Chapter 24 Ivy
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ivy
The convention is wild.
Awesome… but also a little insane.
Don't get me wrong, I wanted to come. Penny’s face when Freddie invited us was like watching someone win the toddler lottery.
She practically vibrated out of her body.
And honestly? I needed the distraction. Something to jolt me out of the swamp of feelings and guilt and whatever the hell else I’ve been stewing in lately.
But now that we’re here, I’m utterly overwhelmed.
It’s loud.
Like, fire drill inside a karaoke bar during an earthquake loud. People are everywhere. Tattoo guns buzzing like angry bees, music thumping through the walls, and at least two dudes dressed like sexy rhinos…
I don’t know. I haven’t asked.
And the Iron & Ink stall? Oh, it’s a whole production.
Imagine if a punk rock band and a minimalist interior designer had a baby, and then that baby discovered espresso and eyeliner. That’s the booth.
There’s a giant vinyl banner overhead with the shop’s logo, black ink on deep crimson, looking like it was clawed into the fabric with something angry and expensive.
One side is all glass display cases filled with piercing jewelry, mini prints, and Mitchell’s flash sheets, which mostly feature skulls, flowers, and women who look like they could kill you with their eyebrows.
The other side? Two massive black leather chairs and a waiting line that wraps around like we’re giving away free Beyoncé tickets. There’s a small screen looping timelapse videos of tattoos in progress, and a guy in line literally claps when Mitchell takes off his flannel to start working.
There are shirts for sale, Timothy folded them perfectly, obviously, enamel pins shaped like tiny syringes, Freddie’s idea, I’m told, and a hand written chalkboard sign that reads:
NO, WE WON’T TATTOO YOUR BABY.
YES, WE’VE BEEN ASKED.
Behind the booth, Mitchell is already in full tattoo wizard mode, sleeve rolled up, beanie pushed back on his head, hunched over someone’s forearm like he’s conjuring dark magic through needle and ink.
Timothy’s on merch duty, somehow managing to look like he stepped out of an indie coffee table book while folding hoodies. He smiles like he means it and says things like “Let me know if you need a size swap,” and people swoon. Actually swoon.
Freddie floats between both ends, managing logistics, managing Penny, managing me, because apparently the man doesn’t believe in limits or taking a damn break.
He looks stupidly good in a black tee with the Iron & Ink logo across the chest and an earpiece in, like he’s moonlighting as tattoo security.
Penny, meanwhile, is holding court near the sample stickers, telling anyone who will listen that her dad owns this place but she’s in charge really.
She gives a little thumbs up every time someone buys something and only cried once when I told her she couldn’t actually get a real tattoo this weekend.
I mean, I love being around them.. All of them. I just… wasn’t ready to feel so much all at once.
Them. Together. With matching shirts. Looking hot and competent while I’m over here contemplating throwing up behind a speaker stack… it’s just too damn much.
The nausea hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
Sudden, sharp, and unfairly timed. One second, I’m admiring the way Timothy folds a hoodie like he’s defusing a bomb, and the next, my vision tunnels and my stomach threatens to revolt in front of God, Penny, and every man who’s ever had a sleeve tattoo.
I grip the edge of the display table like it personally offended me.
“Whoa,” I mutter, blinking hard. “Nope. Not now, Satan.”
The floor does this fun little wiggle that floors should not be doing. My mouth goes dry. I hear the buzzing of a tattoo gun kick up behind me and I swear the sound echoes inside my skull.
Before I can even play it cool or fake my way through it, a familiar hand lands gently on my back.
“Hey, hey,” Freddie says, voice low and concerned. “You okay?”
Great. Of course it’s Freddie. The man has dad radar. Probably felt a tremor in the force when I turned green.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the way people lie about taxes and that weird mole they haven’t checked yet.
Mitchell glances up from his client, catches one look at me, and immediately swivels in his chair.
“Tim!” he calls, snapping his fingers toward the merch table. “Ivy’s about to hurl. Code Ginger Ale.”
Timothy is already moving. Like, mid fold, hoodie abandoned mid sleeve, expression all business.
I don’t even get a chance to argue before I’m being gently herded, yes, herded, like a fainting goat, toward a little break nook behind the curtain wall of the booth. There’s a fold up chair and a crate flipped upside down acting as a table, and someone’s emergency stash of trail mix.
“I don’t need…” I start to say, but Timothy’s already pressing a cool can of ginger ale into my hand like he’s done this a thousand times.
“You were swaying,” he says quietly. “Just sit. Two minutes.”
Mitchell tosses me a protein bar. “Eat this. Or I will lecture you in front of customers.”
Freddie crouches next to the chair, one hand braced on my knee like he’s grounding me with actual fatherly voodoo. “You been feeling like this a lot?”
I nod. Regret it instantly. “It’s just… a little overwhelming is all.”
They all exchange a look. The kind of look that makes me want to crawl under the folding table and live there forever.
“I’m fine,” I insist, trying to pull the sarcasm lever and summon some dignity. “Just forgot to eat. And breathe. And exist like a normal person.”
Penny pops her head through the curtain, clutching a sticker shaped like a dagger and beaming like she’s won the Hunger Games.
“Are you gonna puke?!” she asks, delighted.
“Hopefully not,” I say through a strained smile. “But thanks for the enthusiasm.”
Timothy crouches beside me now too, opposite Freddie, like they’re staging an intervention.
Mitchell leans in from behind, arms crossed, still wearing his black latex gloves like a judgmental raccoon. “We talked about this. If you push yourself too hard, we will strap you into a rolling chair and wheel you back to the suite like a cursed office chair Cinderella.”
Freddie just chuckles and brushes a piece of hair out of my face like I’m fragile glass and he’s got the manual. “No one’s mad, Ivy. We just wanna make sure you don’t pass out and take down the merch table with you.”
I close my eyes for a second. Let the moment settle. It’s embarrassing, sure, but it’s also… weirdly comforting. Too comforting.
Because these guys, these impossible, sweet, infuriating men, aren’t giving me space to spiral. They’re just here. Holding space. Holding me, in all the ways that count.
It makes my throat tighten.
“Okay,” I say finally, cracking the can of ginger ale. “Five minutes. Then I’m back on my feet like a dramatic Victorian woman who briefly took ill at the garden party.”
Freddie squeezes my hand. “Deal.”
Timothy nods, already reaching for the trail mix like he’s about to create a snack based recovery protocol.
And Mitchell? He just smirks and goes, “Make it seven. You look like you’re about to see Jesus.”
Once I recover, Penny grabs my hand and practically yanks me toward the kids’ area, where the madness of the convention seems slightly more… manageable.
It’s a small section, tucked into a corner, and blessedly quieter. There’s a bouncy castle, a face painting booth, and a kid’s craft corner that probably smells like glitter and glue, just the way kids like it.
Penny, of course, is in her element. Her little legs can’t keep still, and if there’s a person in her line of sight, she’s on them faster than a squirrel on a sugar rush.
“Hi! I like your hair!” she says to a heavily tattooed woman in a leather jacket, who just blinks at her in surprise before laughing.
I’m over here, trying not to feel like an awkward giraffe in a room full of unicorns, but it’s hard when Penny is over here breaking down social barriers one enthusiastic greeting at a time.
"She’s charming," I say to the woman, who raises an eyebrow, and I’m suddenly that person who hangs out with the weirdly confident toddler.
“Let’s go see the snacks!” Penny says, and that’s all the permission I need to follow her on this little sugar fueled adventure.
We wander past booths filled with all kinds of tempting treats. Penny is pointing at everything like she’s on a scavenger hunt for candy.
“I want that one!” she says, jabbing her finger at a cotton candy stand like she’s just discovered the Holy Grail of sweets.
I crouch down beside her. “Okay, sure, but we gotta make a deal,” I say, trying to be the responsible adult here. “If we’re getting cotton candy, we’re sharing, got it?”
She glares at me like I’ve just asked her to sacrifice her favorite toy to the candy gods. “Share?! It’s my candy,” she protests, hands on hips. “But I guess I’ll share with you. A little.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a tough negotiator.”
We get the cotton candy, and it’s the size of her head. I end up holding it like it’s a toddler sized cloud, and Penny’s hands are already sticky from tearing into it like it’s the last one on earth.
We take our time walking through the booths, and every few steps, she’s pulling me toward something new: a shiny balloon, a plush toy that’s probably more than my entire grocery bill, and then a stack of sparkly stickers.
“I want that one!” she declares, pointing at a candy bracelet booth. It’s a good thing she’s three, because I’m pretty sure if anyone else said that with the level of enthusiasm she has, I’d be forced to call in backup.
“Penny, if we keep going like this, we’re gonna need a sugar coma nap by 3,” I tease, glancing over at the bouncy castle where a group of toddlers are jumping around like they’ve had ten shots of espresso.
“No! I want to bounce!” she says, jumping in place, somehow making it look like a mini dance move.
By the time we’ve reached the bouncy castle, my stomach is full of sugar and regret, but Penny is practically vibrating with energy. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the inflatable fortress of doom. “You’re gonna bounce with me, right?”
“Uh, well…” I glance at the chaos unfolding inside the castle. Toddlers are flying through the air like tiny, uncoordinated rockets. “I’m not sure I’m built for this,” I admit.
But Penny, of course, doesn’t take no for an answer. “Yes you are! I’ll teach you how to bounce!”
I sigh dramatically, pretending to weigh my options. “Fine, I’ll bounce,” I say. “But only because I don’t want to be out tiggered by a three year old.”
She gives me the most serious look I’ve ever seen on such a small human. “You’re going to be the best bouncer ever.”
And just like that, I find myself leaping, leaping, mind you, into the bouncy castle with Penny, who is now an expert at making sure I don’t look too ridiculous. She bounces around like a pro while I try not to fall over like the giant, uncoordinated mess that I am.
This suite is massive.
Almost as overwhelming as the con itself.
But then it doesn’t feel as big with all of us in it, with the energy buzzing between us all.
Mitchell might be quiet now, but his gaze is just as intense.
Timothy keeps glancing my way as if he fears I might throw up at any given moment.
Freddie might be distracted by a sugar loaded Penny, but I can still feel him none the less.
I need to go to bed.
Thank God I have my own room and space.
But when I start to brush my teeth, getting ready to finally sleep, the dizziness hits me again… stronger this time, like a sucker punch to the gut. My vision goes blurry, and my head spins.
“Not again,” I mutter, reaching for the sink to steady myself, gripping the edge like it’s my lifeline.
I try to breathe through it, but it only makes everything worse. My mouth is dry, my limbs feel weak, and my stomach turns as though it wants to leap out of my body. I swear I can hear my pulse in my ears, but everything feels distant, like I’m watching my own body from the outside.
I step back, but my legs feel like jelly. I clutch at the counter, fighting the urge to collapse.
“What the hell is going on with me?” I whisper to myself, but the words seem pointless.
I try to take a deep breath, but my chest feels tight. It’s like something’s wrong, something I can’t pinpoint, but I can’t ignore it anymore. The dizziness isn’t just from the noise or the exhaustion.
I tell myself it’s probably nothing, maybe I’m just dehydrated or running on empty from too much socializing. But the sensation doesn’t go away.
It’s as if my body’s trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear.
I take another unsteady step back from the sink, but my legs are too weak to hold me up. I grip the counter again, trying to stay upright. I feel the pull of the bed calling me, but even the thought of lying down makes me uneasy. What if I don’t wake up? What if I just keep falling and can’t stop?
But I don’t have much of a choice.
I push away the thought, the nausea, the dizziness, and, finally, I manage to steady myself enough to stumble into the bedroom.
I collapse into the bed with a heavy sigh, sinking into the soft sheets like they’re the only thing that can keep me grounded right now.
The bed’s too big, the room’s too quiet.
But for some reason, it’s all I need right now.
The dim lighting from the bedside lamp feels distant, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
I let the darkness swallow me up, praying for some rest, knowing tomorrow will be just as crazy, just as loud, just as overwhelming. And I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.
But I don’t have a choice, do I?
Tomorrow, I’ll get up. Tomorrow, I’ll pull myself together. Tomorrow, I’ll be strong.
But for tonight, I just need to let go and sleep.