Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Owen
Ivy’s been avoiding me for weeks.
At parent pickup, she hurries off before I can say a word. My weekly emails don’t get a response. And when I’d taken Hannah over to her house for a playdate, she hadn’t even lowered her headphones to greet me. She’d just ushered Hannah inside and all but slammed the door in my face.
I’m not sure what I did to get on Ivy’s shit list, but that’s clearly where I am. Luckily I have an entire day of chaperoning the fall field trip to Camp Falconview with her to figure it out.
When I drive up to the school and see Ivy right away, I’m hit with a gut punch. I can’t help remembering that almost-kiss in my back yard.
For the first time in years, I’d thought about kissing a woman. Ivy had brought life to parts of me I’d thought were long dead.
Then, I’d found out her daughter was in my class, and I’d ruled out a relationship. My priority was Olivia, not Ivy.
The decision hadn’t been easy, and when I’d seen her at Open House, looking adorable in a baggy button-down covered in paint and glitter, I’d second-guessed everything.
I deserved love, didn’t I?
So what if Olivia was in my class?
We could take it slow, just be friends for a while. And when Olivia moved on to fourth grade, we could explore dating. I was fine with slow and steady. It had been so long since I’d dated; I needed the time to remember how.
My stride falters when Ivy looks up from tying Olivia’s hiking boots and sees me. Our gazes meet, and she gives me a cool smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Meanwhile, my heart is racing so hard, it might explode from my chest like in one of those cartoon drawings. I’m sure everything I’m feeling shows on my face as I cock my head and study her.
“How are you?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’ve missed her like a lost puppy.
“Fine.”
Her voice is clipped. And so quiet, I have to lean closer to hear if she’ll say more.
She doesn’t.
And although I can’t see her expression behind those dark sunglasses, I can sure feel the daggers shooting from her eyes.
Frustration knots my stomach. “Have I done something?”
Her mouth thins into a tight line, and she looks like she’s about to let me have it when Olivia interrupts us.
“Mommy,” Olivia says, pulling Ivy down to her level to whisper in her ear.
Ivy listens, then straightens and takes her daughter’s hand. “Good thinking, Liv. We’ll be right back.”
They hurry off toward school entrance, presumably to use the facilities one last time before the bus takes off for the one-hour drive to Camp Falconview.
While they are gone, the rest of us load up on the bus.
I slide onto the bench seat by myself, somewhat lost without my daughter on the trip.
Hannah has come to Camp Falconview every year since kindergarten, but this year, her mother requested her for the weekend.
They’re going to spend the day in the city.
Shopping, high tea, and a musical were promised, and a day of hiking in the wilderness can’t compete with that.
The chatter and laughter from the other kids on the bus only adds to my melancholic mood.
Without Hannah sitting quietly beside me, studying the scenery and pointing out her favorite trees and hilltops, it’s just not the same.
Maybe I should have sat this trip out and spent my rare childless weekend with some friends watching college football and gorging on chicken wings and beer, but as Mr. Taylor, third grade teacher, I felt obligated to volunteer.
Plus, I don’t really like beer.
And when I’d seen Ivy Ickerson’s name on the chaperone’s list, I’d nearly tripped over myself in my hurry to volunteer. Surely at some point during this all-day field trip, we’d have a chance to finish the conversation Olivia had interrupted.
Ivy and Olivia finally board the bus. Olivia rushes down the aisle toward her friends in the back, leaving Ivy standing alone at the front of the bus.
She lowers her sunglasses and looks around, seeming just as lost as I feel.
We make eye contact, and a charged moment marches by before either of us looks away. I slide over, indicating the open seat beside me. Ivy’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t have much choice. All the other seats are occupied.
She strides down the aisle and perches on the edge of the bench as if she’s afraid to get too close to me.
As the bus lurches to a start, Ivy nearly falls into the aisle. She shoots me a warning glance and cautiously slides closer to the middle.
“I don’t bite.” I keep my voice light and smile, trying to ease the tension, but Ivy ignores me and turns her attention to the lead chaperone standing at the front of the bus.
As soon as Mrs. Hopeton has welcomed everyone and finished going over some ground rules, Ivy digs into her backpack and pulls out her headphones.
I can’t get a word in before Ivy pulls the bulky headphones over her ears and settles back in the seat with her arms crossed, her eyes closed.
Message received.
It’s a long sixty minutes to camp. I try to ignore Ivy, but every time we go around a corner, we are pushed toward each other. Her arm brushes mine, and she jerks away as if I’ve shocked her.
When we finally arrive at camp, Ivy springs off the seat like she’s been shocked by the pleather and rushes off the bus before I can say a word. I follow behind along with the others, circling up in front of the main entrance with the kids and other chaperones.
The kids run wild. They’ve gotten a taste of the great outdoors, and it’s impossible to contain their excitement.
I came here as a kid, and nostalgia nips at my heels as I have the kids line up in front of the tall pines stretching toward the sky.
The camp counselors look exactly the same as their predecessors did thirty years ago.
They wear the same khaki uniforms and floppy hats with whistles around their necks and clipboards clutched in their hands.
The counselors call out the names of the groups. Ivy and I are placed in the same group with two other chaperones and ten kids. She shoots me a look like I’m a cockroach she wants to stomp on.
I vow to make the best of the situation as we trek into the woods for an adventure hike.
The kids run ahead, setting a pace that will surely make them tired halfway to the top of the overlook.
I focus on identifying leaves, pointing out woodpecker holes, and keeping everyone from wandering too far off trail.
But I can feel her just a few paces behind me. Not close enough to talk. Not far enough to ignore.
Eventually, we reach a clearing where the kids collapse onto a fallen log for a snack break, pulling trail mix and juice boxes from their little backpacks.
I take a chance and approach Ivy. “How’s Olivia doing?”
She shrugs. “Good. She’s been counting down to this trip since the welcome packet came home.”
A pause stretches between us.
“And how are you?” I ask, not looking at her.
“I’m fine.”
My patience stretches as thin as the barely concealed rage in her voice. “I don’t think you are.”
She brushes past me. “Don’t act like you care.”
I reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her. “Whoa. Hold on a second.”
“Let go of me.” She wrenches free and marches toward the edge of the trail.
Heat rises up the back of my neck, and I hurry to catch up with her. “At least tell me what I did wrong.”
She glares at me, blue eyes shooting icy lasers. “You know what you did.”
My jaw clenches so tightly, I have to force the words out. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
She steps around me, continuing down the trail and turning left at the fork that leads deeper into the woods. “Just leave me alone. I’d hate to contribute to your circus .”
I glare at her back, confusion clouding my mind. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hah!” she tosses the word over her shoulder, hurrying away from me.
“Where are you going?”
“Anywhere that’s away from you!”
I’m so frustrated, I think about letting her go, but then I remember Ivy hasn’t been hiking these hills since kindergarten like me. She could easily get lost. At the rate she’s moving, she could be swallowed up by the forest before she realizes it.
I rush after Ivy, but when she hears me coming, she speeds up.
Crashing through the trees, she veers off the trail, stumbling over roots in her urgency to get away from me.
Reaching out, I grab her around the waist right before she takes a tumble.
I pull her against my chest, securing her until she finds her footing.
Instead of thanking me from saving her from a painful fall, she shoves me away. But not before I see the tears streaming down her face.
My chest tightens painfully as I watch her cry. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She scoffs. “It’s nothing.”
As the tears slide down Ivy’s pale cheeks, I can’t help but think of my little girl, crying over piano lessons. My heart breaks for both of them.
“Please. Give me a chance.”
Finally, my pleas get through to Ivy. She pushes away from me but doesn’t run.
“You called me a circus.”
“What?”
“At Open House.” She narrows her eyes at me. “You said I was a circus.”
My brain whirs, trying to piece together the puzzle. “I never said that.”
Ivy balls her fists, and two bright spots color her cheeks. “I heard you plain as day.”
I try to think, but my brain is tangled. “I don’t know what you heard.”
“You were talking to another one of the parents and you said, ‘I don’t need this circus.’” She uses her fingers for air quotes, glaring at me.
Suddenly a light dawns in my memory, and my shoulders relax. “Oh, yeah!”
Her eyes harden. “You remember now.”
“But that’s not fair—”
“You’re right, Owen. It’s not fair. But neither is hearing someone you trusted talk about you like you’re a problem to manage.”
My brain fixates on the part where she said she trusted me. Past tense.
“You didn’t hear the whole conversation,” I say. “I wasn’t actually talking about you.”
“Yeah, right. Is there another ex-pop star mom in your class?”
“No.” I cringe just thinking about the nightmare of having Mrs. Kindle as room mom again . “But I am blessed with the biggest gossip in Starlight Bay as room mom for the second year running.”
Ivy blinks up at me, softening ever so slightly. “What?”
“Mrs. Kindle is insufferable. She’s the circus.”
“She is?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Ivy gives a snort of a laugh, but instead of her tears drying up, they increase, leaving wet tracks down her cheeks.
A heavy weight of sadness settles on my chest. I can’t stand to watch her cry. Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for her.
My arms wrap around her, pulling her close to my chest. She fits neatly, her head snug under my chin, her soft chest pressed to mine. I stroke her back, and she exhales deeply, her body shuddering.
I grit my teeth as her tears vibrate through her body, shaking both of us. My hands slide over her hair, skimming down her back.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to start over?” she asks finally.
My breath goes shallow, and tears burn in my eyes. “Yeah, I do.”
Ivy clings to me, her arms tight around my back. “It sucks.”
“It sucks so hard.” My voice catches.
Ivy pulls back to look at me, her expression tightening when she sees the tears in my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Remembered pain stabs my chest, and I pull in a sharp breath. “It’s not your fault.”
Ivy reaches up to cup my cheek, her thumb brushing away a tear.
It’s been ages since I’ve cried. I thought I was over Emily and her betrayal, but the hurt sneaks up out of nowhere sometimes. And Hannah being away only makes me feel more alone and vulnerable.
“Maybe we can learn to trust again,” Ivy says.
The heavy weight in my chest lightens, and I draw in a steady breath. I never dared to think I’d find someone I’d want to trust. But here she is right in front of me, watching me cry.
I should probably be embarrassed about my tears. Everything in my upbringing says they are unmanly. Soft.
But I don’t feel embarrassed in front of Ivy. Instead, I feel the strange, light billowing of hope.
Time stands still as we embrace in the woods, saying nothing but somehow saying everything. Who knows how long we stand there, comforting each other like two lost souls before the sharp sound of a whistle pierces the air.
We break apart and look toward the trail, where a camp counselor is glaring at us with an angry stare.