Chapter 42 Ivy
"I slept with Caleb," I blurt out, immediately face-planting into the sticky table because apparently, that's where my dignity has taken up permanent residence.
"I'm sorry, you did what with who now?" Amelia's voice hits that perfect pitch between shock and unholy glee.
My heart pounds as I craft the lie. The mediocre hookup story. The casual brush-off. Anything to hide how he'd demolished my world two nights ago.
"Don't make me say it again." I keep my face glued to the table, because lying isn't my strong suit, and I really don't want to see their expressions right now.
"He showed up at my place with this pizza I didn't even order, talking about how his 'delivery intuition' said I needed it.
And he was right, which was somehow worse, and then. " I groan. "The sex wasn't even good."
And that part isn't a lie. Because it was terrible. Not the awkward, funny kind of terrible, but the hollow, soul-splitting kind. I was just lying there, waiting for it to be over, watching him chase something that had nothing to do with me.
"Oh, babe." Amelia's sympathy makes me want to throw up, or cry, or maybe both.
"That's not even the worst part." I trace patterns on the sticky table. "Afterward, he made this comment about all my 'weird witchy stuff' being a bit much. About how I should focus more on reality instead of looking for signs in everything. Maybe he had a point."
Twenty minutes later, I'm alone in our booth, staring at the ice melting in my glass. Amelia's gone to hunt down Daphne, who's been in the bathroom long enough that she's definitely drunk-calling James.
"SHOTS!" Amelia crashes back into view, dragging a slightly stumbling Daphne. "Because you—" she jabs a perfectly manicured finger at my face, nearly taking out an eye, "—are doing that thing where you overthink your way into emotional paralysis."
"I'm not overthinking. I'm processing."
"Semantics." Daphne collapses into the booth, lipstick slightly smudged, and hiding her phone under the table. "And processing is canceled until further notice because I can't handle any more emotional revelations tonight."
"Here." Amelia sets down a row of something that glows like radioactive candy. "Joey promised they'd kill at least three brain cells."
"Perfect." I grab one, because apparently my dignity died somewhere between confession and contemplation. "To bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms!"
"To hot girl shit!" Amelia adds with disturbing enthusiasm, and we throw back shots that taste like regret dipped in sugar.
Britney Spears starts playing overhead, and Amelia's eyes light.
"THIS IS MY THEME SONG!"
"You say that about every track," Daphne laughs, but she's already sliding out of the booth, pulling me with her.
"Because every single one is about ME," Amelia declares.
"Joey!" I call out during a brief water break, leaning over the bar with what I hope is charm but probably screams dehydration. "Do you have emergency rations? Like, emergency bar snacks? For emergencies?"
He looks up from polishing glasses, his weathered face creasing with amusement. "What kind of emergency we talking about, sweetheart?"
"The kind where I might die if I don't get something salty right now?" I bat my eyelashes, which works better when I'm not seeing two of him.
He slides over a bowl of pretzels.
"Joey," I declare, already shoving them in my mouth with zero dignity, "I love you."
The night blurs into a kaleidoscope of moments.
Amelia teaching some college girls her signature dance move (which is aggressive hair flipping), Daphne trying to convince Joey to let her bartend—"one drink, I swear, I watched a YouTube tutorial!
", and me talking absolute nonsense to everyone at the bar.
I miss Vinnie. She'd know exactly what to say right now to make me forget all about Caleb Miller.
"Bathroom break!" Daphne announces, grabbing both our hands.
I stare at my reflection while Amelia fixes her lipstick and Daphne fusses with her top. There's a kind of grief in my eyes that only shows up after you stop waiting for someone to change. It doesn't scream. It just settles, quiet and heavy, in your bones.
"Your eyeliner's smudged," Daphne says, reaching for my face with that scary accuracy only drunk girls possess. "Here, let me—"
"I lied before."
The words crash into our tiny bathroom sanctuary. Daphne's hand freezes mid-air. Amelia's lipstick veers off course, leaving a perfect red streak past her mouth.
"What?" Daphne whispers.
"About me and Caleb. It wasn't just some awkward hookup." My voice cracks. "We kissed at the wedding, and I've been in love with him for so long that I thought . . ." A sob catches in my throat.
"Ivy." Amelia's voice goes soft. "We kind of knew. About the being in love part, not the wedding kiss. You look at him like he hung the moon, even when he's being an absolute trash panda."
"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Daphne asks, her hands finding mine across the sinks.
"Because you were happy," I interrupt, the words spilling out now that the dam's broken. "You came in talking about James, and how everything felt so perfect and I just . . . I couldn't be the one to bring storm clouds to your sunshine."
"Fuck that." Amelia's voice turns deadly as she wipes away her wayward lipstick. "I'm going to kill him. Not metaphorically. Like, actual premeditated murder. I've watched enough true crime to know how to hide a body."
"You'll get arrested."
"Worth it." She grips my shoulders, her gaze fierce. "And honestly? I already have a plan involving his delivery routes and some very creative use of pizza toppings."
"Pretty sure assault isn't the answer."
"But what about tomorrow?" Daphne asks, already reaching into her purse for tissues. "You're still coming to bowling, right?"
"Yeah." I dab under my eyes. "I'll show up and give him exactly what he deserves—absolutely nothing."
"You think you can pull that off?" Amelia arches an eyebrow.
"I have to. He'll do his usual routine; act like nothing happened, crack some dumb joke about it. But this time?" My voice steadies. "I'm not playing along."
"I could always aim for his toes when I'm releasing my ball," Amelia muses.
"No." I grab their hands, forming our own drunk-girl triangle of trust. "I need you both to promise me something."
They wait, swaying slightly in their heels.
"Don't make it weird. Don't start shit. Don't . . ." I exhale. "Don't turn this into some epic showdown. Please?"
"Look at you, all grown up and handling things like an adult," Daphne says, squeezing my fingers.
"I respect the high road approach," Amelia starts, then tilts her head. "But you're really telling me you don't want me to throw hands? Just a little? One tiny punch?"
"I'm positive." This time, my laugh is real. "But thanks for being willing to risk jail for my honor."
"Anything for you, babe. Even a criminal record."
"Oh my god, that shirt is everything!" A girl crashes into our circle, eyes wide with drunk appreciation for Amelia's vintage tee. "Where—"
"Emergency group hug!" Daphne yanks her in. "We're bonding!"
"I fucking love bonding!" The stranger engulfs us in a peach schnapps-scented hug, spilling half her drink down my spine.
"Okay!" Amelia steps away, eyes gleaming.
"New plan. We're hitting that dance floor until Joey cuts us off.
And when the sun comes up?" She grips my shoulders.
"You're going to remind Caleb Miller exactly what he let slip through his fingers.
No drama. No revenge. Just pure, radiant indifference that'll make him choke on it. "
"To being unbothered!" Our new bestie shouts, clearly operating on a different frequency but loving every second.
"To being unbothered," I echo, letting them tug me toward the bar.
The pain will come back tomorrow. But right now, I have my girls, another round of shots, and Beyoncé telling me to put my hands up.
And sometimes that's all you really need.