Chapter 16 Caleb
Pebbles grind under my boots as I stalk away from the house, past rows of pristine grapevines reaching toward the mountains.
Perfect little rows. Perfect little order.
Everything in its right place, just like Matt in his perfect job with his perfect fiancée and their perfect fucking life.
I kick a rock, following its bounce off one of the fancy wooden posts.
The path winds around to some bullshit fairy tale pond that's featured in every basic bride's wedding album within fifty miles.
A family of ducks cuts through the water like they own the place, and my brain thinks of Ivy's backyard bird empire.
Because apparently, that's my life now, comparing pond rejects to Ivy's backyard chaos crew like it's a competitive sport.
Last week she sent me a video of Ducky strutting around like he's hot shit, leading some kind of rebellion against bedtime.
All attitude and mohawk, practicing his splash attacks on her new flowers.
And instead of doing the sane thing and going to sleep, I watched it six times because her laugh was so bright and sweet.
After, I caught myself ordering special organic duck treats at midnight because she mentioned Louie was being picky about his food. Me. The guy who eats a three-day-old pizza. Standing in my kitchen at ass o'clock, comparing dietary reviews as if its normal behavior.
Fuck my entire life.
I grab a handful of rocks, needing to do something with all this restless energy burning under my skin. The first one sinks with a pathetic splash that matches my mood perfectly.
Lunch was a complete shitshow. Ivy walked in wearing a sundress straight out of a woodland fever dream, and Carter spent the entire meal staring at her chest like it was a business pitch. His gaze never once cleared her collarbone during the entire walk-down-the-aisle rehearsal nonsense.
Another rock hits the water hard enough to scare the ducks.
And there she was, handling Preston's business questions like a boss, making Dad nod along when she talked about book clubs and local author showcases.
Looking at home in a room full of people who spend more on wine than I make in a month.
Meanwhile, I'm still delivering pizzas and dodging comments about "real careers" and "wasting potential. "
The next rock skips twice before sinking. At least something's working.
"I'm trying to help." I mimic Dad's voice, throwing the next rock so hard it barely misses the dock.
The thing is, I could have a "real" job.
That indie game company, Pixel Dreams, reached out after my last mod went viral.
Something about my "innovative approach to environmental storytelling" and "unique perspective on player choice architecture.
" They wanted to talk about a junior dev position.
Like, an actual career, not some hobby. A hobby my followers keep saying I should pursue professionally.
The thing I love more than almost anything else.
I never replied.
Not because I didn't want it—fuck, I wanted it so bad my hands shook when I read the email—but because wanting things is the fastest way to find out you're not good enough for them.
Because what if I tried and failed? What if I put myself out there and proved everyone right?
Easier to joke about "maybe someday" than actually risk becoming another cautionary tale about reaching beyond your level.
But while I sit on the sidelines, Ivy has built this whole life. Not just the store—though yeah, she's crushing that too—but the way she keeps growing; pushing forward while I'm stuck running in circles.
And yeah, I get it—eventually she'll wake up and realize I'm the friend she's already outgrown.
The one who shows up at her door in the middle of the night because I can't sleep.
Who crashes on her couch when the noise in my head gets too loud.
The guy who screws up and needs her to explain why because I still don't know how to exist without her translating life for me.
She deserves more than playing therapist to my disasters. More than constantly smoothing things over when I screw up or ghost someone because the feelings hit too close. One day, she'll get tired of sweeping up the wreckage every time I implode.
Or worse—some guy will come along who actually has his shit together.
Someone who doesn't need hand-holding through every basic adult decision.
He'll take one look at our friendship, at how I'm constantly in her space, always needing something, and see exactly what I am: a fucking anchor dragging her down.
The thing is, I don't have a clue how to exist in this world without her. Who I even am without her voice in my head reminding me I'm not completely fucking everything up.
"There you are."
I whirl around to find Ivy standing at the edge of the path, one hand shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. She's still wearing that dress, and she still looks pretty. I turn back to the water.
"You alive," she asks, "or did you decide to run into the woods and become a feral cryptid?"
"Just needed air." I skip another rock. Five bounces. New record. "And fewer fork options. Since when does dessert get its own tiny fork?"
She walks over, settling into the grass beside me. Close enough to catch that familiar lavender-citrus mix. The same combination she's worn since high school. It's distinctly Ivy, warm and bright and grounding all at once.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about."
She doesn't push, but she doesn't leave either. That's the thing about Ivy—she knows how to wait people out. Not like James with his terrible advice, or Brodie trying to fix everything. She just . . . stays.
"Do you think Magnolia dreams in flower arrangements?" she asks finally. "Or just wakes up possessed by the ghost of Martha Stewart?"
I snort. "She definitely has someone on staff to refill her water bottle with holy rosé."
"And did you see her face when the salad wasn't 'architectural' enough?" Ivy's impression of Magnolia's accent is terrible and somehow perfect. "Like the lettuce personally offended her country club membership."
"Pretty sure that's why Jefferson started stress-eating his mashed potatoes."
"God, that whole situation . . ." She shakes her head, blue waves catching the sunlight. "I haven't seen that much drama since Amelia tried dating twins."
"At the same time?"
"Different area codes. Still ended badly."
We fall into another comfortable silence as a breeze ripples across the pond, making the willow branches dance. It's actually kind of nice out here, away from all the wedding chaos.
"You and Virginia seemed friendly." Ivy says carefully.
"She's just trying to piss off Jefferson."
"Maybe." I watch her mutilate a blade of grass. "She's pretty."
"Yeah." I study her profile, trying to read whatever's happening behind those careful words. Ivy's usually the first to tease me about hookups, always quick to point out my terrible taste in women. But something about this conversation seems different. "Not really my type, though."
"Since when do you have a type?" The joke lands flat. "Besides 'breathing and interested'?"
"Hey, I have standards."
"Name one."
"Must be able to recognize at least three Pokémon."
"Pikachu, Charizard, and . . ." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "Oh, that blue turtle you were obsessed with freshman year. Before Stuart Thompson told everyone Pokémon cards were for fifth graders and you suddenly became 'too cool' for your collection."
"Squirtle," I correct automatically. "And those cards were vintage."
"My favorite was always Jigglypuff."
"Because it was pink?"
"Because it was the only card you ever gave me." She smiles at the memory. "Your very heartfelt apology for dropping your gum in my hair during the spring assembly. Pretty sure that card's still in my old diary somewhere."
"That was a collector's item, you know."
She snorts, but then looks away from me. "Virginia seems like more of a Candy Crush girl, anyway."
"Exactly. Deal breaker." I tug on a strand of her hair, letting it curl around my finger. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"Nothing." She leans into my side. "Just tired. And wondering how I got roped into being a bridesmaid at the wedding of the century."
"You could still say no."
Her head drops to my shoulder, blue hair fanning over my arm. "I would feel bad, plus, I want to do it. I like Sarah."
"It's not too late to run," I offer. "I know all the back roads."
"Only if there's snacks in the getaway car." She smiles, and for a heartbeat I forget about all the other bullshit. "And you're driving. I've seen what happens when you try to give directions."
"That was one wrong turn."
"We ended up in another state!"
"It was an adventure."
She laughs into my shoulder, the vibration shooting straight through me. "Is that what we're calling your complete inability to read a map?"
"Google Maps was having an existential crisis."
"Of course." She pushes up from the grass, the sundress inching dangerously high up her thigh.
My eyes track the path of bare skin, following the curve until I drag my gaze up to find her staring somewhere past my shoulder.
"I should head back." Her fingers smooth down the fabric.
"And I'm pretty sure Virginia will hunt you down now that lunch is over. "
I should say something. Tell her Virginia could do a striptease on this dock and I wouldn't give a shit. But my tongue's taken a vacation to fuck-up town, and all I can do is track Ivy disappearing down that fancy-ass path, while I sit here like the world's biggest idiot.