Chapter 12 Ivy
IVY
After the eventful week I’ve had, the practice facility is where I go to burn away the frustration.
The second I launch down the start ramp, everything quiets in my head.
My body moves on autopilot, all my focus on the Ice Cross practice.
The blades of my pink skates hit the ice with a satisfying bite, and the first turn comes fast. I lean into it, one shoulder nearly grazing the padded boards, reminding me to be careful.
Adrenaline flares through me, making my heart pound and my skin tingle. For a peaceful moment, I forget about everything else, welcoming the break from my running thoughts. I glide through the different sections and check my smartwatch about every ten seconds. My timing is off, but not by much.
I land heavy with my next jump, but don’t fall. My balance adjusts, and I go up the short incline, gunning toward the last stretch. A few more meters and I’m done with another lap.
Max, my older brother, stands at the edge of the rink, stopwatch in hand as I skate to a slow stop.
“You’re faster than last season,” he says, squinting at the time. “But you’re also muscling through the track in some spots instead of letting it carry you. That’s a waste of energy.”
“Maybe I have extra energy to burn today,” I mutter.
My brother raises an eyebrow. “So it’s one of those days when you skate angry. Got it.”
“Better than skating like an emotionless robot.”
He doesn’t reply right away, which is totally him. He usually takes time to ponder over his words. Dean, on the other hand, favors our dad and has a comeback ready at any time. I take a long drink from my emotional support water bottle.
“Are you thinking about a patient?” Max asks finally.
I nearly choke. “What makes you think that?”
“Because you get this look when something is bothering you. You’ve been working extra shifts lately, so I figured it was work-related.”
I didn’t realize I was that transparent.
I’ve spent years perfecting the art of hiding my feelings, especially on the job, but clearly my foul mood is written all over my face today.
I must’ve been chewing on my lip ring earlier too.
My brother assesses me in a way that only older siblings do.
It’s half concern, half trying to see into your soul without prying too hard.
“Wanna talk about it? Even though I might not understand everything that goes into your job, I’m a pretty good listener.”
Sweat clings to my brows as I shake my head, and I wipe it away with my palm. “Not really. Thanks anyway.”
He doesn’t press, nodding like he gets it.
We’ve always been close, all three of us; our little pack.
It helps that we were born within three years of each other.
My brothers have always had my back, even when I went rogue and switched from construction to nursing, then doubled down and added Ice Cross racing to my already stacked schedule.
They joined me because they thought it would be a cool hobby to share.
Crouching to tighten the laces on my skates, I suggest, “We should run another few laps before heading home.”
“Ivy—” Max’s voice has a warning edge. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
I lift my eyes to meet his. “I can’t afford to lose focus before the first race.”
“I get it, but you won’t get there if you burn out. So let’s go home.”
The words hang between us, but I don’t dare examine them too closely. He’s right. He always is. I usually do about eight laps when I drive up here, but today I hit twelve. I’m pushing my body too hard.
“I’ll dial it back next time,” I lie, scratching at the inside of my wrist, another nervous habit I don’t catch in time.
He smirks, catching the small movement, but chooses not to call me out on it. “Don’t kill yourself trying to outrun whatever is chasing you.”
I give a half-laugh and peel off my remaining glove. “If I figure out what it is, I’ll let you know.”
We get changed and pack up after. My brother offers to carry my gear to the truck, and I let him. Only because my legs shake from exhaustion, signaling I truly overdid it. Damn it. Max was right, but I won’t tell him that.
The drive back to Queens takes under an hour when traffic is low. Today, the roads are kind to me, and I use the time to let the best of my emo playlist settle my mind.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about Teddy. His tone was cold and defensive yesterday, nothing like it normally is with me. I understand what he’s going through, but the snappy way he spoke to me was uncalled for. Good thing I’m not working until the day after tomorrow.
The familiar streets of the neighborhood I grew up in bring a smile to my face. I roll down the windows an inch, letting the cold air slap me fully awake as I park in front of the salon where my mom works.
Running with Scissors is a small business, yet loud in personality, reminding me of my mom and her best friend, who owns the place. The bell jingles overhead when I walk in, my hair in a messy knot. Mom will complain seeing it, but I couldn’t be bothered after showering at the practice arena.
“I was wondering when you’d make time for your roots,” Mom calls from behind her client, as if I didn’t set an appointment last week. “There’s some brown poking through.”
“Scandalous,” I reply with a grin.
She gestures toward the empty chair beside her station. “Give me ten.”
Plopping down, I ignore the ache building in my calves and right knee where I have an old injury.
Mom’s client, Mrs. Gonzales, who must be pushing ninety, is going on about her great-grandson’s Christmas performance and the horrors of their costumes.
Her voice is animated, her wrinkled hands fluttering to punctuate each point.
She insists that modern parents should learn to sew the way people did back in the day.
Eventually, she settles her bill and bundles up to leave, promising to drop off our favorite peppermint chocolate cookies for Christmas next week.
Mom turns to me when the door closes, arching one perfectly penciled brow. “Spill it.”
“Spill what?” I rapidly blink my eyes, acting like I’m clueless.
“That look on your face. You’re wearing stress like it’s designer. What’s going on?”
“Can’t a girl come in for a root touch-up without a third-degree interrogation?”
She snorts and pats the empty chair next to me. “Not when she’s my daughter. Now, get over here.”
I obey, knowing resistance is futile. My Italian American mother, Antonella “Nella” Campbell née Russo, never gives up. She’ll dig until she gets the answers she wants. She should’ve been an archeologist instead of a hairdresser.
Once the cape is clipped around my neck and her gloves are snapped on, she gets to work with a brush and a bowl. Staring at my reflection, I watch as she bleaches my roots.
“Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart,” Mom says, her eyes narrowing in that way that tells me she already knows I’m holding back.
“It’s really nothing.” I wave a hand like I can swat the thought away. “I swear.”
She makes a noise of disbelief. “Try again.”
My gaze drops to my lap, fingers worrying at the edge of the cape. “Um, there’s a patient I can’t stop thinking about.”
I want to keep things vague, but the truth is, Teddy has been living in my head rent-free since the night we officially met.
“Is it a long-term case?”
“He’s at least temporarily blind after an injury. It’s shaken him up more than he wants to admit.”
She sets down the bowl and meets my eyes directly. “That sounds terrifying for him.”
“He doesn’t show it much, but yeah.”
"It can be hard for him to let you in, Ivy." She brushes her fingers gently through my roots, searching for any missed spots. “Does he treat you with the respect you deserve?”
I wince at the question. “He did for the first few days, then he lost it a little yesterday. It was awful, Mom. I felt so small at his words.”
The memory stings all over again. His sharp tone and the way his frustration lashed out like a whip won’t leave me alone. I know it wasn’t about me—it never is with patients in crisis—but that doesn’t mean it didn’t cut deep.
“Did he apologize?”
“He did, but it didn’t feel heartfelt.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “Then I don’t like him.”
I let out a sad laugh in reply. The truth is, I don’t usually let patients get under my skin.
You learn early on in this job how dangerous it is to carry every story home with you.
But with Teddy, it’s different. Whatever it is, I can’t seem to tuck him neatly into the ‘just another patient’ box.
That scares me as I’m well aware of where that road can lead.
“Tell me what happened,” Mom says.
“I walked in while he was spiraling, and got caught in the fallout.”
She lifts one brow while her gloved fingers separate another lock with practiced ease. “That’s not your fault.”
“I gave him a piece of my mind, if that counts.”
Her lips twitch, pressing back a smile. “Now that’s my girl.”
“Told him he didn’t lose his hearing, so he could hear me say he was being a dick.”
“Language!”
Her reaction makes me scoff. "Please. You’re ten times worse when it’s rush-hour traffic."
“Fair.” She finishes another section, gently tilting my head. “So what now?”
I sigh and stare down at my hands again. “Who knows. I’m still assigned to his care. A part of me wants to ask for a transfer. The other part…”
“Wants to stay.”
“Not because I’m some Florence Nightingale, but because I feel like he needs someone steady right now. Someone who won’t give up on him when he pushes back.”
I don’t know why it matters so much. Maybe because he’s more than just another chart in the system. He’s someone who has the whole world watching, yet he’s still completely alone in that hospital room except for a few visitors. The thought of him sitting in that kind of solitude upsets me.
Mom is quiet, her fingers steady as she finishes applying the bleach.
“You’ve always been the nurturing type. When you were five, you brought home an injured pigeon and demanded we build it a hospital in a shoebox.
You refused to give up, even when the vet said it probably wouldn’t make it through the first night. ”
“Mike lived for three weeks!”
“You fed it with a medicine dropper and named it after the guy who owns the pizzeria around the corner.”
“He was a very New York pigeon.”
We share a laugh and she leans down to meet my eyes. “Sweetheart, some people are born with the need to care for others. That’s not a weakness. It’s bravery. It also means it’s going to hurt more when you run into the walls patients have built to protect themselves.”
I blink fast, not liking the sudden burn in my eyes. “Am I making a huge mistake staying on the case?”
“No.” She considers my question before adding, “You’re strong enough to recognize your own limits. Maybe he needs someone to keep showing up outside his normal circle.”
Her words settle deep in my chest. Maybe that’s why I can’t walk away. Because I know what it’s like to feel lost and angry and helpless. If our roles were reversed, I’d pray someone would stay.
“You’re right,” I rumble.
“I love when one of you kiddos admits it.” Mom claps her hands. “Alright. The timer is set. Twenty minutes and we can wash your hair before adding the color. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll look less like a sleep-deprived raccoon and more of a punk-rock goddess.”
“How rude! I’m not sleep-deprived.”
“Your undereyes tell another story.”
Making a face at her, I quip, “Maybe I’ll just shave my head next time.”
"You do, and I’ll disown you. You don’t waste that glorious Italian hair you got from your ancestors.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, a smile pulling at my lips. “I’ll keep the hair for now.”
“Damn right you will.” She gives my arm a playful nudge and turns to tidy up the counter.
I sink back into the chair, the warmth of the salon wrapping around me like a weighted blanket, filled with years of love and hairspray. When I’m here, my worries can wait for another hour or two.