Chapter 3 Ivy
The phone rings at five-fifteen in the morning, dragging me from a wine-induced sleep that definitely wasn't long enough. My head pounds as I blindly pat around my nightstand, knocking over every crystal I own before my fingers finally close around it.
Unknown number.
I should let it go to voicemail. Normal people don't call at a godforsaken hour in the morning unless someone's dead or dying. But there's this annoying little whisper in the back of my mind, insisting someone needs help, and—
"Hello?"
"Don't hang up." The whisper is urgent, familiar. "It's me. Caleb."
I push myself up, squinting at my salt lamp's muted coral glow. "Why are you whispering?"
"Because I'm hiding in a bathroom." There's rustling on his end, like he's moving around in a small space. "Long story. Can you come get me?"
"Wait," I frown. "If you're calling from someone else's phone, how did you even know my number?"
"Oh, I've got the important ones memorized." He rattles them off without hesitation. "Cheesy Delights, Mom, and you."
My heart stumbles in my chest. "Good to know I rank with pizza delivery."
"Hey, those are my top three speed dials for emergencies." More rustling. "Food emergencies, mom emergencies, and . . . you know . . . Ivy emergencies."
"Can't you just call a taxi?"
"I would, but I have no wallet." More shuffling. "Please, Ivy. I need to get out of here. Like, now."
I sigh dramatically, throwing off the covers. "Where even are you?"
"So last night started normal, right? Drinks. Dancing. Izzy's very hot. Everything's fine."
"Wait, who's Izzy?" I pad down the hallway, trying not to trip over my own feet.
"Girl from the speed dating thing at Sunflower. Well, technically we matched on PairUp a while ago, but . . . anyway, not important. What's important is I need help."
"Where does the needing rescue come in?"
He takes a deep breath. "So, she's into rope stuff. Like serious rope stuff. Full setup. Diagrams. A whole-ass playlist. It was like walking into a sexy Home Depot situation."
I pass the guest room where Amelia's starfished on the sheets, one sock off, mouth open in a gentle snore. "Shibari?"
"You know what that is?" His whisper rises an octave. "Never mind. Yes. That. And like, I'm not kink shaming. You do you, right? I figured how bad could it be?"
"I'm guessing pretty bad?"
"Look, some people might be into getting tied up by strangers while drunk off their ass, but turns out I am not one of them." There's rustling, like he's shifting positions. "She had all these . . . implements. And a manual. A manual, Ivy."
"That's because it requires trust, you idiot." I navigate the disaster zone that is my living room—scattered bay leaves, half-eaten pizza, Amelia's shoes creating a drunken breadcrumb trail to the kitchen. Under my breath, I mutter, "Where do you even find these girls?"
"I heard that." More rustling. "And hey, how do you know so much about rope stuff? Is that what you're into? Because—"
"Finish that sentence and I'm hanging up."
"No, wait! Please! I panicked after she tied me up like some sacrifice! I had to fake feeling sick to get out. I've been in this bathroom for an hour. I can hear her snoring in her bedroom. Help me."
"Where am I picking you up?"
"Meet me outside the campus store?"
"A college girl, Caleb? Really?"
"Don't judge me and come get me, please."
I snag the gray hoodie from where it's been living on my reading chair for .
. . weeks? Months? It's Caleb's, mixed in with the steady rotation of his stuff that somehow always ends up here.
Phone chargers, basketball shorts, that one travel mug he's been "meaning to take home" since Christmas.
I pull the hoodie on, the familiar scent wrapping around me like a second skin.
"Give me twenty minutes," I sigh, grabbing my keys. "Try not to get yourself murdered before I get there."
"You're the best," he breathes out. "I'll buy you those fancy fortune cookies you like."
"Add it to your tab." I'm already closing my front door, muscle memory guiding me to my beat-up blue Beetle in the dark. The same car he's helped jump-start three times this winter. "Wait." My key hovers by the ignition. "Where's your car?"
"At O'Malley's." Another rustle, followed by what sounds like a shower curtain. "I was too drunk to drive. Being responsible."
"Wow. Character development." My car protests being woken up this early, the engine grinding before it catches. "Though next time, try being responsible before ending up in a stranger's bathroom?"
"I'm too hungover for sass." His whisper takes on a desperate edge. "Oh shit, I think she's up. I gotta go. Hurry."
The call drops, and I thunk my head against the steering wheel hard enough to make the protection charm hanging from my rearview mirror swing wildly. Dumbass. Complete and total dumbass. If I didn't love the idiot so much, I swear I'd leave him to deal with his own mess for once.
The streets of Hallow's End are glazed with that signature February frost, and I grip the steering wheel at exactly ten and two, grateful I stopped after two glasses of wine last night while Amelia polished off the bottle.
The drive to Brookside isn't long, only twenty minutes on a good day, but at five a.m. in this weather, I'm taking it slow.
A light dusting of snow starts falling as I pass the WELCOME TO brOOKSIDE sign, catching in the yellow glow of streetlights.
My reflection in the rearview mirror is about as tragic as you'd expect at this hour.
Messy blue hair thrown up in whatever this bun is trying to be, yesterday's mascara smudged under my eyes, and Caleb's oversized sweatshirt drowning me in gray cotton.
I lean forward, squinting through a patch of fog on the windshield, cursing under my breath as I navigate the frost covered roads toward the college campus.
My car's heater is fighting a losing battle against the bitter cold, and I make a mental note to take it to Price & Sons Auto Repair so James can look at it. Again.
I spot Caleb the moment I pull up to the campus store. He's hunched on a bench, arms wrapped around himself, looking like every bad decision from last night caught up with him at once. His golden curls are dusted with snow, and even in the dim pre-dawn light, I can see he's shivering in—no way.
"Is that . . ." I lean across to open the passenger door, choking back a laugh. "Are you wearing a 'Here for the Right Reasons' Bachelorette hoodie?"
"She said I couldn't leave without something warm.
" He dives into my car, his broad frame somehow managing to fold all that former-football-player bulk into my tiny passenger seat.
The hot pink fabric stretches across his chest in silent protest. "It was this or freeze to death.
Pretty sure she was trying to get rid of it. "
"It really brings out your eyes." I can't help but grin as he slumps lower.
"Just drive." He tugs the hood lower over his face, but not before I catch how his teeth are chattering. "Some friend you are, laughing at my suffering."
I crank the heat higher and dig through my center console, pulling out a protein bar and tossing it at his head. "Eat something before I slap you. You look like hell."
"You're an angel." He tears into the wrapper like he hasn't eaten in days. "A goddess. A—"
"If you're about to say 'fairy godmother,' I will actually leave you here."
He takes a huge bite, talking around it. "You wouldn't."
"Try me." I pull away from the curb, navigating through the snow-dusted streets. "What would you have done if I was busy? Maybe I had a date. It was Valentine's Day, after all."
"Did you?" The wrapper crinkles in his grip.
"Oh yeah, definitely." I grin. "Had to sneak out super quietly. Didn't want to wake him up, you know?"
The protein bar wrapper tears completely. When I glance over, his knuckles are white against the pink fabric of the hoodie, face a shade paler than his hangover already made it.
"Obviously not, or I wouldn't be here." I keep my eyes on the road while he exhales softly. "Some of us spent the night doing bay leaf manifestations with Amelia."
"Right." He picks at the wrapper, not eating anymore. "I mean, if you hadn't answered, I would've called my mom."
"And explain the Bachelor merch?"
"She'd probably be thrilled." He shifts in his seat, angling towards me. "At least it'd prove I'm trying to date." His eyes narrow slightly. "What exactly were you manifesting with those bay leaves? A better love life than mine?"
"None of your business." I say, very aware of how he's still watching me.
"Come on," he wheedles. "My night was clearly cursed. Maybe if I'd borrowed one of your protection charms . . ."
"That's not how it works and you know it." I answer, taking the turn towards Hallow's End a little too sharply. "Besides, you're twenty-six. How about we focus on why you're still this much of a disaster?"
"In my defense . . ." He pauses. "No, you're right. I have no defense."
The rest of the drive passes in comfortable silence as Caleb's head gradually droops against the window.
Soon, the quiet is broken only by his soft snores, and the rhythmic swish of windshield wipers fighting the snow.
I keep both hands firmly on the wheel, squinting through patches of early morning fog as we wind through familiar streets.
I nudge his shoulder when I pull up to his house. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You're home."
He startles awake with a grunt, blinking owlishly at his snow-covered front yard like he's not quite sure how he got here.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "You're always saving my ass. Bad dates, drunk calls, that time I needed a place to crash for two weeks when my heating broke." He scratches the back of his neck. "I don't deserve you."
"Oh please, like I wouldn't do this for anyone." I roll my eyes, but there's no heat in it. "Besides, you make up for it with free pizza and your mom's secret cookie recipe."
"That you had to bribe out of me with three shots of tequila." He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face me. "Still. You're always there. No questions asked, just . . . there."
"That's because I'm clearly the responsible one in this friendship."
"Breakfast later?" he asks, hopeful. "When I'm less likely to throw up and more likely to remember how to human?"
"Rain check. I have inventory to do at the shop." I wave him off. "Go sleep it off, Romeo."
He leans over and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. My heart stutters, heat flooding my cheeks. His lips curve into that familiar smirk as he pulls back. "Thanks for the rescue, Shorty."
"Text me when you're conscious," I manage.
He's already climbing out, the ridiculous pink hoodie a bright spot against the falling snow. "Yes ma'am," he calls over his shoulder and disappears inside.
My skin still tingles where his lips touched it, and I ruthlessly squash down the flutter in my stomach. It doesn't mean anything.
It never does.
Just another morning in the life of being Caleb Miller's best friend.