Wildly Ivy Chapter 1
Wildly Ivy
My ex-fiancé walks out the front door holding hands with my sister-in-law.
He was the man I had imagined sharing a fairy-tale-perfect future with. The future that, since I was a little girl, the world told me adulthood looked like. Marriage. Babies. The house in the suburbs.
I should be in tears, right? But my eyes are dry.
Maybe that future wasn’t what I wanted after all.
As the door shuts, a gust of cold wind whips through the room, jangling the Christmas tree ornaments, threatening to send them crashing to the ground—wistful angels crocheted by tiny fingers and glass ornaments filled with holiday ribbons from long ago.
Remnants of when life was simple, when solutions to problems were easy.
Nothing is simple now.
What started like so many recent Christmas mornings, with awkward glances and everyone pretending not to notice the thing burning between James and Sydney, finally exploded.
My question—
Sydney’s confirmation—
Mason’s confrontation—
My parents huddle around Mason, speaking in hushed, serious tones.
Tom has pulled Jules into a corner, wrapping his arms around her as she wavers between anger and tears, ready to tear into Mason the minute my parents release him.
Sydney is her closest friend. And she didn’t hold back, revealing the truly horrid way Mason had been treating her.
I stand apart from it all, watching my family fracture in real time. Everyone choosing sides, processing shock, dealing with their own guilt about what they missed.
A laugh escapes me before I swallow it down. This is so absurd. The whole spectacle. Really, I’m so damn tired of swallowing down my thoughts and feelings.
Years of private tears and silent assumptions led to the moment when I couldn’t keep it in any longer.
I had been watching them fall in love. And this morning, I asked.
Breaking the unwritten rule that we somehow all agreed to follow.
Don’t name it. Don’t ask the question you don’t want the answer to.
Ignoring it meant our worlds wouldn’t be rocked. We wouldn’t have to address the real issues.
“Ivy…” Jules’s voice comes out soft, cautious. It makes my skin crawl. She walks toward me now. “You don’t have to do this. You’re allowed to be upset.”
I tilt my head, raise an eyebrow. “Jules, it’s not like you to pull your punches. Don’t handle me with kid gloves. I’m fine.”
Looking around, I realize everyone expected me to break, to dissolve into mascara-streaked tears. Possibly reenact my breakdown after the cancelled wedding. It wasn’t my finest moment. But honestly?
This morning, I watched Sydney—a woman that I’ve admired and been in awe of since I first met her—look us each in the eye, even her husband, and basically say: Fuck it, I'm done living someone else’s life.
Maybe it’s time I did the same.
"This is your fault," Mason says, pointing at me. "You couldn't just leave it alone."
“Fuck off, Mason. I can’t deal with you right now,” Jules says, stepping in front of me. Her face is set in stone.
"Of course you're defending them. Your perfect little bestie gets to blow up my family and walk away while I'm the villain." His voice cracks slightly on the last word.
“Mason, you need to stop right now. Our conversation is not over and this isn’t helping.” Dad wraps a hand around Mason’s shoulder. “Let’s go to the basement.”
Mason finally has the sense to drop his eyes to the floor and follow Dad.
“I’m going to take Beck and Leo to the skating rink for a while.” Tom kisses Jules on the cheek. “You okay?”
She nods and turns the full force of her gaze on me.
Jules, ten years older, cast herself as my third parent the moment I was born.
My actual parents, who spent most of my childhood in full-on “bonus round” parenting mode, were softer, more indulgent.
For years, I was the center of attention by default, not because I demanded it, but because I was the last one left at home.
Jules exchanges a look with our mom, the kind that makes me feel about seven years old. My sister, half chaos master and half family therapist, walks to the kitchen and comes back with the coffee pot and bottles of whiskey and Baileys.
"Enough bullshit,” she says, then sets to work refilling our mugs with something strong enough to have this out. “You don’t have to pretend to be fine. I’m so sick of that word.”
“No.” My voice comes out steady. “What’s hitting me isn’t them. It’s me. Why did I stay when I knew, when I felt it every time he looked at her?”
“There’s no guidebook for this, honey. No right or wrong way to figure out what comes next. Whatever you decide, we’re here.” Mom reaches forward to grab my hand.
I let out a slow breath, my voice quieter now.
“I kept thinking… if I could just be more polished. The kind of woman I thought he wanted, then maybe he’d look at me the way Dad looks at you, Mom.
Or the way Tom looks at you, Jules. I wanted that kind of love so badly.
I thought that was what I needed to make life start. ”
They both start to speak, but I lift a hand, stopping them.
“Wait, let me just get this out.” Because now that I’ve started, the truth won’t let go. “I ignored every instinct screaming that something was wrong. I twisted myself into someone I wasn’t. And for the past year, I’ve just been stuck. That’s what I can’t forgive. Not him. Me.”
Jules leans in, her voice fierce and sure. “Listen to me. The real Ivy, the one who laughs like a hyena and creates dirty Christmas carols, is way more lovable than the Stepford act you put on the last few years. I miss her too.”
“God, and it wasn’t like he asked me to do it. It was all me. Like I couldn’t accept he would be with me, the real me.”
“Life isn’t about not making mistakes. It’s about learning from them.” Jules arches an eyebrow, taunting me to contradict her.
“Well, this was one big fucking mistake.” I throw my hands in the air, then catch the look on my mom’s face. “Sorry, Mom. But I think this deserves a ‘fucking’ attached to it.”
“I don’t want to sound callous, but you’re handling this surprisingly well. Do you think you didn’t really love him?” Mom asks, tilting her head to really look at me.
“I think… I loved the idea of him.”
Mom squeezes my hand, there’s no judgment in her eyes, just understanding. “At least now you'll know the difference when real love comes along.”
“No love for me. I need… a break from relationships. Maybe just have some fun for a bit. Get out of Boston. Be on my own.”
“Ives, I’m here for whatever you want. If it wasn’t Christmas, I’d offer to take you down to the tavern for a night out, but if you want to get drunk, I’m here for it.
We have plenty of booze," Jules says. "If you need to scream, ugly-cry, throw a fucking ham at the wall, I’m all in. Just tell me what you need.”
A laugh barks out, loud and uncontrolled. “Tempting, but I have a better idea.” I grab the remote from the sectional and pull up HBO. “How about an Eras Tour singalong marathon? I could use some Taylor energy right now.”
“Fuck. Yes!” Jules pumps her fist into the air, like we've just declared war.
“You girls have fun. My old bones won’t be able to keep up and I need to finish talking with your brother.” Mom pulls me into a tight hug, then heads toward the basement, carrying the weight of everything in her slow, careful steps.
Never one to let a moment simmer too long, Jules snatches a champagne bottle from the fridge and pops it with theatrical flair. The cork ricochets off a cabinet. “This one’s for Ivy Fucking Wallis, officially stepping into her Reputation Era.”
After several Eras and a lot of questionable choreography, I spin dramatically, my throw blanket billowing around me like a witch’s cloak.
“You know what? Taylor is officially my spirit guide. This whole tour? It’s the ultimate fuck-you anthem to every man who ever underestimated her.
Fuck you, Joe. Fuck you, James. Fuck you, to the man! ”
“Ohhh yeah,” Jules cackles. “And don’t forget her best revenge, finding herself a football stallion. Maybe you need your own NFL rebound?”
“Right. Like there’s some emotionally evolved football player just waiting for me.”
Jules clinks her glass against mine. “Babe, we’re manifesting. You never know.”
I fling my arms upward, half-drunk and fully outraged. “Two years, Jules. It's been two years since anyone’s touched me below the neck. I’m basically a nun. Who stays engaged to a man who won’t touch her? God, I’m so pathetic.”
“Forget him, Ives. You need to clear out the cobwebs ASAP. Book a vacation with a side of dick delivery service.”
“Do they list that in the amenities? ‘Ocean view, bottomless mimosas, complimentary penis’?”
Jules pounds her fist on the cushion, laughing so hard she’s wheezing. “Five stars, would highly recommend!”
Before I can second-guess my liquid courage, I grab my phone. Outside, snow gently blankets the cabin, but on my screen, another world unfolds: one filled with turquoise water, sun-drenched beaches, and infinity pools practically begging for me.
The Book Now button flashes red, daring me to hesitate. For a moment, I do.
Jules leans over my shoulder, whispering encouragement like the bad-influence fairy godmother she’s always been. “Do it. For the cobwebs. For yourself.”
I slam my finger down. “I’m going to Cabo!”
The earliest availability is ten days away, an eternity and a heartbeat all at once. Cabo isn’t just a vacation. It’s a siren call. A pull I can’t name, toward a version of me I haven’t met yet. It’s time to burn the perfect-Ivy playbook and finally step into the daylight.