Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jesse
The hum of my truck is the only sound I’ve got for company on the way to Ivy’s.
Usually, these drives help me shake off the week. Thirty minutes to decompress before the chaos of dinner with my sister’s circus. But tonight? My phone hasn’t stopped lighting up bright as a damn Christmas tree in the cup holder.
Vanessa.
Again.
Another buzz. I glance down just long enough to see her name, that little preview flashing something I don’t want to read right now. We need to talk.
We had our talk. It didn’t go well. I don’t see any need to repeat that.
I flip the phone over, screen down, and grip the steering wheel tighter. I’ve gotten good at ignoring things I don’t want to deal with. Apparently, I’m a pro now. But this? This is a ticking bomb in my pocket.
I crank the volume on the radio, hoping classic rock can drown out the guilt clawing at the back of my skull. Doesn’t work. The lyrics blur together, and all I can hear is her voice in my head, all sharp edges and soft apologies from the last time we talked.
Stop it, Jesse. Not tonight.
Tonight’s for Ivy. For family. For one night, I don’t have to think about work or my wreck of a personal life.
Another buzz. I bite down a curse and shove the phone in the console. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Except it’s not out of mind. Not even close.
By the time I pull up to Ivy’s driveway, my jaw might as well have been wired shut. The porch light is glowing, warm and inviting, and I can hear the muffled chaos inside—the laughter, the shouting, the faint cry of one of the triplets demanding attention.
For a second, I sit there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the house and trying to remember why I always look forward to this.
Because it’s grounding. Because it reminds me of what matters. Because no matter how insane life gets, Ivy’s always here, holding it all together—a domestic superhero.
I kill the engine, step out into the crisp air, and grab the six-pack from the passenger seat. My peace offering. It won’t save me from Ivy’s side eye if I walk in late again, but at least it’s something.
As I head up the walkway, my phone buzzes one last time, almost as if it knows I’m about to abandon it for the night. I don’t check it. Can’t. If I look now, I’ll spiral, and the last thing I need is to walk in there with a storm cloud over my head.
So I shove the thought of Vanessa down, bury it under the promise of loud voices, clinking plates, and the smell of Ivy’s cooking.
The front door isn’t even locked. Typical Ivy. She still thinks this is the kind of town where you can leave the keys in your car and nobody’ll touch it.
I step inside, and the warmth hits me first. The heat from the oven, the wood stove going strong, and the smell… Wow, the smell. Whatever she’s cooking tonight is rich, savory, and precisely what my mood needs.
“About time,” Ivy calls from the kitchen, cutting through the noise loud as a general on the front lines. “You’re late.”
“Love you too, sis,” I shoot back, toeing off my boots by the door.
The house is pure chaos. Toys scattered across the floor, a stray sock on the stairs, and Mia sitting in the middle of it all with a plastic spoon in her mouth.
“Uncle Jesse!” Penny rockets toward me before I can even set the six-pack down. Kid's got the grip of a python.
“Hey, buddy.” I scoop her up for a second before setting her back down, mainly because I value my spine.
She takes off again, yelling something about showing me a dinosaur that apparently has superpowers.
“Hey, Jesse,” Mitchell calls out to me. “Settle an argument for me.”
I groan. “Already? I’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“That’s thirty seconds too long for you to avoid contributing,” Mitchell says, leaning back in his chair.
Timothy gestures between them with a breadstick. “We’re at a stalemate here, man. Need a tie breaker.”
I kick the door shut with my heel and sigh. “What is it this time? Who would win in a fight, Batman or Iron Man? Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“Worse,” Freddie pipes up from the corner, already grinning. “They’re arguing over whether lasagna counts as pasta.”
I stare at them for a second. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Mitchell crosses his arms. “I say it’s not. It’s layered. It’s its own category.”
“And I,” Timothy says with all the self-righteousness of a cat cleaning itself in public, “say pasta is pasta. You put noodles in it? Pasta.”
Freddie raises his beer. “Meanwhile, I’m just here for the show.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You guys need hobbies.”
Mitchell grins. “Come on, Jess. Make the call.”
I glance toward the kitchen, where Ivy’s voice cuts through the chaos. “If you bozos don’t start setting the table, I’m feeding this to the dog!”
“See?” I point toward the kitchen. “That’s my answer. Ask her before she buries you in lasagna.”
Timothy chuckles, sliding a plate stack into my hands. “Deflection noted. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wrong.”
“I didn’t even answer!”
“Exactly,” Mitchell says, smirking. “That’s a silent admission of guilt.”
I shake my head, moving toward the dining table while the argument reignites behind me. Penny’s back in the room now, holding what appears to be a broken T Rex in one hand and a Barbie in the other, and she’s trying to marry them—typical Penny logic.
I’m halfway through laying out the forks when I feel someone at my shoulder. Freddie. He’s ditched the debate, beer in hand, and he’s wearing that look. Half curious, half cautious.
“Need a hand?” he asks, suddenly oddly interested in table settings.
“Sure,” I say, even though I know that’s not why he’s here.
Freddie’s allergic to chores unless there’s gossip involved.
He grabs a couple of knives, sets them down in the wrong spots, and leans in. “Saw someone in town earlier.”
I don’t look at him, just line up a plate. “Yeah? We still talking about lasagna or…?”
“Vanessa,” he says, low enough that Ivy’s kitchen clatter drowns it out.
My stomach knots.
There really is no escape for me.
I take a breath, keep even. “Where?”
“Main Street. By the café. She didn’t see me.” Freddie studies me for a beat. “You knew she was back, right?”
I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
He whistles under his breath. “Guess that explains the face you’re making.”
I huff out something that’s not quite a laugh. “Great. Glad my emotional stability’s visible to the naked eye.”
Freddie doesn’t let it go. He never does. “You gonna tell me what’s up there? Because Ivy… she’ll sniff this out like blood in the water.”
I glance toward the kitchen. Ivy’s still barking orders, entirely in her element, but if she catches wind of this, I’m dead.
“She’s been texting me,” I admit, quietly. “Nonstop. For days.”
Freddie raises a brow. “And you’ve been…?”
“Ignoring her.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean as we head into the hallway to have this chat a little more privately. “Or trying to.”
He leans on the back of a chair, watching me, waiting for the rest.
“It’s just…” I rub the back of my neck, searching for words that don’t make me sound like a complete idiot. “It was over. Done. And now she’s here, acting like it wasn’t. She even came to see me. Tried to get back together.”
Freddie takes a slow sip of his beer. “That’s rough. You want her back?”
I shake my head. “No way. I’m done.”
I can’t tell him why I’m done. I can’t mention that I met someone I like better because Ivy can never find out about me and Livvy.
Freddie studies me for a beat. He knows there’s more, but, thank goodness, Ivy saves me from confessing to a felony by yelling for us again.
We move into the dining room, and the noise level doubles.
Ivy’s already herding kids into chairs as efficiently as a drill sergeant. Mitchell and Timothy are still ribbing each other about pasta, and Freddie slides into a seat with a look that says, we’re not finished here.
I drop into my usual spot at the end of the table, force my shoulders to relax, and try to act normal. Try to focus on the smell of garlic bread instead of the storm brewing in my head.
The plates make their rounds, kids chatter, and for a second, it’s almost the peace I came here for. Then Ivy looks at me, and there’s nothing casual about her expression.
“Hey,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
I brace myself. “Shoot.”
“It’s about Olivia.”
The name hits me like a punch. My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What about her?”
Ivy tilts her head, studying me, trying to read what’s under my skin. “She’s been… quiet lately. Different. I know something’s going on, and she won’t tell me. But I heard she’s been spending time with Karl.”
My stomach tightens as I think about that damn kiss I witnessed. I’ve been trying hard not to think about that.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She waves it off. “I just… Karl’s your friend. Do you know anything? Is this… a thing?”
I glance down at my plate, suddenly fascinated by the marinara. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?” Ivy is calm, but I can hear the edge creeping in. “I’m just trying to make sure she’s okay, Jess. Olivia’s not great at picking the right guy, and if Karl’s gonna screw with her—”
“He’s not.” The words come out sharper than I mean, a blade hitting the table. Ivy blinks, and the whole room feels too quiet for a second.
Mitchell, bless his soul, breaks the tension with a laugh. “Whoa. Somebody’s protective tonight.”
“Shut up, Mitch,” I snap before I can stop myself. “I just… don’t think he would.”
Ivy’s still looking at me, and I can feel the question in her eyes, the one I can’t let her ask. I shove a bite of food in my mouth, hoping it’ll keep me from saying something stupid.
“Well, Jesse, you have to admit, Karl isn’t exactly known for commitment.”
“Look,” I say after I swallow, trying for neutral. “Far as I know, they’re friends. That’s it. She’s staying at his place while the house gets fixed, and that’s it.”
Ivy doesn’t look convinced. “Hmm, I don’t think so. I know there’s more, and I also know he hasn’t been treating her right.”
My fork stops dead on the plate. Hasn’t been treating her right?
“What do you mean by that?” The question comes out fast, too sharp.
Ivy narrows her eyes. “Just… things she’s said. It doesn’t seem like he’s serious about her, and I’m worried he’s playing her.”
My jaw tightens. “What has she said?”
Before she can answer, there’s a loud crash from the kitchen. Glass shattering. Then the unmistakable sound of Ivy’s beloved jam jar hitting the floor.
“Pickle!” Ivy shoots up, chair screeching back as she bolts toward the kitchen.
The rest of the table explodes into chaos. Mitchell jumps up, yelling something about saving the food, Timothy’s laughing so hard he’s practically choking, and Penny’s screaming, “But I loved that jar!”
I’m left gripping my fork, pulse hammering, while my one chance to get more out of Ivy disappears into a storm of barking and crashing.
I shove back from the table and follow, because what else can I do? The kitchen is a war zone. Spilled lasagna, broken glass, a guilty-looking Frenchie licking up jam like it’s his last meal. Ivy crouched down, muttering darkly as she grabbed for Pickle’s collar.
“Need a hand?” I ask, even though what I need is for everyone to leave so Ivy can finish what she was about to say.
“Unless your hand can rewind time and put my kitchen back together, nope,” she snaps, wrangling the dog toward the mudroom.
Freddie passes me with a roll of paper towels, grinning with amusement. “Looks like dinner’s done.”
I force a laugh, but inside I’m boiling. Olivia. Karl. Ivy says he hasn’t treated her right. What the hell does that mean?
By the time the kitchen is cleared, I can’t take it anymore. I push my chair back, mutter something about an early morning, and make a break for the door before Ivy can follow me out with more questions.
Outside, the air is freezing, biting through my jacket, but it doesn’t cool me off. My pulse is still hammering, my hands clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
I tell myself this is stupid. I tell myself to go home, sleep it off. But instead, I’m in my truck, keys in the ignition, engine growling. It feels what I feel.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Hell, I don’t even know what I want out of this. All I know is I can’t sit around wondering anymore.
She can date Karl. Fine. As long as he’s treating her well. But she can’t pretend she doesn’t feel this too.
And tonight, I’m going to make damn sure she admits it.