Chapter 6
SIX
My parents’ house is, as always, too quiet.
But I don’t know. He’s probably just trying to save money.
On Saturday, I wake up early—you can’t sleep more than six hours on the basement pull-out without fucking over your back—and make myself at home at the kitchen table.
With a steaming cup of coffee and a sweatshirt-sweatpants combo that provides as much insulation as possible, I open my laptop to get a jump start on my math assignment.
I’ve been here about an hour when the first of my brothers emerges, Noah shuffling in with bloodshot eyes and pillow creases indented in his cheeks. Whenever he comes home, he uses it as an excuse to party with his old high school buddies, not that he’d ever admit it to Mom and Dad.
Noah is the golden child.
Scott is silver.
I’m lower than bronze. I’m more like…an honorable mention. A participation trophy. A thanks for playing, but you’re not quite good enough to fit into this family anymore. You’ve made too many mistakes.
I try not to think about those mistakes.
“Coffee. Thank god,” mutters Noah. I glance up from my laptop and watch as he pours a cup, steam billowing up from the mug. “I don’t know why I still go out with Pete and them. They drink like fucking fish.” He slurps from his cup and sighs. “I needed that.”
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“Usual bars. Actually, I ran into Genevieve last night, can you believe that?”
My brows shoot up. Genevieve was Noah’s very serious high school girlfriend.
Four years steady. Prom King and Queen. The whole ordeal.
And then, six months before he quit the baseball team, he broke up with her and that was that.
My parents were devastated because Genevieve was perfect in their eyes.
But it wasn’t meant to be, and he hasn’t had a girlfriend since.
“Seriously? What did she say?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing really. She’s in nursing school. Engaged to some guy—”
“Engaged?” I blurt, my brows inching higher. They broke up less than two years ago, after all. “Already?”
“Yeah, guess so.”
I almost laugh. “Could’ve been you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fuck no. And don’t tell Mom and Dad. They’ll go off on some tangent, and I’m too fucking hungover for it today.”
“My lips are sealed.”
We sit in silence after that, me on my computer, Noah across the table from me on his phone. It’s not long before Scott and Olive wander in, both in search of caffeine. I find their timing suspicious considering Olive slept in my room last night and Scott slept down the hall in his.
Supposedly.
Even though Scott’s the oldest of us three and he’s been dating Olive for two years, my parents still insist they sleep in separate bedrooms. It’s ridiculous, mostly because I’m the one who has to suffer when his girlfriend takes my room, relegating me to the basement.
No one else seems to care, though, which is generally how things go around here.
“Is it just me or is it freezing in here?” asks Olive, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. She’s always reminded me of a bird, with thin, delicate features and fine, reddish-brown hair that falls to her shoulders.
Try sleeping in the basement.
She’d freeze to death, especially since she’s standing in the middle of the kitchen with bare feet, a short-sleeve t-shirt, and black leggings. You’d think by now she’d realize you need layers to survive this house.
Scott nods, passing her a cup of coffee. “It’s frigid. Maybe Dad will feel generous since it’s his birthday and turn up the heat.”
Noah snorts. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Wes would be sweating.
The thought pops into my head, invasive and unexpected, and I shove it away.
As Scott and Olive take a seat at the table, Mom appears, already showered and dressed, her blonde hair blow-dried and styled to perfection. Mom never wears sweatpants or pajamas around the house. She likes to be put together. Always.
“Good morning,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Who wants to help me make some birthday pancakes for Dad?” Noah makes a face Mom can’t see, and Scott keeps his mouth shut like always. Mom doesn’t notice them, though. She’s too busy seething at my lack of enthusiasm. “Ivy?”
“Sure, Mom,” I say, quickly saving my file before shutting my laptop. “Of course, I’ll help.”
“That’s what I thought.”
And that’s that. She doesn’t recruit the boys further.
Or Olive, for that matter. So I spend the next thirty minutes mixing the batter (too much, according to Mom), cooking the bacon (too long, according to Mom), and shaping the pancakes (too flat, according to Mom).
Though by the time Dad wanders in, she’s whipped me into shape, and we somehow end up with an edible breakfast Dad seems absolutely thrilled by.
We stick a candle in a stack of pancakes—a family tradition—and sing happy birthday. Dad makes a wish and blows out his candle, and we all sit down to eat.
“How does it feel to be old, Dad?” asks Noah with his mouth full. It’s a question that would definitely get me in trouble.
Dad takes a sip of coffee and says, “Sixty feels no different than fifty-nine. Fifty-nine felt no different than fifty-eight. I suspect sixty-one will feel no different than sixty.”
“Well, you look fantastic, Mr. Combs,” says Olive.
Dad dips his chin in her direction. “Thank you, Olive.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I check the screen to find a Stratus notification, a mass warning telling students not to park in bus lanes.
“No phones at the table, Ivy,” Mom snaps, like I’m thirteen and not a full-grown college student with actual responsibilities. Coming home sure makes me feel like a child, though.
I hastily tuck the device away. “Sorry.”
“We got you something, Dad,” says Scott, pulling out an envelope. He passes it to Dad across the table, and we all watch him open it. His brow furrows for a moment, and then his mouth breaks into a rare smile.
“Orchestra season tickets!” It sounds like hell to me, but Dad plays violin and foams at the mouth for this sort of thing. “This is incredible.” He looks between Scott and Noah. “Thank you.”
“What a thoughtful gift,” Mom gushes.
“I thought so,” pipes in Olive.
I don’t bother mentioning I paid for a third of it. I let it slide like everything else because ever since the end of junior year it’s like I don’t matter.
I stopped talking to my parents. I lost all my friends.
My grades dropped. I tanked the SATs. But the worst thing I did…
the worst thing I did was try to tell my mother what happened to me at the Northland party.
And when she didn’t want to listen, I accidentally drank an entire bottle of Jack Daniels.
And so instead of supporting Noah at the Men’s College World Series, they were at the hospital, with me, treating my alcohol poisoning.
Noah made “the worst decisions of his life,” after that, according to Mom, and they blame me for it. Quitting baseball. Losing his scholarship. Changing his major. Going overboard with partying. Breaking up with his girlfriend.
Mom will never forgive me.
Scott and Dad talk orchestra logistics for the rest of breakfast while Noah grunts through his hangover, shoveling a disgusting number of pancakes into his mouth.
I sit there silently, pushing my food around my plate, and once the boys deem the meal over, Mom and I wordlessly clean up the table and load everything into the dishwasher.
As everyone scatters to get ready for the day, I sit back at the computer with my third cup of coffee and think, Wes would be proud. I startle and push him out, out, out of my head for the second time this morning. He doesn’t belong there.
There’s no shower in the basement, so I have to wait my turn and pray there’s hot water left by the time it comes. When pipes begin to clang throughout the house, I settle back into my chair. It’s going to be a while, especially since Prima Donna Noah’s known for his forty-minute spa treatments.
On the table beside my keyboard, my phone buzzes. I spare it a haphazard glance, but when I see the message, I do a double take.
Unknown: Poison Ivy!
Heat rushes up my neck, flooding my face, and my stomach bottoms out. I snatch up the phone, holding it an inch from my nose as I study the message from an unfamiliar number. It vibrates with a follow-up text.
Wes: At least, I hope this is you. I got your number off the class list in the portal so…sorry if that’s creepy.
I blink at the screen, my head foggy despite the caffeine. I feel a mix of emotions, and I can’t figure out if his text makes me anxious or…pleased.
Maybe both?
Now there’s an outrageous thought.
I set the phone down on the table, my knee bobbing as I decide not to answer right away, and by the time it’s my turn to jump in the shower, not even the (luke)warm water can ease the knot in my stomach.
Once I’m dressed and ready, I purposely leave my phone downstairs as I help Mom do last-minute setup and cleaning before Dad’s party. Apparently, Noah went to pick up the cake, and Scott and Olive the balloons, so I’m stuck with bathroom and trash duty. Typical.
It’s almost four when guests start arriving at the house—mostly neighbors and my parents’ friends from church.
I feel eyes on me as I move through the room, and discreet glances being shot my way.
They all know I tanked my GPA and devastated my parents in the process.
They all know some vague details about my stint in the hospital and how it forced my parents to miss Noah’s big moment.
They all know too much, in my opinion.
“How’s it going, Ivy?” asks Jeff Greene, his meaty hand clapping my shoulder with enough force to make me flinch. “Staying out of trouble?”