Chapter 11 Caleb
The Logan Airport parking garage carries the scent of exhaust fumes and damp pavement. Honestly? The most on-brand way to kick off a train wreck of a morning.
"We're going to be late." Dad stands there in his cargo shorts and blue polo tucked into his belt. His socks are yanked halfway to his knees like a dad-themed fashion statement. "I told you we should have left earlier."
I grip my phone tighter, resisting the urge to mention that we're four hours early.
Or that I've been awake since four a.m., thanks to him bellowing, "ARE YOU UP?
" every five minutes. Or that my headphones are dead because I forgot to charge them last night, which meant an hour of news radio on the drive here while he ranted about gas prices.
"Greg." My mom fusses with the floral sundress she specifically bought for the wedding week. Her highlighted hair is already starting to curl in the late May humidity despite her best efforts with the straightener this morning. "We have plenty of time."
He huffs but softens slightly under her steady gaze. Thirty years of marriage and she's got a black belt in Greg-wrangling. "Well, if Ivy had driven with us—"
"Vinnie was already heading to Cresden to see her mom," I cut in, for the tenth time. "It made more sense for them to drive together." The truth was I told her to avoid the car ride nightmare with my dad if she had that opportunity.
"Since when does anything make sense with you kids?" he grumbles.
Mom catches my eye and winks. "Remember when you made us drive three hours to pick up that motorcycle part instead of getting it shipped?"
"That was different," Dad protests. "Besides, that Harley—"
"—was a classic, yes honey." Mom pats his arm. "And how long did it sit in our garage before you sold it?"
"Dorothy Miller, that is entirely beside the point."
Mom turns to me, adjusting her purse strap. "Did Ivy text you how far she was?"
"Nope." I drag my carry-on toward the terminal entrance. The wheels snag on a crack in the concrete.
Inside, the fluorescent lights cast everything in a glare that's both too bright and too tired. Kind of like how I feel. Dad's already speed-walking toward the Delta check-in, his shoes squeaking against the floor with each determined stride, as if picking up speed might summon Ivy out of thin air.
"I'm sure she'll be here soon," Mom reassures. "Did you remind her about—"
"Yes, I reminded her about check-in times. And security. And liquid restrictions. And her ID and passport." My fingers tug at the edge of my sleeve, probably making it worse. "She's an adult who's flown before. She's fine."
Dad's voice booms across the terminal. "If she's not here in ten minutes, we're going through security without her."
"No, we're not," Mom and I say in unison.
I check my phone again. No messages. Which is fine.
Totally fine. I'm not worried. Or annoyed.
Or thinking about how if she misses this flight, I'll be stuck beside some random stranger while trying not to have a panic attack during takeoff.
Or how I might actually lose my mind if I have to face the coming week with just my parents for company.
That's when I see her.
Ivy barrels through the sliding doors, looking nothing like herself and somehow more mine than ever.
Blue hair piled into a mess of a bun, my old basketball shorts too long on her, and that hoodie I left at her place weeks ago swallowing her whole.
She's swamped in my clothes, and my brain won't quit reminding me how wrong it is that I like it this much.
She squeezes Vinnie goodbye, then heads over, juggling brown paper bags that smell of butter and sugar.
"I'm so sorry!" Her voice lifts with that breathless lilt she gets when she's flustered.
Pink blooms across her cheeks and down her neck, and I catch myself tracking the color before I even realize I'm doing it.
Ever since I saw her dating profile, these little details keep snagging my attention.
"Traffic was insane, and we had to stop because I forgot my .
. ." She glances down at her outfit and grimaces. "Everything, apparently."
"You're here now." My voice comes out rough, unexpected. But seeing her here, the tension I've been carrying since dawn finally loosens its grip.
She bites her lip and I track the movement, my throat tightening. "I brought breakfast?"
"Oh, honey!" Mom swoops in for a hug before I can respond. "Don't worry about being late. Greg just likes to be early. You know how men get at airports."
I shove whatever that moment was into a mental box labeled, 'do not open.'
Ivy pulls out this massive chocolate-frosted donut, my favorite, because of course she remembers that. The familiar ease of our friendship slides back into place.
"The hoodie looks better on you anyway." I reach over and mess up her already chaotic bun, earning a swat that lands exactly as it should—playful, familiar, uncomplicated.
"I know." She grins back, and everything's normal again.
"We need to check these bags now," Dad announces, like he's declaring war on airport inefficiency. "The security line could be backed up for miles."
I glance at the empty queue and bite back a comment.
Dad's already marching ahead with his carry-on, but stops when he notices Mom struggling with her overpacked suitcase.
Without a word, he circles back and takes it from her hands with a grunt, continuing forward like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I grab Ivy's bag along with mine, adding to my personal bag-dragging mission.
"Caleb's such a gentleman," Mom beams, giving me an approving nod as she adjusts her purse strap. Dad doesn't acknowledge the heavy lifting he's doing—that's just how he operates.
Ivy opens her mouth like she's going to protest about her suitcase, but Mom cuts in. "Let him help, sweetheart."
"Wait," I say, trying to sound casual. "Who's on duck duty while you're gone?"
Ivy's eyes light up with that mischievous glint. "Amelia and Vinnie are tag-teaming. Well, mostly Amelia, since Vinnie's visiting her mom in Cresden."
"Amelia?" I groan. "The woman who tried to feed Puddles a piece of her fancy blue cheese last week?"
"Don't worry," she laughs, "they all hated it. Even the ducks have standards."
"She better not be giving them wine tastings next."
"Caleb Miller, certified duck dad. I didn't realize you were this invested in my feathered children."
"I'm not," I protest weakly. "I just happen to like those particular ducks."
She reaches up and pats my cheek. "Don't worry, your babies are in good hands. Amelia may act tough, but I caught her yesterday calling Puddles 'the handsomest boy in all the land.'"
I try not to look visibly relieved. "Well, he is pretty handsome."
The check-in counter is being operated by a woman who's clearly been dealing with difficult customers since dawn. She maintains impressive composure as Dad insists on checking the weight of each bag twice and questions whether his carry-on is "really regulation size."
"Sir, it's fine," she says for the third time, her smile now purely decorative.
"Is he always like this at airports?" Ivy whispers, keeping a safe distance from the radius of chaos.
"Worse," I mutter. "Wait till security. He once got into a twenty-minute debate about whether his belt buckle was too big."
She snorts, quickly covering her mouth when Dad whips around to glare at us. Mom smiles and pats his arm, mouthing 'let them be' when he starts to say something.
Dad spends five full minutes arranging his items in the plastic bins, muttering about how "back in his day" airport security wasn't this complicated. Then, because the universe has a sense of humor, he gets randomly selected for additional screening.
"You've got to be kidding me," he grumbles, as a TSA agent, who looks like The Rock's buffer cousin, waves him over.
Ivy and I exchange glances, both fighting off grins. Mom catches us and whispers, "Behave, you two," but I notice she's struggling to hide a laugh of her own as the agent pats down Dad's cargo shorts with methodical precision.
"Sir, please spread your legs wider."
Dad's face turns an impressive shade of red. I have to look away before I lose it completely, and find Ivy suddenly very interested in adjusting her shoelaces, her shoulders quaking with silent laughter.
Once we're through, Ivy straightens up. "I'm going to grab coffee for everyone. Requests?"
Mom lights up. "Oh, you don't have to—"
"I want to," Ivy insists. "Consider it my late-arrival penance."
"Black coffee," Dad grunts, fishing out a thirty from his wallet and pressing it into Ivy's hand without making eye contact. "Get yourself something too." He pauses, then adds another ten. "Airport prices are highway robbery."
"I was going to—" Ivy starts to protest, but Mom smiles warmly.
"Just take it, honey. It's his way." She pauses. "I'll have a caramel latte, please."
Ivy looks at me, eyebrow raised. "Large cold brew, extra shot, splash of oat milk?"
"You memorized my coffee order?"
"Please. Like you don't have my usual pizza practically engraved in your brain."
"Extra cheese, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, and . . ." I make a face "eggplant, because you're weird."
"See? Same thing." She spins toward Starbucks. "And it's delicious, you just have the taste buds of a five-year-old."
That planning glint is already in Mom's eyes as she watches us, and as soon as Ivy's out of earshot, she pounces.
"She's such a lovely girl," she starts, and oh boy, here we go.
"Mom."
"I'm just saying, I'm glad you brought someone. And out of all people . . ." She trails off meaningfully.
"We're just friends."
"Mm-hmm." She pats my arm. "Sure, sure."