Chapter 38 Ivy
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ivy
I don’t remember the walk back to Jesse’s.
My legs move. My lungs work. I guess that means I’m alive.
But everything else?
Numb.
I wonder if anyone can see it. The ruin under my skin. If some stranger driving past looks at me and thinks, that girl is falling apart. Or if I just look like everyone else, pretending they’re whole.
The air clings to my skin, salt slick and cold. Cars pass by, but I don’t hear engines. Just this high-pitched static in my skull. The sky is too blue, the pavement too bright, everything feels sharp edged and unreal, I’m walking through a movie set I can’t leave.
Pickle trails behind me, leash dragging through the dust. Even he’s quiet. He knows not to ask for anything right now. He knows I’m breaking.
Mitchell’s voice is still in my head.
Have you thought about what people are gonna say?
There’s this shop in Portland.
A clean break.
It plays on loop. Over and over. Every syllable is glass in my chest.
I keep thinking maybe I misheard. Maybe he didn’t mean it in that way. But my brain replays his tone, that flat finality, and my stomach flips over itself.
I wanted him to say anything else. Even “I’m not ready.” Even “I’m scared.” Just… not that. Not leaving. Not gone.
I fumble with the front door, barely get it shut before the first sob tears out of me.
It’s ugly. Loud.
I bolt for the hallway, take the stairs two at a time, and lock myself in the bathroom before anyone can see.
And then I break.
Not the dramatic, slow tear kind of break.
No.
This is raw.
It rips out of me with every breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Sobs I’ve swallowed for weeks, fears I kept shoved down, thinking if I ignored them hard enough, they’d disappear.
My ribs ache with every sob. My throat burns. My hands won’t stop shaking, clawing at my sleeves, like I could rip the hurt out if I just tried hard enough.
I curl up on the floor, tile cold against my skin.
My arms around my knees.
My head buried.
I don’t even try to be quiet.
A picture flashes behind my eyelids. That fuzzy black and white scan, three little beans lined up as a promise. I clutch my stomach tighter, like maybe I can hold them in place, keep them safe from my chaos.
I thought I was ready for this.
I thought I was braced for panic. Judgment.
For someone to say, “this isn’t mine” or “I don’t know what to do.”
But this?
This wasn’t just rejection.
This was abandonment.
Mitchell didn’t just back away. He hinted at leaving town entirely.
Running.
Again.
And I can’t stop the thought that maybe I don’t mean enough for him to stay.
I taste salt on my lips, tears clinging to me.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
Long enough for the light to shift.
Long enough for the floor to leave patterns on my skin.
At some point, Pickle scratches at the door.
A soft little whine.
And that, of all things, is what finally pulls me upright.
I crawl over, unlock it, and he barrels in, like he’s been waiting his whole life to comfort me.
He climbs into my lap, all awkward limbs and warm fur, and licks the side of my face, trying to fix everything.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, lying straight to his little dog face. “I’ll be okay.”
I pull myself up.
Wash my face.
Try to breathe through the puffiness, the ache behind my eyes.
But I still don’t look in the mirror.
I can’t bear to see what’s staring back.
I shuffle into the guest room and crawl into bed fully clothed, Pickle curled beside me as a security blanket with breath that smells vaguely of dirt and peanut butter. I tuck my arms around him. He’s the only solid thing I’ve got left.
And then I grab my phone.
I stare at the screen for a long time.
The brightness hurts, and my fingers hover over the messages.
Timothy: kind, steady.
Mitchell: silent, then devastating.
No new notifications.
One person left.
The one I’ve been avoiding, maybe the most of all.
Freddie.
My thumb shakes as I open a new text.
I type three times and delete it all.
Everything feels either too much or not enough.
I think about saying, “I need you.” I think about typing, “Please don’t hate me.” But the words taste like begging, and I’m so tired of begging people to stay.
Finally, I settle on the only thing I can manage:
Ivy: Can we talk before I work tomorrow? Please? It’s urgent.
I stare at it.
Hover.
Then hit send.
Three dots appear and disappear, like he was going to reply… then didn’t.
I close my eyes and let the weight settle on my chest.
He might already be getting back with her.
Trina.
I saw her hand on him, that fake soft look on her face saying sorry. Like she’s changed.
Maybe she has.
Maybe he’s giving her another shot.
But even if he is… he still deserves to know.
This is his life too. His possibility. His maybe.
The phone stays silent in my hand.
Pickle huffs against my shoulder. It’s this little wheezy sigh that says he’s fed up with today too. His warm snout nudges under my chin, trying to tuck himself inside me, to curl up right next to my heart where all the broken pieces are rattling around.
I slide my fingers into the fur behind his ears, feeling the tiny twitches as he settles closer, and for a second, just one quiet second, the ache in my chest eases.
He’s saying, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
And man, I cling to that. To him. Because right now, he’s the only proof I have that staying is possible.
And somewhere, deep under the wreckage of the day, I feel it again.
The flutter of fear.
And hope.
And dread.
Triplets.
Three tiny heartbeats.
Waiting for answers I still don’t have.
I press my palm to my stomach, light and trembling. “Hey,” I whisper. “I’m trying, okay? I promise I’m trying.”
The room is silent, but in my chest, the promise echoes back. I don’t know how to do this.
But I want to.