Chapter 2
Ivy
I don’t see our neighborly fireman again for the rest of the week.
I’ve heard his pickup truck—not a Ford, sadly; that would’ve been too funny—pulling in and out of his driveway, but I didn’t get up to peek more than strictly necessary.
Mainly because I’m not crazy, but also because I’m not over the embarrassment of trespassing on his property and telling him he smells.
At least Joe doesn’t know about the latter, or I would never live it down.
Ford has been on my mind more often than it’s probably healthy, and I blame it on the fact that I’m not sleeping well.
Because sure, Ford might be more conventionally attractive than most men I’ve come across, but that’s not the point.
The point is that I have an eternal list of things to do and worry about, and male attention isn’t on it.
Especially not when I’m running late.
“Have a good day at school, Jojo.” I pinch his cheek before he gets out of the car, music blasting from the speakers because I have to embarrass him just enough in front of his high school friends.
What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t?
“Text me if something hurts and you want to go home, but also—please don’t, unless you’re dying.
Don’t take advantage of my softness. I’m the responsible adult now and can’t indulge you anymore. ”
“My neck is fine,” he reassures me, rotating it to make a point. “Also, you said yes to frozen paninis last night when we had vegetables in the fridge. That’s not very responsible.”
“As if you didn’t stuff your mouth in record time. I’ll make you steamed broccoli for dinner if you so desperately want vegetables.”
“Oh no, nutrients. I’m shaking.”
I ignore him. “Did I give you lunch money?”
“Senile already? Yeah, you did.”
“Fine, I’m feeding you broccoli until you turn green.”
He gets out of the car and then leans down to look me in the eye. “Love you, Ives.”
“Love you too, Jojo. Learn a lot.”
“I’ll try.”
He shuts the car door and disappears into the throng of students hauling ass before the bell rings, leaving me alone with the music and my thoughts.
My gaze lingers on the high school building, the same one I barely graduated from eight years ago.
It’s a good thing his neck doesn’t hurt and that he isn’t scared of cars after…
well, after. Granted, I’m the only person he accepts rides from, so maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to celebrate.
He didn’t want to get in the car with Ethan’s mom last weekend—someone who has given him multiple rides over the years—and took the bus instead.
I crank up the radio a little higher and pull out of the drop-off area when someone honks behind me.
Three years ago, I made a huge mistake by leaving him with our dad so I could move to New York City, and I won’t trip over the same stone twice.
I had to leave for a good reason—money, what else?
—but I didn’t love my corporate job that much.
It’s a good thing I came back to Harmony Hills, even if the circumstances that brought me back aren’t the best.
I head to Main Street and decide I’ll only focus on what truly matters from now on. Not on Dad or what he did, but on keeping an eye on my brother. He says he’s fine, but my gut is telling me otherwise.
When I start my second job next week, I should probably send him to therapy. It’s not an expense I can afford right now, but if he needs it….
I feel like I know everything and nothing at the same time, but I’m trying. I love Joe more than life itself, and I will pretend to have my shit together for him until it comes true.
He can’t have another adult in his life fail him.
I find a spot two blocks away from the shop, and—shit. Fine, Joe is right. I’m not the best at parallel parking. Whatever.
The roads are unusually crowded this morning, so I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’ve done this many times before and only scratched the car eight times. I’ve counted.
By some miracle, I manage to avoid a ninth. I turn off the radio and take a deep breath, listing the affirmations I’ve been repeating to myself these past few weeks.
I’m lucky to be in a position where I could become Joe’s guardian and he didn’t end up in foster care.
I’m lucky to have found two jobs in Harmony Hills so quickly.
I’m lucky to be able to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table.
I’m really, really lucky, even though I didn’t always feel this way. So, I’m not going to ruin my day before it begins.
I plaster a smile on my face that feels genuine enough and get out of the car.
Sunny Stitches is one of the oldest businesses in Harmony Hills and one of the few sewing stores in the county.
Our grandmother had been close to Fran—the owner—up until her death years ago.
They would play bingo together every Saturday night at the local library, then hit the bars for drinks with their friends and some strangers they didn’t mind flirting with.
Nan was full of life, and so is Fran, who offered me a job at Sunny Stitches as soon as she heard I was moving back home.
“I’m growing old,” she told me the day she gave me the job while standing in the cereal aisle in the grocery store.
Best job interview I’ve ever had. “I’ll keep running the shop, but my eyes and hands aren’t what they used to be.
Can’t sew crap if I stab myself with the needle every two minutes.
You made some Halloween costumes for Joe and his friends last year, right?
They were good—I checked the stitching because I was curious. You’ll do well working with me.”
And that was it. I couldn’t say no, exactly, even if I’d wanted to.
My three savings accounts have turned into four in the past month. One is for me, another one is for Joe’s flight school, another for general savings, and a new one for Joe’s personal use. Dad used to manage that one, and it was mostly empty.
Paired with medical and attorney fees, I couldn’t afford to pick and choose jobs.
Being a seamstress at Sunny Stitches pays well, so accepting her offer was a no-brainer.
Also, Fran is the best. At sixty-something, she reminds me so much of my grandmother, I often find myself wishing I’d gone out with them.
I’m not a party girl, but I would’ve made an exception for them.
“Morning, Fran,” I call out, the bell chiming above my head as I enter the shop.
“Just a moment!” she hollers from the back, which is separated from the front by a thick curtain behind the massive wooden counter.
I’ve been to Sunny Stitches countless times over the years to buy cloth for Joe’s costumes and patches for his jeans, and I’ve been working here for a couple of weeks, but I still take a moment to look around.
The yellow walls are barely visible behind rows and rows of spools, colorful buttons, zippers, and all sorts of sewing supplies. Not to mention all the rolls of fabric—polka dots, florals, plaid, buffalo check…. The list never ends.
Working here has been productive so far. I’m finishing up the costumes for a local gymnastics team, and I took the liberty of adding a few extra sparkles for the little girls so that they shine even brighter in their upcoming exhibition. Their coach had been all about that.
“Sorry, was finishing up a call with my sister. You know how she rambles and rambles,” Fran complains as she comes to the front of the shop. She pushes the glasses resting at the tip of her nose a little higher. “What’s that smile for?”
“You’re two peas in a pod, Fran. You talk for hours.”
She harrumphs. “I’m only entertaining her because her husband is a bore. She needs someone to gossip with.”
“Sure.”
“Anyway, let’s get down to business,” she brushes me off, knowing I’m absolutely right. Fran enjoys the gossip as much as her sister does. Not that I’m blaming her for it. “The girls from the gymnastics team are dropping by after school to try on their outfits. Are they ready?”
“Yep. So are the sketches for the marching band.”
I hand her my sketchbook so she can take a look. They wanted some alterations made to their existing costume designs to spruce things up, and I’ve come up with a few ideas. But I’m not sure about any of them because I think they all suck, so I wait for Fran’s approval.
I haven’t been in a particularly creative mood the past few weeks, which isn’t ideal when I have to make costumes from scratch or alter existing ones for a living.
Fran insists that my ideas are good, that she likes my sketches, but I don’t believe her.
Not because I think she’s lying, but because I really don’t think I’m doing a good job.
Mom used to joke that I was born with a pencil in my hand. My art teachers at school insisted I had a talent for drawing, and so did she, but I’ve always felt too self-conscious to think they’re anything but mediocre. Nice, maybe, on a good day.
Not that it matters. I’m never going to do anything with any of my drawings.
I like it here at Sunny Stitches. This job might not set my soul on fire, but it doesn’t need to. Paying the bills is my priority, not silly dreams I will never achieve anyway.
“All these are good. I like the third option the best,” Fran decides. “Snap some pictures and send them to Jimmy. See what he thinks before we commit to a design.”
I nod, making a mental note to text Harmony Hill’s band director later—after asking Fran for his number.
“I left a pair of bellbottom jeans in the back. We need those alterations ready for this morning, before eleven. Other than that, we’re free,” she explains. “But first—coffee and donuts. Let’s not pretend we can function without those. Latte?”
“You know it, Fran.”
“Be right back.”
I’m inspecting the jeans when she returns with my latte and a donut covered in sprinkles. A while later, Jimmy approves the sketch for the marching band, and I get to it.
My lunch break comes and goes. Joe texts me a broccoli emoji, and I reply with a peas one because he hates them.
And at four, the bell chimes while I’m sewing a button on one of the jackets for the marching band.
“Who do we have here? Hello, Lexi,” Fran says, her voice slipping under the curtain. “Are you here for your fitting?”
An excited kid voice answers, “Yeah!”
My lower back groans as I stand from the chair, and so do I. Sometimes I forget I’m no longer Joe’s age and shouldn’t sit with a hunched back for an hour straight. Oh well.
I’m searching for Lexi’s name among the many outfits hanging from the clothing rack when Fran shouts, “Darling, could you bring Lexi’s outfit up front?”
“Coming!”
I find the tag with her name on it and head to the front.
“Hi, Lexi. Look what I’ve got ready for you.” My lips stretch into a smile as my eyes land on the little girl, who can’t be older than five or six.
But then my smile turns nervous when I shift my gaze to the familiar man standing next to her.
Our neighbor.
The firefighter.
“Oh. Hi, Ford.” I wave at him perhaps too enthusiastically. “Long time no see.”
And what does he do? He frowns at me.
“Can I try it on?” Lexi asks, not hiding her enthusiasm.
“Let’s wait until you get home,” Ford answers, his voice gentle. Is he her dad? The kid’s bike in his shed would make sense if that were the case.
“But Uncle Ford….”
Well, there’s my answer.
“We need to go to the grocery store before I drop you off, remember?” He’s still patient, soft.
When the little girl pouts, clearly not happy about Ford’s reasonable request, I step in.
“How about you take your outfit home and try it on with your hair done and everything? So you can see the full effect. Does that sound like a good plan?”
Lexi hesitates just a heartbeat. “I guess.”
“I think it’s a good plan too,” Fran chimes in.
I’m still smiling at Lexi when the weight of a certain someone’s stare makes me lift my gaze. And sure enough, there it is—Ford’s very deep, very confusing frown again.
Haven’t I apologized profusely for trespassing? And didn’t he say it was fine?
I’m not saying what I did wasn’t dumb, because it very much was. And he has a right to be mad at me, of course. But is it necessary to look at me like I’ve just hit his mailbox with a baseball bat instead of encouraged his niece?
A familiar and unwelcome feeling sinks its ugly claws into my chest. Why does it matter what he thinks of me? It shouldn’t, yet here I am.
When I was younger, I found myself dressing like my school friends and spending an indecent amount of time doing my makeup in the mornings because I didn’t want to feel left out. What if people took one look at me and thought I didn’t belong?
Now, at twenty-six, I’ve been through so much crap, I refuse to waste my time worrying about what others think of me. Mostly. Old habits die hard, after all.
I don’t feel the pressure to fit in like I used to, but clearly, the fact that Ford seems to be annoyed by my mere existence is getting to me.
“We’re settled, then,” Fran says, bringing me out of my head. “Ivy, would you mind putting it in a dust bag?”
Eager to get away from Ford’s disapproving stare, I hurry to the back to grab a dust bag. And then, like a coward, I busy myself with the laptop while Fran sorts out the dress to avoid talking to him. We would have a one-sided conversation anyway.
“Thank you,” I hear Ford say. I refuse to look up. “Lexi, what do you say?”
“Thank you!”
“No problem, sweetie.” That’s Fran.
Purposely ignoring the tall man holding her hand, I wave at the little girl. “Bye, Lexi.”
If I’m so bent out of shape over a near-stranger not liking me, someone who doesn’t pay my bills or bring any value to my life whatsoever, it must be because I don’t have enough things to do.
So, with a new resolve, I put in one of my earbuds and start cleaning every little corner at the back of the shop until all my thoughts about Ford disappear.