Chapter 8 Ivy
I'm halfway through The Conjuring, loving every creepy second, when Salem's ears perk up. A moment later, familiar footsteps creak on my porch, followed by a knock that's more rhythm than request.
"It's open!" I call, not bothering to move. Only one person shows up unannounced at this hour, and he's seen me in worse states than a green face mask and my oldest pajamas.
Caleb's dark blond curls are a chaotic mess, telling me something's wrong before he even speaks. He's got that restless energy he gets when he's upset.
He ducks under the dried herbs hanging above the entry, batting away a sprig of lavender. "One of these days I'm going to get concussed by your door garden. Though I guess that's one way to cure insomnia—herbal head trauma."
"It's for protection," I say, not bothering to move. "And cleansing energy."
"Ah yes, because nothing says 'good vibes only' like getting whacked in the face with sage." He grins, and his eyes widen when he takes me in. "Please tell me that's not permanent," he gestures at my face. "Because I've got to say, green isn't really your—holy shit, is that The Conjuring? Again?"
"It's a classic. Besides, you're the one who screamed during the basement scene."
"That was a sneeze!" He flops onto my couch with his usual lack of grace, all six feet of him somehow managing to take up the entire space despite the fact that he's built more like a teddy bear than a linebacker these days. "And that movie was nightmare fuel."
"Only if you're a wimp." I toss a pillow at him. "Some of us actually enjoy a good haunting."
"Yeah, well, some of us are normal." He catches the pillow without looking. "What even is that on your face?"
"French green clay mask. Want one? It'll help with your pores."
"Hard pass." He steals my throw blanket, elbowing me in that accidentally-on-purpose way. "Also, you know what doesn't give you nightmares? Literally any other genre of movie."
I pause the film right as a door creaks ominously on screen. "Fine. But only because you look like you need a distraction. Greg or Matt this time?"
It's always been like that with Caleb. Every crack in his smile, every shadow behind his jokes, leads back to one of them. He doesn't even have to say it anymore. I see it in the way his shoulders curve inward, and how his fingers tap against his thigh when he's trying to remain composed.
"Greg." He slouches deeper into the cushions. "Four hours of reorganizing the garage while he critiqued my existence."
The weight in his voice makes my heart ache.
Most people buy his class clown act, the easy charm and deflecting jokes.
It took me years to earn the moments when he lets the mask slip.
When the quick comebacks fade and real hurt bleeds through.
Now, I'm the only person he's honest with.
The only one who gets to see him without the performance.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Nope." He pops the 'p' like he always does when deflecting. "Want to order Chinese and watch something that won't make me check under my bed later?"
"Only if you admit you secretly love rom-coms."
"They're a guilty pleasure and you know it." He's already grabbing my phone, pulling up the delivery app. "The usual?"
I nod, watching as he orders without asking—honey walnut shrimp for me, kung pao chicken for him, and extra fortune cookies, because he knows I collect the fortunes.
Some friendships simply work, even when they don't make sense on paper.
Caleb has always been good at cracking me up, even during those awful algebra tutoring sessions where he'd spend more time making up songs about equations than solving them.
Not that he was bad at math. He just had trouble focusing unless he made it into a game.
He was surprisingly smart when he tried.
"So," Caleb scrolls through my phone with a smirk, "PairUp, huh? Whatever happened to 'the universe will provide'?"
"The universe needs better taste in men." I try to grab my phone but he holds it out of reach. "And how did you even—"
"I know everything, Shortcake." His eyes scan the screen. "Nice profile. Very . . . witchy influencer meets beach goddess."
"Were you creeping on my profile?"
"The algorithm blessed me with your presence! Though that bio . . ." He clears his throat, adopting a mystical voice. "'Seeking someone who believes in magic—'"
"Shut up!" I finally snatch it back. "Amelia made it for me. Not that I've used it yet." I toy with the corner of my phone, suddenly serious. "Though maybe she has a point. I'm tired of waiting around, you know? I want someone who wants the same things I do. A real relationship. A future."
His easy smile falters for a second. "Want help with your profile? I could—"
"You?" I sit up to stare at him. "Mr. Why-Have-Relationships-When-You-Can-Have-Hookups is offering dating advice? You don't even know how to have a second date!"
"I know how! I just choose not to." He shrugs, but there's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. "Besides, these apps are bullshit. It's all guys pretending to be deeper than they are, when in reality they—"
"What? Not look for anything serious?" I arch an eyebrow. "Like someone else I know?"
"That's different." He stretches out, taking up more couch space, but I catch how his jaw clenches. "I don't want you getting hurt."
"They say you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince."
His mouth quirks, eyes locked on mine. "Guess I'd better start hopping, then."
"I'm serious, Caleb. Some of us want more than a warm body to fill the silence."
"What's the rush?" His voice comes out rough, almost defensive. "You're too good for random app guys who think Mercury retrograde is a car problem."
"You thought that the first time I said it." I snort. "Maybe I should get more cats."
"Nah." He nudges my leg with his foot. "Salem's judgy enough for ten cats, and soon he will have some duck friends. Besides, you're like . . . a catch, or whatever. Some guy's gonna love all your . . ." He gestures loosely toward my crystal collection. "Witchy woo-woo stuff."
"Wow. So eloquent. You should write greeting cards."
"I could help with some kissing practice. My technique's gotten way better since high school." Caleb waggles his eyebrows.
"Oh god." I fake gag, heat prickling at the back of my neck. "Freshman year spin the bottle was enough Caleb Miller kisses for one lifetime. I still have nightmares about how you tasted of Doritos and tried to use your tongue like a windshield wiper."
"Hey! I've had zero complaints since then."
"They're probably just being polite."
"I am wounded." But he's grinning. "And my tongue skills are legendary now. Plus, my dick is—"
I slap my hand over his mouth. "You better not finish that sentence."
He licks my palm.
"Ugh!" I yank my hand back, wiping it on his shirt while we both laugh. "You're disgusting."
"Yeah, but I made you smile." Caleb gestures at my face. "Your mask is starting to look like a topographical map of the Grand Canyon."
"Oh, sugar cookies!" I touch my face, dry clay flaking beneath my hand. "I completely forgot!"
"You look like Shrek's fancy cousin." His dimples flash. "Very distinguished."
"Haha, very funny." I push off the couch. "This mask is an absolute miracle worker for your skin."
"Miracle worker?" He snorts. "That's a lot of faith in some fancy dirt."
"Says the boy who thinks hand soap and water is a skincare routine." I head for the bathroom.
When I come back, face tingling and clean, Caleb's already got Set It Up cued up. He lifts my legs to drape them over his lap, while his thumb absently traces circles on my ankle. The touch sends a shiver up my skin, leaving goosebumps in its path.
We settle into comfortable silence, and the tension rolls off him in waves, but I don't push. That's not how we work. Caleb always talks when he's ready, and I've learned that, sometimes, the best thing I can do is exist in the same space until he finds the words.
He makes it through the opening credits before finally breaking the silence. "Matt's getting married."
"I'm sorry, what?" My head snaps toward him.
"Yeah. End of May."
I pinch his arm.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"That's for not telling me your brother is getting married!" I twist to face him properly.
"I'm sorry." He fixes his eyes on the screen, but his thumb presses harder into my foot arch, giving away his tension.
"Been avoiding thinking about it. Dad's gotten worse since the engagement.
Keeps saying if Matt can 'get his life together' then clearly I have no excuse.
And Mom . . ." He sighs, dropping his head back against the couch.
"She's gone full matchmaker mode, trying to set me up with every 'nice girl' from her book club's extended family tree so I have a date for the wedding. "
"I'm a nice girl." I poke his thigh with my toe. "And I love weddings."
He laughs, but something flickers in his eyes. "Come with me."
"What?"
"To the wedding." His fingers stall at my ankle, and suddenly I'm too aware of every inch of him touching me. "I mean it. Be my plus-one."
There's a hitch in my chest I pretend not to feel before he rushes on.
"Not like a date-date," he stammers, words tumbling out fast. "Just as friends. Like always. I mean, we'll have to share a room, but I've crashed at your place a million times, and we shared that motel for Brodie's birthday, right? It's not weird. Unless I just made it weird. Did I make it weird?"
I laugh, ignoring the tiny prick of . . . something . . . in my chest. "Only you could make sharing a room sound like a criminal conspiracy."
"Shut up." He pinches my leg. "You know what I mean."
"A whole week of Miller family chaos?" I arch an eyebrow.
"Yeah, but think about it. Fancy vineyard. Open bar. All those romantic wedding moments you're obsessed with."
"I don't want to impose."
"Come on, Shortcake. You know Sarah and Matt. I'll even pay for your flight."
"Absolutely not." I kick him lightly. "You need to save for your own place, remember?"
"I have money!"
"Big talk for someone who ate ramen for a week because he spent his grocery budget on a limited-edition gaming keyboard."
"That was an investment." His thumb hits that exact spot that turns my spine to liquid "Please? I'll throw in unlimited foot rubs."
"Bold of you to assume these aren't already unlimited." But we both hear the 'yes' in my voice. Because it's Caleb, and when have I ever been able to say no to those dimples? "You know I would've agreed without the bribery, right?"
Something soft crosses his face, gone so quick I almost miss it. "Yeah?"
"Of course." I wiggle my toes against his palm. "Besides, someone needs to run interference when you inevitably try to hook up with a bridesmaid."
"I would never." His grin turns wicked. "Okay, I would. But not this time. Gotta focus on my best man duties and all that."
"Best man?" I sit up straighter. "You didn't mention that part."
"Yeah, well." His fingers grow still on my ankle, that familiar mask of humor slipping for just a second.
"Surprised me too. Pretty sure Sarah talked him into it.
You know, 'Let's give little brother something important to do so he doesn't crash the wedding by accident.
'" He waggles his eyebrows. "Though, joke's on them.
Now I have access to the seating chart AND the champagne inventory. Think of the possibilities."
I see the hurt he's trying to bury under that crooked smile. The way he misses his brother even while pretending not to care.
"Or he just wants his brother standing next to him," I say softly.
"Right." He snorts, but his thumb resumes its circles on my ankle, softer now. "Because that's totally Matt's style these days."
Before I can decide if I should prod that particular bruise, Salem chooses this moment to launch a sneak attack, turning his thigh into a scratching post with terrifying accuracy.
"Son of a—" Caleb jerks, nearly dumping my feet on the floor. "Your demon cat still hates me! After everything we've been through!"
"He's protective." I bite back a laugh as Salem struts away, tail high with victory. He looks like Caleb after winning an argument—all smug satisfaction and zero remorse.
"Protective? He's trying to murder me! I've done everything to win him over. I bring him treats." Caleb ticks off on his fingers. "Learned his favorite chin scratch spot. Spent forty dollars—forty dollars—on that fancy organic catnip from that boutique pet store you love."
"Which he appreciated."
"He shredded the bag and left it on my jacket!"
"He has very high standards." I try to keep a straight face. "He gets it from me."
"I let him sleep on my chest that time I crashed here during the storm!"
"He was using you for body heat. And you snore."
"I do not—" He cuts off as Salem circles back, yellow eyes locked on Caleb's thigh like he's calculating trajectory. "Don't you dare, you furry little sociopath!"
The doorbell rings, saving Caleb from round two of Salem's vendetta.
"Food's here!" I jump up. "I'll get plates if you get drinks?"
"Deal." Caleb heads to my kitchen, giving the cat a wide berth. "But I'm not sharing my kung pao chicken this time!"
"You always say that," I call back, grabbing my wallet. "And you always do!"
"Hey, mind if I crash here? Don't really feel like going home tonight," he shouts as I head to answer the door.
"Like you even have to ask." I glance back. "Your toothbrush is still in the bathroom, and you know where the extra blankets are if you get cold."
And that's how it's always been with us. Chinese food and horror movies. His feet on my coffee table, and Salem plotting his demise. The easy rhythm of a friendship that makes more sense than it should.
Yet . . . the fact that he wants me there, at his brother's wedding of all places, makes something warm settle in my chest. Though knowing Caleb, he'll probably try to show up in Crocs.