feel like they’re packed with wet sand.
Nap, then. For once, I don’t fight the suggestion.
Inside, I pull the blanket down and crawl onto the couch, convincing myself I’m lying here just long enough for the room to stop nudging sideways.
I close my eyes, and the list in my head tries to start again.
Nashville, flights, outfits that say “adult” and not “doll,” what I’ll say if Mom uses momentum like it’s holy.
Sleep drags me by the wrist anyway.
The dream is loud—the roar of a crowd, the bass of a song I didn’t get to finish.
I try to sing over it, and my voice won’t come.
When I wake, my throat hurts like I swallowed sand, and my skin is doing that prickly, too tight thing.
I shove the blanket off. Immediately, goose bumps erupt. Pick a temperature, body.
Phone. Right. I fumble for it, miss, and nearly fling it into the basket with the extra towels. The screen is a smear of notifications. I squint until Bailey’s name comes into focus.
Bailey:
Running 10 behind—line at the bakery was sinful. How are you? Me:
Fine. just tired. Bailey:
Liar. temp? Me:
Don’t have a thermometer. Bailey:
On it. ETA 20.
I put the phone down and try to sit up. A weird wave of vertigo sloshes from my chest to my head. The room doesn’t spin, exactly. It ripples. My hands shake, and that little tremor makes my heart beat too fast.
I close my eyes and do the things I’ve been taught: inhale four, hold four, exhale six.
Repeat. Repeat again with my palms flat on my knees.
Heat sweeps my face, and a chill sweeps my arms. This is fine , I tell myself.
I’ve done stages with bronchitis and label meetings with migraines.
This is a nap and a bottle of orange juice.
This is not the end of the world. It’s not a seizure.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a quieter voice says, Or it’s your body finally cashing a bill you’ve been ignoring.
The knock is soft, two knuckles to the frame. “Ivy?” It’s Rowan, not Bailey.
Relief hits so fast I’m embarrassed by it. “Come in,” I croak, and wince at my zombie voice.
He steps inside, bringing cooler air with him. He takes one look at me, and a crease cuts between his brows. I’ve never seen it that deep. “You’re pale.”
I try for a joke. “That’s my new brand.”
He doesn’t smile. “Bailey said you weren’t feeling right. She got called to fix a frosting disaster. I was closer.”
I nod, and the simple motion feels like too much. “I’m okay. Just—” I rub my arms, and the shiver that rides up my spine answers for me. “Apparently, summer colds are a thing.”
He comes closer and kneels so we’re eye level. He smells like sun and hay and the citrus soap he keeps by the kitchen sink. “Can I touch your forehead?”
“Please,” I whisper, and the word tastes like surrender.
His palm cups my temple, then my brow. Big hand, careful pressure. The touch finds every frayed wire in my system and smooths it. He frowns. “You’re hot.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” I try, and that gets me a ghost of a smile before it disappears under worry.
He shifts, scanning the room. “You have water?”
I nod toward the counter. “Half a glass.”
He gets up and returns with a full Mason jar, the glass beaded cold. When I reach for it, my hand trembles, and I slosh water onto my T-shirt. He takes the jar back and brings it to my lips, steady as a metronome. “Slow.”
I sip. It feels like mercy. He tips just enough. When I try to take the jar, he doesn’t let me. He sets it on the table within reach and studies me in that quiet way that doesn’t feel like being looked at but being looked after.
“Throat?” he asks.
“Scratchy. Feels swollen.” My voice scrapes along my vocal cords like they’re rusted shut.
“Chest?”
“Fine.” I press a hand there, as if to double-check. “Just tired. And cold. And hot. I contain multitudes.”
He nods once like he’s filing answers. “You have Tylenol? Thermometer?”
“You’re very prepared in theory,” I mutter. “Less so in this drawer situation.” I gesture weakly at the minimal kitchen.
“I have both at the house.”
“I can walk.” I make the mistake of trying to prove it. The second my feet hit the floor, the room tips. He’s there before I can wobble, hands firm around my forearms.
“Nope,” he says, like a man who has decided on the weather. “You’re not walking anywhere.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re made of fever and stubborn.” He glances at the blanket, then back at me. Something softer moves across his face. “Let me help.”
“Okay,” I whisper, because arguing takes energy I don’t have, and right now, the idea of not being alone with this feels like stepping into shade.
He doesn’t go for excuses or dithering. He bends, one arm behind my knees, the other around my back. “Ready?”
“Wait,” I say, suddenly. “My bag. The black one. There’s a small blue case in there—meds. Just… in case.”
His gaze flicks to mine in understanding, not pity. “Got it.” He sets me gently back, crosses the room, digs with efficiency, and slides the blue case into his back pocket. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Then he swoops me up with one arm as if I’m nothing more than a rope used to tie things down. I hang on with everything I have.
I want to say something witty, but the truth is, I melt.
Not because I’m weak—because every muscle lets go at once.
His chest is solid against my shoulder, heartbeat steady enough to sync mine.
He smells like safety and the day outside.
As he carries me out, he nudges the light off with his elbow, and the cottage settles behind us like a dog told to stay.
The walk across the yard is a pocket of quiet—only the cicadas, the creak of a porch step, and his breath even next to my ear.
He doesn’t take me upstairs. He goes straight for the big couch in the living room, the one with the soft, low back I notoriously claimed during a storm. He lowers me carefully, as if he’s practiced this a thousand times with things that bruise.
“Pillow,” he says to himself, already moving. “Cool cloth.” He disappears down the hall and returns with a thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol, a throw blanket and pillow that smell like cedar, and a towel.
“Open,” he says gently, and I do. The thermometer rests under my tongue while he wet-wrings the cloth in the kitchen and fills a glass with water from the tap.
When it beeps, he reads it and his jaw ticks.
He doesn’t announce the number. He sets the cloth across my forehead, and it feels like stepping into shade at noon.
My eyes sting with the stupid relief of being tended to.
“Small sips,” he says, handing me the Tylenol and water. “Then I’m making soup.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He says it without flourish, as if he’s choosing fence posts. “And I’d like to feed you something not toast.”