Chapter 9
Ivy
The bed is massive, but it somehow feels too small.
We've established a demilitarized zone down the middle, pillows as a barrier, blankets carefully divided. I'm on the left side, he's on the right, and there's approximately three feet of space that neither of us will cross.
It's ridiculous. We're adults. We can share a bed platonically for two nights.
Except I'm hyperaware of every sound he makes. Every breath. Every shift of the mattress.
"You still awake?" His voice cuts through the darkness.
"Unfortunately."
"Can't sleep?" He asks.
"Hard to sleep when I'm on high alert for boundary violations."
"I'm not going to touch you, Ivy."
"Good. Because I have pepper spray in my bag."
"Jesus. You really think I'd—" He stops. "Never mind. I deserve that."
We're quiet for a moment. The hotel AC hums. Outside, I can hear traffic from the street below.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
"No."
"Why do you hate me so much?"
I turn to look at him. He's on his back, staring at the ceiling, careful not to even glance in my direction.
"Are you serious right now?"
"I know what I did. I'm asking why it still matters so much. It's been three years."
"Because it wasn't just what you did. It's what it meant." I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. "You were my best friend. The person I trusted more than anyone and you destroyed me in front of everyone to prove that I meant nothing."
"That's not why—"
"Then why? Give me one good reason why you said those things. Why did you humiliate me like that?"
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer.
Then the words escape in a whisper. "Because my parents made me."
I laugh bitterly. "That's your excuse? Your parents made you?"
"It's not an excuse. It's the truth." He sits up too, and now we're facing each other across the pillow barrier. "They gave me an ultimatum. Cut you off publicly and completely, or they'd destroy your family's restaurant."
The words don't make sense at first. "What?"
"They threatened to report fake immigration violations. Health code violations. Anything they could fabricate to shut down your family's business." His voice is flat, emotionless. "They said if I didn't end our friendship in a way that made it clear I was choosing them, they'd ruin your family."
I stare at him, trying to process this.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You expect me to believe your parents, who were always polite to me, who smiled and made small talk, would do something that cruel?"
"They were polite to your face. Do you know what my mother called you when you weren't around?
'The restaurant girl.' Like you were a servant, not a person.
" His jaw tightens. "They thought you were beneath me.
Inappropriate for their son, they thought it would embarrass the family if they let in a poor girl into the family.
Their image was more important than what I wanted and when they realized I—" He stops.
"Realized you what?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter."
"Finish the sentence."
"When they realized I had feelings for you," he says quietly. "That's when they gave me the ultimatum. Either destroy our friendship publicly, or they'd destroy your family. Those were my only options."
I'm shaking. From anger or shock or something else, I can't tell.
"So you chose to destroy me instead."
"I chose to protect you. Your family needed that restaurant. Your grandmother's medical bills, your sister's expenses, losing that income would have devastated your family."
"So you played the hero by making yourself the villain."
"I played a coward by not telling you the truth.
By not finding another way." He runs a hand through his hair.
"I was eighteen and terrified and I made the worst choice possible.
I thought if I hurt you publicly enough, my parents would back off and you'd hate me, but at least your family would be safe. "
"How noble," I say sarcastically, but my voice wavers.
"It wasn't noble. It was the easy choice. The one that let me tell myself I was protecting you while really just protecting myself from having to stand up to them."
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. "Why didn't you tell me? After? Why let me think you were just cruel?"
"Because you hated me and I deserved that hatred.
Telling you would have been asking for forgiveness I didn't deserve.
" He looks at me finally. "And honestly?
I was still scared of them. Still am, in some ways.
They have money, connections, power. I was terrified that if you knew the truth, you'd try to fight them and they'd destroy you anyway. "
"So you let me spend three years thinking you betrayed me for no reason."
"Yes. Because that was easier than admitting I betrayed you for what I thought was a good reason. At least the first version made me a simple asshole. The truth makes me a complicated coward."
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to process this.
"I don't believe you."
"I have the emails. The texts from my mother outlining exactly what they'd do if I didn't comply. I saved everything." He pulls out his phone. "I can show you right now if you want proof."
"I don't want your proof. I want—" I stop. What do I want? For this to not be true? For the past three years to make sense again?
"You want it to be simple," he says quietly. "You want me to be the villain who hurt you because I'm selfish and cruel. Because that's easier than believing I hurt you while trying to protect you."
"Don't you dare make this about me wanting simple narratives. You had three years to tell me this. Three years where I built my entire college identity around moving past what you did to me."
"I know."
"You let me hate you. Let me think I was nothing to you."
"Because you were everything to me." The confession comes out raw. "And I destroyed that and I'd do it again if it meant keeping your family safe. I'd make the same choice, knowing it would cost me you, because you were worth saving. Even if you never knew I was trying to save you."
I'm crying now. Angry tears, confused tears, tears I've been holding back for three years.
"I hate you," I say, but it sounds less certain than before.
"I know."
"I hate that you made that choice."
"I know."
"I hate that you thought you had to."
"I know."
"And I really, really hate that part of me understands why you did it."
He's quiet for a moment. "You don't have to forgive me."
"Good. Because I don't."
"But maybe you could hate me a little less? Eventually?"
"Maybe." I wipe my eyes angrily. "Or maybe I'll hate you more for making me question everything I've believed for three years."
"That's fair."
We sit in silence. The barrier of pillows between us suddenly feels more symbolic than physical.
"Did you really have feelings for me?" I ask finally. "Or was that just part of the explanation?"
His turn to be silent.
"I've been in love with you since we were twelve years old. I'm still in love with you and I know that's not fair to put on you after everything I've done. But you asked for honesty."
My breath catches. "Ethan—"
"You don't have to say anything. I'm not asking for anything back. I'm just..." He lies back down, carefully maintaining his distance. "I'm just tired of lying. About all of it."
I don't know what to say. Don't know how to respond to that kind of confession after everything that's happened.
So I don't say anything. Just lie back down, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
Everything I thought I knew about that night, about Ethan, about us has been turned upside down.
And I have no idea how to feel about it.