Chapter 38 Ivy
The thing about loving someone too much is how it sneaks up on you. Like water wearing down stone, gradual and persistent, until one day you look down and realize you've carved yourself hollow trying to fill the spaces they never asked you to.
I've drafted seventeen texts to Caleb this week. Each message lingers on my screen like a paper cut—sharp, small, and impossible to ignore. My thumb hovers over the last draft, but I don't hit send. Haven't sent a single one.
Because here's what I never noticed until Vinnie pointed it out: I'm the one who's constantly reaching. The one stretching myself over every gap Caleb leaves behind, building bridges he can use whenever he decides to come back.
A decade of friendship built on me showing up. Me listening to his family drama. Me rearranging my schedule when he needs to vent about his brother's perfect life or his dad's disappointment. Me pretending I'm not in love with him because that's safer than admitting how uneven this has always been.
The knock startles me out of my spiral. Three quick taps, two slow ones.
My heart lurches sideways. Because of course he shows up now, when I'm finally learning how to sit with the quiet. Just as I'm starting to see how many pieces of myself I've handed over, trying to keep him near.
"Ivy?" His voice slips through the door, stripped of its usual bravado.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the couch. Because god, I want to open that door. Still ache to erase how that night split something between us I'm not sure I can put back together.
That's who I am—the girl who can't stop caring, no matter how much it hurts. The friend who gives one more chance, fully aware it might break me. Because underneath all this newfound clarity about our uneven friendship, he's still my Caleb.
I pad to the door. When I open it, he's there with his signature grin and a pizza box balanced in one hand.
"My delivery intuition said you needed this," he says, lifting the box. "Extra cheese, minimal emotional baggage."
"You're late." I lean against the doorframe, aiming for casual even as my pulse races. "My emotional breakdown was scheduled an hour ago."
His smile flickers. Something's off. There's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that doesn't match his easy grin.
"Better late than never?" He holds up the pizza like a peace offering. "I even remembered your weird obsession with eggplant."
Salem chooses this moment to launch himself from the side table like a furry missile of vengeance. One second Caleb's standing there with his peace-offering, the next he's got nine pounds of angry black cat attached to his arm.
"Jesus fu—" Caleb yelps, pizza box wobbling. "When did your cat turn feral?"
"Probably around the same time his favorite pizza guy ghosted us," I mutter, watching Salem unleash pure psychological warfare via toe beans. "Karma's a bitch in a fur coat."
Salem finally detaches himself with one final swipe, landing gracefully before stalking to his window perch.
"I deserved that," Caleb admits, examining the new ventilation holes in his sleeve. The pizza box looks like it survived the assault, which is honestly impressive. "Though I'm pretty sure he drew blood."
"You're lucky. Usually he goes for the jugular." I cross my arms, fighting the urge to check his wounds, because apparently, the silence between us hasn't killed my need to take care of him.
He shifts awkwardly, looking more lost than I've ever seen him. "Could we check on Ducky and everyone else?"
The walls I've been holding up shift. Of course he knows how to wear me down. And naturally, I'll say yes. Because I'm still the girl who unravels every time Caleb Miller looks at me with those infuriatingly blue eyes.
"Fine." I grab my cardigan off the hook, pretending I'm not already forgiving him. "But if Salem follows us out there, you're on your own. I don't intervene in acts of justified revenge."
His laugh comes out shaky but real. "Fair enough."
"Come on," I say, heading for the back door before I can change my mind. "Let's go see if Ducky remembers the guy who taught him bad bread-begging habits."
The moment we round the corner of my cottage, four fluffy bodies burst from what can only be described as the Versailles of duck architecture.
The structure rises from my herb garden like some fever dream, where farmhouse meets fairy dwelling.
White-painted lattice frames the entrance, now partially covered in morning glory vines.
Little details everywhere betray how much thought Caleb had put into it—from the custom-height ramp for nervous Puddles, to the tiny carved hearts along the trim that he swears were "just practice cuts. "
"Holy shit, look at you guys!" Caleb drops to his knees as they all come barreling toward him like tiny feathered missiles.
At three months old, they're still more duckling than duck, all awkward legs and oversized feet they haven't grown into yet.
Ducky leads the charge, slamming into his chest with flapping wings and what sounds suspiciously like a lecture. The others follow.
"I know, I know, I'm the worst," Caleb laughs, trying to juggle all of them at once. My heart stumbles watching him baby-talk to our ducks. Because that's what they are—ours. Even if we never say it out loud.
"Incoming!" I call as Louie barrels ahead, eyes locked on the watch strapped to Caleb's wrist like it's committed a personal betrayal. Our smallest duckling has no fear, and even less coordination, slipping on the dewy grass as he hurls himself toward his target.
"Jesus, when did you get so fast?" He catches him mid-flight, laughing as Louie starts to peck at him. "Still putting everything in your mouth, huh?"
"Here." I drop down beside them, pulling a handful of dried mealworms from my cardigan pocket. "Before he decides your shirt is an all-you-can-eat buffet."
Caleb's fingers graze mine as he takes the treats, and that familiar spark snaps through me. His gaze meets mine for a beat, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You're still spoiling them," he murmurs.
"Says the guy who taught Ducky to beg for pizza crusts." I shift closer, helping him pass out treats while our little crew flocks around. My knee bumps his, and neither of us pulls away.
Ducky waddles between us, demanding attention from both his parents, and warmth blooms in my chest as Caleb scratches the spot under his chin that turns him to putty.
"Remember how tiny they were?" His voice is low, intimate. "That first night when we had to keep them in that basket by your bed?"
I do remember. Remember falling asleep to their tiny peeps, and waking up to find Caleb passed out on the couch because he was worried they'd need midnight snacks. Remember thinking even then how natural this was, us raising these ridiculous birds together.
"You were convinced Louie wouldn't make it," I say, as our smallest terror tries to scale his arm. "Now look at him."
"Yeah, well." Caleb's hand finds mine in the grass, and my heart stutters. "He just needed someone to believe in him."
The weight of those words settles between us. I turn toward him, finding his face inches from mine. There's grass in his hair, Ducky attempting to nest in his collar, and Quackie Chan systematically destroying his shoelaces—and god help me, he's never been more attractive.
"Ivy," he starts, voice rough. His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. "About everything—"
A chorus of demanding quacks cuts him off as our children decide dinner cannot wait another second.
"I should . . ." I pull my hand from his.
"Right." Caleb clears his throat, focused on the way I scatter feed across the grass. "Guess we should eat too. Before the pizza gets cold."
"Pretty sure it already is." But I follow him inside anyway, trying to ignore how the easy warmth from our duck moment dissipates with each step. By the time we reach my living room, that magical bubble where I could forget why I'm mad has popped entirely.
"So." I drop onto the couch, choosing the far corner, like physical distance might protect my heart this time. "Tell me something. When you're delivering pizzas to half of Hallow's End, do you ever drive past my street and think about stopping?"
Caleb's fingers flex against his thighs. "Ivy—"
"Because here's the thing about pretending something's 'fine' when it's not. Eventually, the lie gets too heavy to carry. And watching you play happy families with our ducks after four weeks of nothing? That's a weight I'm done lifting."
"You think I don't know that?" He rakes both hands through his hair, leaving it a disaster. "Like I haven't been replaying that morning over and over? How you sat there saying it was a mistake?"
"What was I supposed to say?" The words taste bitter coming out.
"I gave you exactly what you wanted—the perfect excuse to pretend nothing happened.
To write it off as drunk wedding shenanigans and go back to normal.
" I hate how my voice wavers. "Because that's what you do, right?
Keep things simple, no messy feelings involved? "
"I was wrong, but—"
"No, I get it. I'm the friend you trust, the one who's always there. Safe. Convenient." Saying it out loud burns, but I keep going. "So when I basically threw myself at you and you rejected me anyway," I force out a laugh. "Message received, loud and clear."
"That's not—"
My fingers dig into my arms. "I'm not Virginia, or any of those other girls who can keep things casual. I can't pretend it didn't matter. That you don't matter."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I've kept locked away.
I thought offering him a clean escape would hurt less than confessing what I felt.
What I still feel. But sitting here now, while he struggles to find words that won't shatter what's left between us, I realize there was never going to be a simple way out of this.
Not when my heart's been his for longer than I care to admit.
"Is that what you think?" His voice comes out strangled.
"I just . . . fuck, I . . ." His fingers curl into fists on his knees, frustration leaking through the cracks he doesn't bother hiding.
"That whole week has been messing with my head.
Being that close to you, sharing a room, cuddling you while we slept .
. . I didn't know if it was real, or if it was this weird wedding bubble making me feel things I'm not ready for. "
"Then why come back now? Why show up at my door after weeks of radio silence?"
"Because I'm an idiot?" He lets out this broken laugh.
"I miss you. I keep making stupid jokes to empty rooms and reaching for my phone to tell you about them.
My life is imploding at home, and things are changing, and you're not there to help me through it.
" His eyes find mine, desperate and lost. "I can't figure out how to do this right.
Any of it. I only know that being apart feels wrong, and being with you terrifies me, and I—"
"Stop." I press my hands against his chest, hating how my body still craves his warmth. "You don't get to do this. You can't ghost me for weeks and then show up with half-apologies and confessions when it's convenient."
"Ivy—"
"No, I'm done with the mixed signals." My voice cracks but I push on.
"One minute you're holding me like I matter, the next you're gone without a word.
You get jealous when other guys talk to me, but you won't actually do anything about it.
" Tears burn behind my eyes. "I'm tired of being your safe place to land when you're lonely.
Done watching you date half of Hallow's End while I wait for you to finally see me. I'm just . . . exhausted."
"You think I don't notice you? You're all I see. That's what scares the shit out of me." His fingers catch my wrist, thumb finding my pulse. "Tell me what you want, Shortcake. Please."
"You know what?" I pull my hand away, something finally breaking loose.
"I'm done being the one who has to have all the answers, who has to take charge of every emotional conversation while you hide behind jokes and maybes.
I deserve someone who's all in, who doesn't need a crisis to realize I'm here. "
"I'm here now!" His voice cracks with frustration. "That has to count for something? I don't even know what this is supposed to be." His chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. "Everything's changing, nothing feels the same, and I'm—"
"If you can't figure out what you want without me drawing you a map, then I think it's best if you—"
His mouth crashes into mine, cutting me off, and there's nothing gentle about it—just panic and need.
Fingers knot in my hair as he angles my head, tongue sweeping deep.
I moan, the sound lost between us, and something in him snaps.
He drags me closer, nearly into his lap, deepening the kiss until the room tilts.
This is a horrible idea.
I should push him away.
But god, the way he's kissing me. All desperate, like he's been starving for this too. Like maybe I wasn't wrong about that night, and this is him choosing us. Caleb's hands tremble against my face, and my chest splits wide, because this isn't the kiss of someone who doesn't want me.
This is need. Raw and honest in a way his words never are.
I'm going to regret this. But I want him so badly it physically hurts. Right now, I don't care about anything else.