Chapter 15 #2
“It’s okay,” I assure him, knowing damn well I’m not okay.
But it has nothing to do with him and everything with the fact that my head isn’t working properly today.
“What you said about being stressed checks out. I’m tired from work.
Also, I think I’m blocked because…. I told you my dad is in jail, right? ”
He nods once.
All thoughts about Ford get pushed to the back of my mind, momentarily replaced by the harsh reality that chases me no matter where I go and what I do.
I take a deep breath through my nose, fidgeting with my digital pencil. “He got into a car accident because he wasn’t… he wasn’t doing well behind the wheel.”
Ford meets my explanation with a frown. “Did he have a medical issue while driving?”
“No.” I swallow. Deep breaths. “He was high. And when the police stopped him, he ran over a deputy. He’s fine, luckily, but my dad went to jail for… for attempted manslaughter.”
He sucks in a breath. “Shit, Ivy. I’m so sorry.”
I find myself shaking my head, hoping my hands aren’t shaking with it. This is the first time I’m talking about it out loud to someone who isn’t a lawyer or a social worker. Joe and I haven’t even had a proper discussion about that day.
“Don’t be sorry.” If my words sound cruel, so be it. After what he did, our dad doesn’t deserve my compassion. “He did it willingly, all of it. He chose to get in the car, even when….”
I can’t say it.
I can’t fucking say it.
His hand on mine stops my fingers from fidgeting with my pencil.
“Whatever happened, you and Joe are okay now,” he says gently. “You’re doing a great job with him.”
The tip of my nose starts to sting. “I don’t even know what I’m doing half of the time.”
“All parents feel the same. Rhys does too. You might not be Joe’s mom, but you have a similar role now. He’s a good kid, and you’re doing great.”
I let out a shaky breath when he pulls away, taking my pencil with him.
“Our mom passed away ten years ago,” I tell him quietly. “She was a great mom. I’m trying to do a good job like she did, but sometimes I feel like…. I don’t know. Like the obstacles won’t ever stop coming.”
“I’m sorry about your mom. I didn’t know.” He searches my gaze. “If it’s any consolation, I think she would be really proud of you.”
“Stop it.” I use the sleeve of my hoodie to dry the traitorous tears that have rolled down my cheeks. “Stop being so sweet to me.”
“I’m only telling you what I think” is his soft reply.
I sniffle. “Okay. I’m fine now. That’s enough trauma dumping for one day.”
“It’s not trauma dumping if it helps you. I’m here to listen. Are you feeling better?”
I take a moment to recognize my own feelings. It doesn’t feel like the weight of the world is completely off my shoulders, but it’s becoming a tiny bit easier to carry since the start of our conversation. So, I nod.
“Do you want to watch something, then?” he asks.
To my own surprise, I shake my head. “No. Let’s give half-naked men a go.”
He arches an amused eyebrow in my direction.
“At drawing them,” I clarify, knowing damn well he understood what I meant, if his little smirk is any indication. “I have twelve illustrations to go, so let’s get started.”
“Sounds good. Do you need anything? More water? A cozy blanket?”
“No, but thank you. I mean, unless you have special water that comes with inspiration powers? If so, please bring enough to bathe myself in it.”
He nudges my knee with his again and gives me back my pencil. “You’ve got this, Ivy, even without magical water. You’ll see.”
But I do, in fact, not see.
Because half an hour goes by, which he spends scrolling on his phone while I compulsively draw and delete poorly done sketches.
I groan, throwing my head back. “This is pointless. I can’t do it.”
He puts his phone away. “Nothing?”
Rubbing my very tired eyes, I tell him, “I don’t want to let you guys down. You’re counting on me, and I take that seriously. I promise I’m not being dramatic because I enjoy it.”
“I know you aren’t.”
“I just… I can’t draw. I want to scream and cry and throw something against the wall.”
Ford stays silent for a moment. A part of me thinks he’s going to kick me out—I’ve wasted enough of his time—but then he says, “Wait here.”
He heads out of the living room…
And comes back with a broomstick.
“Ford, what are you—”
I shut my mouth. Or, more accurately, the words simply refuse to come out. Because my mouth is pretty freaking open right now as I watch Ford take off his hoodie and stand before me in gray sweatpants and a white sleeveless undershirt.
Holy shit holy shit holy shit—
By some miracle, I manage to ignore the defined muscles on his chest and arms and focus on the fact that he’s grabbed the broomstick and is standing in front of the TV.
“Use me as inspiration,” this man I’m pretty sure I do have a crush on declares, posing with the broomstick between his hands. “Pretend it’s an axe.”
I’m officially dead.
Picking my jaw up off the floor, I try to sound normal when I tell him, “You really don’t need to do this.”
“Come on. Paint me like a sexy fireman.”
I will never recover from this.
Unable to keep it together any longer, I hide my face in my hands and start laughing.
“What? Was that too cringy?” He chuckles. “Fuck it, I’m owning it. How about you add some flames behind me to make me look badass?”
“You’re insane,” I laugh into my hands.
“Come on, Ivy. We have work to do. Make me look extra sexy for the people of Harmony Hills. We have a calendar to sell.”
This is too much. He’s too much. But I might as well just go for it.
Still laughing, I pull up a blank page and start drawing a rough outline of his body.
“Remember the flames. I have a feeling that will be the key.”
I know he’s being silly just to get me out of my head and pull any strand of inspiration out of me since nothing else has. And the worst part?
It works.