Chapter Thirty-Two
Ivy secured her hair into a French twist because there was no time or hope of fixing it after the deadly combination of dry winter air and Grant’s flannel sheets.
She’d lingered in his bed until the very last minute, playfully arguing whether Superbad was teen coming-of-age comedy gold or, as Ivy argued, super bad.
“See, this is how I know you’re not a teenage boy—” Grant argued.
“Oh, this is how you know?” Ivy laughed.
There was a beat while he caught up to his phrasing. “Hush, you. I’m proving a point.”
“It’s not going well so far,” she teased. Grant put his hand over her mouth and she licked his salty palm.
“I’m the oldest of four. You think a little spit warfare is going to deter me?” He tucked her closer to his side.
“Lorelai is the oldest. She was born first.”
“We’re twins. We have the same birthday. It was clearly a tie. Anyway, I can tell you don’t understand teenage boys because drawing penises is a universal experience unlike any other.”
“But did they need to dedicate so much screen time to it? There’s an entire sequence.”
“It’s a film that has stood the test of time.
It’s not only funny as hell—your face is really loud, Weaver—but it has great characters and an endearing story.
Yes, there are dumb jokes and raunchy moments, but at its core it’s really about high school kids needing to learn how to grow up and be apart from each other.
It’s a classic movie about friendship, like Stand By Me or Up. ”
“One of these things is not like the others!”
Ivy checked her appearance in the mirror. She definitely needed to take her silk pillowcase to Grant’s. Every little bit helped in the winter.
“Ivy, are you ready?” her mom shouted. “We need to go.”
“Coming!” She grabbed her cardigan off her bed and jogged down the stairs.
About halfway down, it hit her like a ton of bricks that this was the last time her mom was going to yell at her to leave for a graduation, and one of the last times she’d run down the stairs she used to slide down in a sleeping bag.
A painful lump formed in her throat, like she’d swallowed a boulder.
“You look lovely,” Sophie said with affectionate pride, then ushered her out the door.
Her dad was waiting in the car, his academic regalia hanging from the hook next to the Oh Shit handle. Ivy slid into the back seat, like she had so many times before, and a lump formed in her throat. It didn’t dissipate as they drove toward the university.
Coeur-de-Lac had expanded in the direction of the university, its newest additions unfamiliar to Ivy in a way that made her nostalgic for a version of the town that only existed in her memories.
It was hard to reconcile that it wouldn’t forever remain the same, like a quaint snow globe she could put on the shelf until she was ready to look at it again.
The Weavers had arriving for graduation down to a fine art. Paul was in his robes and in line right as they started checking attendance, while Ivy and Sophie took their seats in the faculty guest section moments before the ceremony started.
“Last one of these,” Sophie whispered cheerfully.
But Ivy wasn’t cheerful.
Her entire life, her years had been measured in the length of time between graduations.
Every May and December, her father donned his funny velvet hat and heavy doctoral robes and ushered a new group of students into the world.
They didn’t measure her height on a doorjamb but against the velvet chevrons on her dad’s sleeves.
In a life full of inconsistencies, Ivy could count on a winter and spring graduation.
That was ending now, and everything was up in the air.
Before his announcement at the party, Ivy had begun to doubt that her parents were actually going to move.
They’d made almost no progress packing, and they hadn’t once discussed possible locations since she’d landed in Wisconsin.
But her dad had told almost everyone they knew that they were leaving, so it must be true.
Did she still want them to move? Selfishly, no, but a few weeks ago, she’d have selfishly answered yes. She’d almost been grateful they were dragging their feet because it gave her time to think, but graduation was the last thing on their “this is why we can’t think about moving yet” list.
Maybe she could unpack the boxes she’d packed.
Even though she’d known the Underwoods her entire life, Ivy felt like she was meeting them for the first time. Her anxiety couldn’t tell the difference between a simple movie night and being chased by a bear.
Because for once, she wasn’t coming over as Ivy, the girl who grew up next door.
She was coming over as Ivy, Grant’s…something-or-other.
She could have flown under the radar, but no, she had to kiss him in front of everyone.
She’d been dickmatized by his thoughtfulness, and look where that had gotten her.
Ivy rang the doorbell and resisted the urge to sprint back to the safety of her house. It was just the Underwoods. She knew them and they knew her. She didn’t even have to learn any names. Easy peasy.
There was muffled shouting inside, accompanied by the hollow pounding of running feet. The tinny electric song of the dancing Santa started as the door was ripped open.
“Gemma! Don’t open the door; you don’t know who it is!” Lorelai shouted, too far behind her daughter to stop her. “Oh, thank god,” she breathed when she saw who it was. She shouted toward the kitchen, “It’s Ivy!”
“Awe you Uncle Gwant’s girlfwend?” Gemma asked.
“I, uh…” Ivy stammered, looking to Lorelai for assistance. There was none. Lorelai was waiting for her answer with keen interest.
“I have fwee boyfwiends.” Gemma held up three fingers.
“Compulsive heteronormativity strikes again,” Lorelai said, shaking her head.
Austin wandered into the foyer, munching on a big carrot like he was Bugs Bunny. “What are you talking about, Lor? Polyamory is queer.”
Gemma frowned in confusion. “What’s p…p…” The long word kept getting twisted in her mouth, so she spit out what she could manage. “Plolymamary?”
Austin stopped mid-chew, the color draining from his face as Lorelai crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows expectantly at her brother.
“Yeah, Uncle Austin, what is polyamory?”
“It’s when, uh—well, it’s kind of like—”
Lorelai rolled her eyes at Austin, then focused neutral attention on her daughter. “Sweetie, polyamory is when someone is in a relationship with multiple people. Mama and Mommy are monogamous, which means we are only in a romantic partnership with one person. Does that make sense?”
Gemma stared at her blankly for a moment, then a large smile broke out on her face and she ran off to the kitchen, giggling the whole way.
“Well, that’s going to be a super-fun teachers’ lounge conversation after break. ‘Hey, Lorelai, today I asked the kids for words that make the puh sound and do you know what Gemma said? Polyamory. Then she told the whole class that she’s polyamory.’”
“Wouldn’t it be polyamorous?” Austin asked.
“She can’t read, dipshit. She doesn’t know her derivational endings.”
Austin put his hands in the air in surrender, shot Ivy a “yikes” expression, and went back toward the kitchen, munching loudly on his carrot as he went.
“I’m so glad you’re dressed down,” Ivy said, plucking at the hem of her Italia sweatshirt she’d purchased on her first overnight in Rome. “I went back and forth on what to wear.”
“Who dresses up to watch a movie?” Lorelai waited for her to take off her shoes, then walked with her to the kitchen. “Grant, your girlfriend’s here.”
Grant stood at the counter with Grace, rolling cookie dough into balls and dropping them into a bowl of spiced sugar before arranging them on a parchment-covered cookie sheet. He glanced up, met Ivy’s eyes, and blushed so hard, the tops of his ears turned red.
“She’s…uh…”
Gemma carried a short step stool to the counter and wedged herself between her uncle and grandmother.
“I want to help,” she declared loudly. “Can I make the dough?”
“We already made the dough, sweet pea,” Grace said. “But you look like an excellent sugar captain to me.”
Gemma punched the air with both fists like she was Rocky Balboa. “Sugar!”
“You don’t get to eat it, silly,” Grant told her gently. “I’ll hand you a dough ball, you’ll cover it in sugar, then put it on the cookie sheet like I did. See?”
Grant patiently demonstrated the process for his niece, who seemed to be all gas with no brakes.
She kept trying to charge ahead of Grant’s instructions, and he gently guided her back to the step they were on.
Ivy knew it was probably her imagination, but she swore she could feel her ovaries throbbing.
She said a silent prayer that the precious display in front of her didn’t somehow render her birth control useless.
“Am I doing good, Uncle Gwant?”
“You’re doing amazing.”
That was a lie. There was a clear distinction between the cookies Grant had rolled and the ones Gemma had rolled, and when she wasn’t looking, he quickly fixed her rows of balls to be uniform.
“Is it time for the movie?” Gemma asked.
“Almost,” Grace promised. “Go wash your hands and see if our patient has improved.”
Ivy frowned and looked to Lorelai for clarification.
“Piper’s cracked the code on lazy play. She’s in the ‘hospital’”—Lorelai put air quotes around the word—“and Gemma is her doctor. She lays on the couch under a blanket and Gemma treats her. Awful bedside manner, though. Should really be reported to the medical board. She’s prescribed gummy bears and chocolate milk for a tummy ache that I think is actually acute appendicitis. ”
Ivy needed to see this hospital for herself.
Piper was stretched out on the small couch with one arm over her eyes, covered by a blanket. She moaned pathetically while Gemma listened to her throat with a toy stethoscope.
“Will I live, Doctor?”
“Nope!” Gemma giggled maniacally.
Strong arms circled Ivy’s waist from behind, and Grant kissed her temple.
“She’s a terrible doctor,” he murmured against her skin.
“Nah. I think she’s in the wrong specialty. Definitely has more of a mad scientist vibe. She’s one good lightning storm away from a breakthrough.”
“Going to have to avoid her in the summer so I don’t become part of her next research study.”
Ivy settled against him, his warmth seeping through her clothes. “What did you do today?”
“Austin, Piper, and I took Gemma sledding after I dropped you off. Mom made chili for lunch. We all fell asleep watching Frosty the Snowman, which is impressive since it’s only half an hour. Then we made a snow village in the backyard, and Gemma played Godzilla and knocked it all down.”
“You had a very busy day,” she remarked with a smile.
“I’m going to sleep like a log tonight,” Grant warned her.
The strong smell of popcorn overrode the scent of baking cookies.
“I think it’s almost movie time,” Lorelai announced, coming into the living room to turn on the TV. “Piper, you’re being discharged. Sit up.”
Piper groaned like a mummy as she sat up, arms outstretched in front of her.
“She lives!” Austin declared in a passable movie-style Transylvanian accent. He carried a tray of hot-cocoa mugs heaped with whipped cream. “Nana’s world-famous cocoa. Get it while it’s hot.”
The Underwoods really embraced the concept of Christmas movie cheer.
Homemade cocoa, popcorn mixed with “reindeer poop” (Milk Duds), fresh baked cookies, and peppermint bark pretzels.
They all cozied up on the couches, snuggled under blankets.
Tim emerged at the last moment and sat in his recliner.
Gemma clambered onto his lap seconds after he got settled.
Tears pricked Ivy’s eyes, and she took a sip of her rich, creamy cocoa to try and wash down the lump in her throat.
This was everything she wanted in life. How hard would she have to hold on to keep it?
The only thing that brought her a modicum of comfort was knowing she had a few more days to soak it all in.
“I have to go potty,” Gemma announced to the room right as Buddy the Elf found out his biological father was on the Naughty List.
They paused the movie, Will Ferrell’s face frozen in horror.
“Weatherman said we’ve got a storm headed our way,” Tim said casually. “Could be up to a foot of snow.”
Ice-cold dread flowed through Ivy’s veins. “When?”
“Looking like Monday or Tuesday. So who really knows? These things change.” He bit into a cookie. “Mmm…good stuff.” Tim looked at Grant, and Ivy felt him tense next to her. “Even if we do get a lot of snow, you still have to show up to work. We’re already losing a day this week for Christmas.”
“Dad, we’re not losing a day. Christmas is built into everyone’s project timelines.” Grant kept a tight lid on his frustration, but Ivy heard the exasperation leaking out of him like steam from a kettle.
“If you need to flex something, the Perryman house is unoccupied. But don’t use that as an excuse to fall behind.”
Gemma sprinted through the room and catapulted herself onto Tim’s lap with a battle cry of, “Papa!”
As the movie started again, Ivy fished her phone from her pocket. She drew her knees up and unlocked her screen under the tent she’d made with the blanket.
“What are you doing?” Grant whispered.
“Checking flight loads,” she whispered back.
The week of Christmas was the second-busiest travel week after Thanksgiving, so seats were already tight.
A minor snowstorm in the Midwest might not shut down airports, but it only took a few canceled flights and missed connections because of delays to completely screw up her plans.
“What does that mean?”
Ivy bit her lip. Her head swam while she tried to juggle flights, dates, current loads, and probability shifts.
She could chance it and leave the day she was originally going to, but the airline didn’t look kindly on absences during the holidays, especially ones caused by personal leisure travel.
Goodbye Paris, hello explaining to her supervisor why she wasn’t in base for her trip.
“Nothing good.”
Gemma put a finger to her lips and shushed them dramatically. Then she looked at the screen and loudly exclaimed, “It’s the snowman!”
Ivy sank lower into the couch and typed a message in her notes app. She turned the screen to Grant. She watched his heart break as he read it.
I think I have to leave tomorrow.