Chapter 10 Ivy
Ivy
“Another one is about to land.”
I squint my eyes toward the sky, but I can’t see anything other than dark clouds. “There’s no way you’re seeing anything with your naked eye.”
Joe shrugs from where he’s standing by the tall fence separating the runway from the parking lot. “I guess you’re just getting old.”
He totally deserves me throwing a potato chip at him for that, but he’s lucky littering is against my principles.
Also, I love barbecue chips too much to waste even a single one.
Instead, I go for the grown-up option of sitting back in my camping chair and ignoring his comment.
As much as I joke about it, growing old is a privilege that Mom didn’t get to have.
Not as much as she should have anyway. So if it comes with wrinkles, gray hairs, and bad eyesight, that’s fine by me.
Joe fiddles with his phone and the tripod he brought for the occasion, getting ready to capture the landing.
I know nothing about airplanes other than their food is too salty and they somehow fly despite weighing a thousand tons, yet this right here is one of the things I missed the most about living at home.
Plane spotting, a camping chair, some snacks, and the happiness on Joe’s face every time he captures a landing or takeoff.
“It’s a CRJ-701ER,” he says right off the top of his head like the cute little nerd he is. His hands are on his hips as he squints at the sky, and I chuckle. “What’s so funny?”
“You look like a dad watching his kid’s baseball game. How do you even know what plane that is anyway? Just by looking at it?”
He points at the plane I can now see approaching the airport. “The tail gives it away, and so do the engines.”
“Maybe for you.”
“It’s a small regional plane,” he explains, eyes glued on the sky. “Can you check where it took off from?”
Every time we come to the plane-spotting site by the airport, we follow the same routine: chat, snack, wait for the planes, and record them while I check all the information online for him to put on his video later.
“Newark,” I tell him, reading the information on my screen. “Hey, I used to come on this one when I lived there.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he mutters distractedly as he adjusts his phone on the tripod. “The same plane changes routes all the time.”
I plop another chip into my mouth. “Party pooper.”
“I’m hitting Record.”
That’s his nice way of telling me to zip it. He doesn’t put music over his videos, so we need to stay quiet while he records to hear the sound of the engines. Apparently, that’s the best part.
I stop eating my chips, lather my greasy fingers with a healthy dose of hand sanitizer, and steal a look at the sketchbook peeking out of my bag. Back in the day, I would doodle while Joe recorded his planes. Now…
It can’t hurt to try, right?
An emotion that feels a lot like longing hits me when I open the sketchbook on Ford’s very abstract portrait of me.
It’s been a little over a week since we sat together on my porch steps, and we’ve seen each other in passing since.
Joe mowed his lawn again, I waved at him at the grocery store—he was checking out while I was walking in—and I spotted his fire truck outside Sunny Stitches two days ago when the fire alarm went off in one of the nearby buildings.
It doesn’t make sense to be longing for anything or anybody, and yet….
The unmistakable roar of a plane landing brings me out of my weird thoughts about Ford, and I turn the page.
It shouldn’t matter that I can’t draw for fun anymore. I mean, it’s not ideal, but I can still sketch for Fran. As long as I can keep paying our bills, it will be fine.
The CRJ-something touches down at the far end of the runway, smoke coming off the tires. Joe follows it with his phone, and my one-sided issues with drawing get kicked to the back of my mind.
I’m so stupidly proud of him. Whether it’s by reading flight guides, playing flight simulators, or uploading videos online, he’s following his dream.
I don’t know when or where it will happen, but I will be there for his first commercial flight as a pilot, bawling my eyes out and embarrassing him on his first day at work like the great big sister that I am.
“The video turned out well, I think,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he grabs his phone from the tripod to check the footage.
“Good job, Jojo. When’s the next plane coming?”
“There’s one taking off to Chicago in fifteen, but we can leave after that one. I’ve got enough videos.”
“You sure?”
I’m getting a little cold even though I’ve layered well, and the black clouds above threaten rain, but Joe loves our plane-spotting trips, and I don’t want to cut this one short. Sundays are my only day off, the only time we can do this.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Pass me the chips?”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve packed everything in the car, ready to go home.
Just like the drive to the airport, the journey back to Harmony Hills takes us a little longer than it normally would.
If Joe notices I’m driving way below the speed limit, he doesn’t comment on it.
We still haven’t had a proper conversation about his aversion to cars post-accident, and I wonder if I’m failing him by not pushing it.
I’m still in my own head when we get home nearly an hour later, which explains why I don’t notice what’s going on until Joe points it out.
“Is Ford throwing a party or something?” he asks. “Why are there so many cars in his driveway?”
I turn my head to see what he means. “It’s just his truck and two others. It’s not that many.”
“Still. He never has company.”
Never? Does that mean he never—
Nope. Not going there.
“You’re being nosy,” I tell him as I pull into our driveway, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not curious.
When I kill the engine, Joe hurries outside. He yawns, stretching his arms over his head before he’s even shut the door—all while glancing in the direction of Ford’s yard.
“You’re not even trying to be subtle.”
“Who says I want to be subtle? I’m trying to see what’s going on. There’s smoke coming from his backyard and—” He pauses to sniff the air. “It smells like meat.”
“Mystery solved, then. It’s probably a barbecue.” I get out of the car and stretch my arms as well. “Don’t you have a video to edit, busybody?”
“Yeah. I wanted to upload it tonight.”
His aviation channel has been growing lately, which is making him even more excited to upload frequently. Yet another reason to be glad I’m back; more trips to the airport together means more videos.
“Then go ahead. I’ll get everything out of the car.”
“You sure?”
I’m about to tell him that yes, I’m sure, because I’d do anything to keep that happiness shining in his eyes right now, when someone yells, “Hey, guys!”
Ford waves at us from his backyard, his black T-shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide what he does for a living.
Stop looking at his biceps, you pervert.
Joe waves back as Ford stops by the picket fence separating our houses.
“I’m grilling some burgers back there with my brothers and my niece. Wanna join? There’s enough for everybody.”
I don’t know why, but it’s still a little hard to reconcile this supportive, inviting man with the one who would do nothing but grunt at me not that long ago.
“I need to do something first, but I’ll come when the burgers are ready,” Joe tells him.
“You got it, buddy. Ivy?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” I tell myself I’m only accepting because I’m too tired to make dinner at home, but it’s not a strong enough lie. “I need to get some things out of the car, but I’ll be there in five.”
“No rush.”
As soon as Ford is out of earshot, Joe blurts, “Do you like him or something?”
I ignore the way my heart rolls over in my chest. “What kind of question is that?”
He narrows his eyes at what I’m hoping isn’t my mortified face. “You like him.”
“Well, of course I like him. So do you. He’s nice to us.”
“I don’t mean it like that, and you know it. You’re blushing.”
I barely hear my voice over the sound of my erratic heartbeat. “I’m not blushing, and you’re nuts.”
A slow smirk I don’t like one bit spreads across his face. “Ivy has a crush,” he singsongs.
“I don’t have a crush on Ford. Be serious.”
Sure, he’s attentive, and helpful, and a good man who isn’t afraid to tease me back. Also, yeah, he’s easy on the eye, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s all those things… objectively.
“Hey, whatever. It’s not my business,” he argues, hands up in fake surrender and everything. “We’re going to eat with him, then?”
I shrug, but I don’t think it looks as nonchalant as I intended. “Turn down free homemade dinner? Now that’s nuts.”
“Keep telling yourself it’s the free dinner that does it.” He sends me a look as he opens the trunk and grabs the two camping chairs I told him I’d get myself. “I’ll take these inside and go over when I’m done editing the video.”
“I can do it,” I insist.
“Do what? Take the chairs inside or admit you like our neighbor?”
I give him the middle finger, earning me a shit-eating grin in return.
The loud noises from the planes must have messed with his brain, because I don’t have a crush on hottie fireman over there. I don’t. I enjoy his company, sure, but that’s what being friends with someone means.
But if Joe thinks I have a crush on Ford, does Ford think the same thing too? What if he pulls away again?
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I start for his backyard as Joe disappears inside the house. I’m going to eat a nice burger, have a good time, and come back home with our newfound friendship still intact.
After all, I don’t have a crush on Ford. My brother is just messing with me.