Chapter 9 Ivy
CHAPTER NINE
Ivy
Some days start badly and just… keep going.
First, Penny refused to nap. Full dictator mode. Arms crossed. Lower lip jutting out like she’d been trained in the art of silent protest by an actual union. I tried bribery, threats, interpretive dance… nothing.
She simply stared at me like I was a joke she didn’t find funny.
Then Jesse, bless his meddling little heart, accidentally texted me a photo of my ex’s new girlfriend.
Caption: Just thought you should see how tragic her highlights are.
Sure, Jesse. Definitely not intentional. Definitely not designed to stir the boiling pit of unresolved rage and existential despair currently living in my stomach.
By the time I finally got Penny into pajamas, we were both hanging on by a thread. She insisted on two and a half bedtime stories, because apparently, cliffhangers are for cowards, and then made me rub her back like I was being paid by the hour.
I only escaped after she passed out mid sentence, snoring into her pillow, one foot kicked out like she was preparing for a fight in her sleep.
I tiptoe out of the room like a bomb technician, easing the door shut with the slowest, softest click of my life. And then I just… stand there.
Breathing.
Like I’ve been underwater for hours and finally surfaced.
I’m bone tired. Emotionally frayed. My hair’s half up in what used to be a bun, I’m wearing Freddie’s ancient Ramones shirt that I definitely didn’t ask to borrow, and I smell vaguely like fruit snacks and toddler tears.
I need air.
And possibly tequila.
Instead, I find Freddie.
He’s just come in through the back door, keys in hand, takeout bag dangling from his fingers, still wearing his work shirt, soft gray, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar a little rumpled like he’s been tugging at it all day.
His hair’s a mess, a few sun streaked strands falling over his forehead, and he’s got that scruff shadow thing going on that should be illegal for anyone trying to make good decisions.
He looks tired. And good. Unfairly, ruggedly good. The kind of worn in handsome that makes you want to do something wildly inappropriate in the name of comfort and bad ideas.
He stops when he sees me. Smiles.
"Hey," he says. "You look like you’ve been through it today."
"Penny staged a full psychological siege. I only just escaped."
He laughs under his breath and lifts the takeout bag like an offering. "I got too much Thai. You hungry?"
My stomach growls, snitching on me immediately.
I nod. "You had me at ‘too much.’"
We end up at the little table, and within a moment it’s covered in containers that smell like coconut curry and lemongrass and something spicy enough to temporarily erase my bad life choices.
He hands me a fork. "Figured you deserved real food after surviving bedtime."
"I think I deserve a medal," I mutter, stabbing a noodle. "Or a nap in the crawlspace."
He grins and digs into his container like this is just normal. Casual. Two people sharing dinner after putting a kid to bed. Like we’re… something.
Which we’re not. Obviously.
Still, it’s weirdly nice.
Quiet, in that full but not awkward way.
"So," I say, mouth full of rice, "did you order too much on purpose?"
"My eyes can often be bigger than my stomach."
A beat passes. The quiet settles in again. This time, softer.
Then he says, "You’re good with her. With Penny."
And just like that, my throat tightens.
Because I want to believe it. I do. But today I let her eat three Gogurts in a row and told her Peppa Pig went to jail so I could turn off the TV.
I shrug. "She’s good with me. I think she pities me."
"She likes you."
"She has questionable taste."
He looks at me for a long second. Then says, quietly, "Still. She’s calmer around you."
"Is that a low bar or a compliment?"
"It’s both."
We laugh. It feels… real.
"So, how are you finding Coyote Glen?"
I snort. "Dusty. Nosy. Weirdly charming."
Freddie smiles. "That sounds about right."
"Everyone knows everything here," I add, swirling my fork in the rice. "Jesse says it’s ‘small town warmth.’ I say it’s community sanctioned stalking."
He chuckles. "You get used to it."
I hesitate for a second, then say, "Honestly? It’s better than I expected. I thought I’d last a week before screaming into a pillow and running for the hills."
"And now?"
I look down at my food, then back at him. "I haven’t screamed. Yet."
"Progress," he says, gently. "And it’s better than where you were before, right? Jesse mentioned you were coming off a breakup."
I glance up sharply.
"He didn’t say much," Freddie adds quickly. "Just that you’d had a rough go of it."
"Of course he did." I sigh and set my fork down. "Jesse’s so protective."
Freddie gives me a curious look but doesn’t push.
And for some reason, maybe because of the food or the lighting or the way he’s looking at me like he actually wants to hear it, I say, "His name was Luca."
Freddie doesn’t react. Just listens.
"We were together for four years," I continue. "Off and on. Mostly on. The kind of relationship where you keep thinking, This could work. If I just try a little harder. And then it doesn’t. But you still stay."
Freddie nods slowly. "Yeah. I know that one."
"He was in a band," I say, rolling my eyes.
"A really serious one. Wrote songs about women he used to date, and once, I think, about a particularly emotional quesadilla.
He said he wanted a future with me, but it always came with a disclaimer.
Not now. Later. When things settled. When he figured himself out. "
"And you waited."
"Too long," I admit. "I became this… emotional placeholder. Like, here, hold all my stuff while I go chase who I think I am."
Freddie’s jaw tics, just slightly. "He sounds like an ass."
"Oh, he was very pretty while being one," I say with a bitter smile. "He could say sorry with a guitar riff and make you believe it."
"And then?"
"He left. For someone younger. Blonder. Sweeter, probably."
Freddie snorts. "Brutal."
"Yeah. It sucked. Not just the breakup. The unraveling. The way I realized I’d wrapped my entire self around him like ivy on a crumbling wall." I laugh without humor. "And the worst part? People kept calling me resilient. Like I was some warrior goddess in cute boots."
"That word," he murmurs, and it’s not just agreement, it’s something low and rough in his voice that makes my stomach dip. "I hate that word."
"It’s a nice way of saying you survived something terrible and we don’t know what to do with your sadness, so here’s a pat on the back and a vague compliment."
"Yeah," he says, glancing at me. "Exactly that."
His gaze lingers a beat too long. And when I meet it, something catches between us.
And then, out of nowhere, he says, "You ever feel like you’re just faking it? Like you’re two steps behind and everyone else got the manual you somehow missed?"
I blink. That hits harder than I expect. And the way he’s looking at me, like he knows something about the way I keep it together with duct tape and denial, makes it worse.
"Every day," I say, picking at my food. "Especially at the moment."
"I didn’t know what the hell I was doing when Penny was born. Still don’t, most days."
I glance up.
He’s not looking at me. He’s staring down at his plate like he’s confessing something dangerous. His forearms are resting on the table, tattooed and tense, and there’s a vein in his neck I suddenly want to trace with my tongue.
Where the hell did that come from?
"I thought I’d break her," he continues. "Or miss something important. Or fuck her up permanently."
I swallow. "I still worry I’m going to be the reason she ends up in therapy."
He huffs a laugh. "Joke’s on us… everyone ends up in therapy."
"Man, I hope so," I say. "Otherwise, we’re all just raw dogging trauma out here."
He lets out a startled laugh, and it’s glorious. Warm and genuine and boyish in a way that makes something inside me twist tight.
And I grin. Because I like making him laugh. Too much.
The air shifts again.
A spark. Not big. Not obvious.
But it’s there. Quiet. Low and warm and hovering somewhere between the inside of my ribs and the curve of his mouth.
And I feel it. Man, I feel it.
His knee brushes mine beneath the table, and I don’t move. Neither does he.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
I try to brush it off. Mentally swat it away like a mosquito.
This isn’t a thing. We’re just bonding. It’s been a long day, and we’re tired, and Thai food makes people weird.
That’s all.
He stands first, taking the empty containers and dropping them into the trash. I follow, rinsing my glass, telling myself not to look at the way his back flexes beneath that stupid shirt. Not to wonder how it would feel beneath my hands. My mouth.
But I look.
Of course I look.
When he turns around, he leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on me again.
And there’s something in his expression I can’t quite name.
Not heat. Not exactly.
Something quieter. Heavier.
But there’s an edge to it now, too. A thrum of tension beneath the softness. A subtle shift in the way his gaze dips to my mouth and back again.
"Ivy," he says.
And I look at him.
Really look.
He’s not doing anything. Just standing there. But it’s enough. The air feels thick between us. Heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
But whatever he was about to say, he doesn’t.
He just gives me that crooked half smile again, the one that somehow punches a hole straight through my defenses, and says, "Thanks for staying."
And somehow, it feels like he means more than just the job.
I nod. "Thanks for the noodles."
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s something flickering there… uncertainty, maybe. Or hesitation. Something he’s holding back.
I turn toward the hallway. "I should go. I have a bit of a walk home…"
I take one step, then another.
"Ivy," he says again, softer this time. Like a thread pulling tight.
I pause.
"You don’t have to."
Four words. Quiet. Simple.
They land like a warm hand at the base of my spine.
I almost laugh. Almost bolt straight out the door in self defense. That would be the smart move. The safe one.
But then I turn to him, and he’s just… looking at me.
Not like I’m a mess. Not like I’m baggage. Not like I’m something to fix.
Like I’m real. Like he sees me. And doesn’t flinch.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before.
And the way he’s watching me now is doing something dangerous to my breathing. My body.
Heat blooms under my skin, slow and sure, unfurling between my thighs with humiliating ease.
Dammit.
I can’t resist it. Not tonight.
"Maybe I don’t want to," I say, barely above a whisper.
My heart pounds.
My head swims.
I’m already moving toward him and I haven’t even decided yet.
What the hell am I doing?