35. Ivy
IVY
I don’t knock. I just buzz Sienna’s building at some obscene hour and climb the stairs with my heart in pieces, each step a hollow echo of everything I’m afraid to admit.
The city outside is hushed, but inside me, everything screams. My hands shake as I press the buzzer.
The metal door groans when it swings open.
When she opens the door, she doesn’t ask questions.
She’s barefoot, bleary-eyed, wearing a paint-splattered tee and an oversized cardigan that slips off one shoulder.
Her face is soft with sleep, but her eyes sharpen the second they meet mine.
She steps aside, lets me in, and locks the door behind us.
Her apartment is exactly what I need, vibrant, chaotic, fully alive.
The scent of roasted coffee, turpentine, old books, and citrus oil clings to the warm air like a lived-in story.
Canvases lean against the walls like half-finished thoughts, some brilliant, some quietly waiting.
Unframed sketches sit beside mugs full of brushes.
Strands of fairy lights glow low over the windows, and a cracked bulb over the stove casts long golden streaks across the hardwood floor like sunlight caught in amber.
It’s the kind of place that welcomes mess.
But tonight, I feel like a crack even this space can’t carry.
I feel like something brittle and breaking.
Sienna disappears into the kitchen and returns with a blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon. She drapes it over my shoulders like she’s done it a hundred times, her fingers brushing my skin, warm and grounding.
“You don’t have to explain,” she says, voice low and rough with sleep. “But if you need to throw something, aim for the pillows. I hate them.”
I collapse onto her couch, fists clenched in the folds of the blanket.
The cushions dip and hold me like a memory.
The words spill out in broken fragments, unpolished, vulnerable.
I tell her Jack said he had a work call.
That the timing didn’t add up. That the woman she saw with him felt too familiar, too close.
That I ran because I’ve been here before and didn’t want to be here again.
The words drag across my throat like sandpaper.
She listens like it’s a muscle memory. Her eyes don’t flicker away, even once. She holds my gaze the way only someone who knows how to survive can.
When I finish, she pours a splash of whiskey into a chipped teacup and presses it into my hands. It’s still warm from her palms, and the ceramic bites into my fingers with a grounding kind of heat.
“Men lie,” she says simply. “And I wish I could tell you Jack isn’t one of them. But I only saw a flash. A woman. A smile. His hand on her back. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything. I don’t know. But you should.”
***
Now it’s morning. The espresso machine groans as Sienna slaps it to life.
I stand barefoot in the kitchen, mug in hand, the ceramic warm against my palms, watching the city pulse outside, indifferent, endless.
The world outside doesn’t wait. It just turns.
But I feel still, suspended. I haven’t checked my phone since last night.
I can’t decide which would hurt more, seeing Jack’s name or seeing nothing at all.
Sienna leans against the wall, hair twisted on top of her head, a blazer thrown over gym shorts like she’s daring someone to question her choices. She sips from a mismatched mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST MUSE.
“You going to talk to him today?” she asks, voice casual but curious.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
She lifts a brow. “Then why are you wearing lip gloss?”
I glance down, laugh once, sharp. “I think I want to go.”
She straightens. “Now?”
I nod. “Will you come?”
“Obviously.”
***
Ten minutes later, we’re in a cab. I rest my forehead against the cool glass while the city rushes past in streaks of yellow, chrome, and motion-blur.
Horns blare like declarations. Crosswalk signs blink.
A delivery bike zips between cars. I barely speak.
I don’t need to. Sienna holds the silence for both of us.
The doorman at Jack’s building gives me a knowing nod and waves us through.
The elevator hums. My heart trips as the numbers light up, one by one.
The walls close in with anticipation. When we reach his floor, I walk the familiar hallway with Sienna beside me, my pulse loud in my ears.
I stop at the door. I knock. The door opens almost immediately.
Jack stands there. He’s not a wreck. He’s not surprised. He’s just Jack, hair damp from a shower, a navy sweater clinging to his frame, sleeves rolled. His eyes hit mine, and in the same breath, he steps forward and pulls me into his arms like he never meant to let go. There’s no hesitation.
His hand slides around the back of my neck, the other to my waist. Then he kisses me. Like it’s instinct. Like he hasn’t thought of anything else since I left. The world blurs at the edges.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I knocked next door. I called. I didn’t know where you went.”
Before I can respond, someone appears behind him. A woman. Tailored navy trousers, a crisp ivory blouse, leather portfolio tucked under one arm. She pauses mid-step when she sees us at the door.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she says gently, caught off guard.
Sienna’s eyes narrow beside me. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Jack turns halfway. “Ivy… listen to me. She’s not…”
“You said you had a call,” I say. “Then you disappeared. Then she shows up.”
The woman lifts her hand with calm professionalism. “I should probably give you two a minute.”
My phone buzzes. Julian. I swipe to answer. “Julian?”
“Ivy, I found her,” he says. “The woman Jack was meeting. Her name is Margot Klein. She’s a wedding planner.”
I go still. “A what?”
“She’s a planner. Jack hired her to help with something. She’s married. This wasn’t anything shady, I promise.”
I look up at Jack.
“I was trying to surprise you,” he says softly. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
The woman, Margot, nods once. “Sorry for the confusion,” she says to me. “And for the bad timing.” She walks past us and down the hallway, her heels clicking like punctuation.
Jack doesn’t move. He just looks at me. Then, slowly, he sinks to one knee.
Right there, in the middle of the hallway where everything started to come undone.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black box.
Flips it open. The ring inside catches the light, simple, stunning, and so unmistakably us. My breath hitches.
Sienna doesn’t speak, but I feel her step back. She gives us space. Jack’s voice is soft, but it carries like thunder in my chest.
“I love you,” he says, steady and raw. “I didn’t plan to do this like this. I wanted candles. Maybe flowers. Something worthy of you. But I’ve carried this ring for weeks, hoping for a moment. A real one. And this is it. You showing up. You still choosing me, even when you didn’t have to.”
He takes a breath, and I swear I can feel it echo inside me.
“I don’t need perfect,” he says. “I just need you. I want the chaos. The truth. The hard conversations. The fights and the making up. I want all of it, with you. So, marry me, Ivy.”
The air shifts. The hallway holds its breath.
The ring sparkles. The elevator hum behind me.
The warmth of sunlight filtering through the hallway window.
But mostly, I feel this. Us. And I realize, it was never Margot.
It was never about another woman. It was fear.
Fear of believing in something that might not last. Fear of being wrong again. But right now, none of that matters.
I reach out slowly and touch the edge of the ring box with trembling fingers.
And then I do something I haven’t done in weeks.
I smile. Because even after all of it, the panic, the spiral, this man still loves me like I’m his beginning, not his consequence.
And this time, I’m ready to love him back the same way.
“I love you,” I whisper, voice thick. “And yes. God, yes.”
He exhales like the answer has stitched him back together. And when he kisses me again, slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that makes you forget everything but the person holding you, I kiss him back with everything I am.
Sienna clears her throat behind us, but I barely hear her. Because in this hallway, between everything we’ve been and everything we still might be, I said yes. And I meant it. I’m not running anymore.