Chapter 5
Ford
Two days later, I’m pulling into the driveway on my way back from the grocery store when I spot Joe. He’s standing on his front lawn, hands on his hips, frowning at their picket fence.
“Everything okay?” I call out when I get out of my truck.
His head snaps up in my direction as if he hadn’t heard me pull in, and he waves. “Hey.”
I wave back. “Something wrong with the fence?”
Joe is a good kid. I see it in the way he interacts with me and how he acts with his friends when they hang out in town. Despite the rebelliousness associated with his age, he’s not one to get into trouble—or so I’ve concluded in the short time we’ve known each other.
And at times like this, when he’s reluctant to accept help, I can see my younger self in him. My brothers too. Nash—the youngest—and Rhys—Lexi’s dad, the oldest—and I are cut from the same stubborn cloth.
“It’s not closing right,” he explains, trying to shut the gate to show me. “I think it’s rusty or something.”
“Want me to take a look?”
He hesitates again. “We have some tools at home.”
“Okay.”
“Can you give me some pointers? I want to do it myself.”
Ah, there it is.
“Sure I can, buddy. Let me get my groceries inside and I’ll be right back.”
Minutes later, Joe and I are examining the gate to his front yard. Indeed, it’s sagging considerably.
“Is it the hinges? Is that what’s wrong?” Joe asks.
I’m standing to the side, hands on my hips, simply observing. Just like I recognized his reluctance to ask for my help earlier, now I can tell that he doesn’t want me to do anything. He wants to take care of this himself and only needs me as moral support. I can respect that.
“Why do you think it’s the hinges?”
It is the hinges, but if he wants to truly learn so he can do this on his own next time, knowing why something is wrong is just as important as knowing what’s wrong.
Hell, I sound like a teacher. Or my dad.
Joe points to one of the hinges at the top. “It has to be the hinges. This one’s pretty much falling off. And this one too. They’re loose.”
“Okay. Do you know how to fix that?”
He hesitates. “By replacing them?”
“If they’re rusty,” I concede. “But these seem to be in good shape. You don’t have to replace them for now.”
He lets out a relieved sigh. “Okay, good. Ivy would’ve freaked out. Her to-do list is long enough, and we need to save up.”
His comment makes me frown, which in turn makes me feel like an asshole.
My first thought has no business being: They can’t be struggling if Ivy has a good job, drives a decent car, and Joe goes out with his friends and looks happy. They both wear nice clothes and look healthy.
Because, for one, what do I know about struggling? My brothers and I didn’t grow up filthy rich, but our parents had money. They could afford to take us on vacation every summer, put all of us in sports, get us whatever we wanted for Christmas, and put Rhys and me through higher education.
I grew up in a bubble, a privileged one, and assuming that someone is doing well just because they look well isn’t the way. I know better.
“The screws,” Joe points out, getting me out of my head. “That’s what’s wrong, I think? They’re rusted. Wait.”
He crouches to inspect the fence more thoroughly. “Yeah, they’re all rusted. I have to replace the screws, right?”
Crouching next to him, I check to make sure. “You got it, buddy. All eight have to be replaced. You got any spares at home?”
“I don’t, but I can go to the shop. I think they’re still open. They aren’t too expensive, right?”
“Nah. You can probably get them for under a dollar each.”
He nods, and as if he’s done it many times before, he grabs the screwdriver and expertly takes out one of the rusty screws before putting it in his pocket. “So I know which ones to get at the shop.”
“Smart.”
He stands to his full height and gives me a proud smile. “Thanks, Ford.”
“I didn’t do anything, kid.”
He shrugs. “You gave me confidence just standing there.”
That makes me chuckle. “I appreciate it, but you could’ve done it on your own. You’re perfectly capable.”
“I guess.”
“You want to be a pilot, right?” He’s mentioned it a few times. Plus, I’ve seen him reading some kind of aviation book on the porch. When he nods, I tell him, “That seems like a job you need to be confident for. Pilots are responsible for many lives.”
He grabs his tools, and we start toward his front porch. “Yeah, but I’m not scared of flying or afraid to mess up planes. I know my stuff.”
“I would hope so.” I smirk. “Imagine if I were afraid of fire.”
He smirks back. “That’d make you a shitty firefighter.”
“Correct.”
“Nah, it’s just… you know, these things. Handy stuff. I’m not the best at it, and I don’t want to mess up.”
I wonder why his dad hasn’t taught him or Ivy any of those things. I don’t ask, though, because I stopped seeing their dad and his car in the driveway a few days before Ivy showed up. She’s clearly living here now, and their dad isn’t, so something must be going on. It’s not my place to probe.
“If you’re unsure, you can always look up a tutorial,” I offer. “Everything’s on the internet nowadays. But even if you mess up, that’s fine. You’ll learn for next time.”
He climbs the few steps leading up to his front door, and I stay on the lawn. The door creaks when he opens it, and he sets the toolbox down on the hallway floor before turning to me.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that sometimes—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.
Somewhere inside the house, a small explosion goes off, followed by a woman’s scream, and it flips the firefighter switch inside me.
“Stay here,” I instruct Joe in the firm but calm voice I use at work.
Thankfully, he listens.
This is my first time inside Ivy and Joe’s house, but it doesn’t take me long to find the source of the chaos—mainly because Ivy yanks the door to the bathroom open and stumbles into the hallway.
I grab her before she falls to the ground. Her body is shaking, her hair damp and her eyes widened in shock.
“What’s wrong? Is there a fire?” I ask her in the same voice I used with her brother just moments ago.
“No.” She shakes her head. Swallows. “My hairdryer exploded. I can’t… I….”
“It’s okay. Your brother is outside. Go with him while I take care of this, yeah?”
“Ives!” Joe shouts behind me, rushing inside the house. “What happened?”
“Wait outside, both of you,” I tell him. “There’s no fire, but I need to look at something.”
The air in the bathroom is suffocating. Nothing compared to what I’m used to, but I still open a small window, letting in some fresh air.
At first glance, Ivy’s hairdryer looks fine. But a closer look tells me the AC motor is busted, hence why it smells like burnt toast in here. Hell, is Ivy okay?
I unplug it from the wall, and thankfully it doesn’t look like the socket is damaged. Just to double-check, I plug in a hair straightener; it works normally. The hairdryer must have been defective, then.
I grab the hairdryer and leave it on the kitchen table—I’m not sure if she’ll want to throw it out or if it’s fixable—then head back to the porch, where Joe and Ivy are sitting on the steps.
She must hear me, because she swivels her head before I utter a word. Her pale skin looks even paler in the afternoon light. “Is our bathroom on fire?”
“I think you’d know if that was the case.”
“Honestly, I know nothing right now. My brain is on strike.”
I find myself smirking before zeroing in on the small cut on her temple. “You’re bleeding.”
“She is?” Joe jumps to his feet and examines the small cut on his sister’s face. He stiffens, just like he did that day at the shed. “It’s nothing, Ives. Just a scrape.”
Her hand shakes as she touches the side of her head. “I’m bleeding?”
“But it’s nothing,” her brother hurries to reassure her.
I don’t miss the way she sways a little to the side, enough for Joe to reach out and hold her up. All sorts of alarms go off in my head.
“Are you going to faint?” Joe asks her.
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.”
As if this isn’t his first rodeo, Joe remains calm as he helps Ivy lie down on the wooden porch. He bends her knees and gets the damp strands of her hair out of her face.
“It’s fine. I’ll be here,” he says softly.
That’s all the permission she needs to allow her eyes to flutter shut. Her head lolls to the side, and my alarms blare even louder when I confirm she’s passed out.
Freaking out against my better judgment, I ask Joe, “Does she need a doctor?”
He shakes his head. “This happens sometimes. It’s normal.”
“Passing out frequently doesn’t sound too normal, buddy.”
“She has this thing. It has a weird name, and I can never remember it. It’s something like vaso… vasopa….”
“Vasovagal syncope?”
“That’s it,” he exclaims, checking on Ivy again. She’s still out. “It’s genetic. Our mom had it, and Nan too. You know what it is?”
“It rings a bell.”
He launches into an explanation: “She passes out when she’s in pain, or too hot, or sees blood, or is very overwhelmed.
It’s like her body shuts down. She can stop it sometimes, like that day in the shed when her knee was bleeding, but most of the time, she passes out.
She always knows when it’s about to happen, though, so she can lie down. It lasts a minute or so.”
“Are you sure she’s okay?” I insist because, fuck, passing out is a serious deal.
“Yeah. She saw a doctor in New York City last year when she passed out at the office, but she’s fine. It’s not dangerous. Only if she hits her head, I guess, but that has never happened.”
I believe him, but I’ll do some more reading on vasovagal syncope later anyway.
Also, New York City? That’s where she was living before she moved back to Harmony Hills?
Just like Joe said, Ivy stirs back to consciousness about a minute later. She makes a small sound at the back of her throat, most likely in discomfort, as she tries to get up. Joe is there in a heartbeat, helping her into a sitting position.
“I’ll go get some water with the electrolytes you like,” he tells her.