Chapter 43 Caleb
I've spent the last three days drafting apologies that sound rehearsed, insincere, and completely wrong. Every time I close my eyes, I see Ivy's face when I showed up at her door, thinking I could do this right. Before I panicked and torched everything because she started pulling away.
I've written seventeen different speeches since then. Practiced them in the shower, during deliveries, while staring at my ceiling at three a.m. Each one worse than the last. Because how do you apologize for being the world's biggest asshole?
The answer, apparently, is to fall back on what I know best—charm and deflection. Why face things head-on when you can joke your way through the apocalypse?
Because here's the thing—it's Ivy. Sweet, forgiving, sees-the-best-in-everyone Ivy. She'll be mad, obviously she's mad, but she'll forgive me. She has to. We both said horrible things we didn't mean. People say stupid shit in heat of the moment, but we'll be fine.
"This is pathetic," I mutter, adjusting my shirt for the fourth time.
You're gonna fix this, I tell myself, finally getting out of my car. You'll grovel, you'll beg, you'll do whatever it takes. And then everything goes back to normal.
Because it has to. Losing Ivy isn't an option, and I'll do anything to make this right.
Two hours later, I'm drowning in how spectacularly wrong I was.
Ivy's got this down to a science. Always standing out of reach, timing her turns so perfectly that my attempts to get close become awkward stumbles. Even when I deliberately take up space in her path, she flows around. No tension, no acknowledgment. Just . . . nothing.
This isn't angry Ivy. This is something else entirely. Something I've never seen before.
"Someone's been practicing their strikes," I try, watching her nail another perfect shot. "Though I remember a time when you couldn't even—"
"My turn!" Amelia cuts in, and I catch the tiniest eye-roll she tries to hide. But that's it—no death glare, no protective best friend speech. Which means either Ivy hasn't told them what happened, or she's so completely done with me that even her guard dogs don't see me as a threat anymore.
Not sure which option guts me more.
Somewhere between frames, I catch Daphne checking her phone again, worried crease between her brows hinting at more boyfriend drama.
But I can barely focus on my own spiral, let alone what has gotten into James.
This isn't how tonight was supposed to go.
Ivy's supposed to be upset, give me the cold shoulder for a few minutes, then let me apologize properly.
We're supposed to laugh about how stupid we both were, maybe make out a little to seal the deal.
This? This careful, polite distance? This isn't in the playbook.
Ivy's right there, laughing at Daphne's gutter ball like she hasn't spent the last decade memorizing all my jokes. Like she didn't used to do that little victory shimmy just for me—now performed for an audience that doesn't include whatever the hell I am anymore.
The game wraps up with plans for the festival floating around. Daphne's anxiety about James is practically radiating off her now, but I can't take another second of this carefully choreographed distance. Of Ivy acting like the last ten years meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
"Can we talk for a sec?" I grab her arm as she passes me.
For the first time all night, she looks at me. Her eyes are blank.
"You guys go ahead," she calls to Amelia and Daphne, not breaking eye contact. "We'll catch up."
We're standing by lane three, fluorescent lights casting shadows that make it all seem a little too real. The steady thump of bowling balls fades to white noise, and suddenly I can't remember any of those perfectly crafted apologies I've been rehearsing.
"I had this whole speech planned," I start, aiming for easy charm that's gotten me through a thousand awkward moments. "Probably would've made you laugh."
"Stop." The word cuts clean through the space between us. "If you're here to charm your way out of this like you always do, save it. I can't do this anymore."
My stomach drops. "Ivy—"
"Do you know what it's like? Loving someone who treats you as their backup plan?"
The question lands with the sting of a slap. "That's not what you were."
"No? Then what was I? Your safe place between hookups? Your guaranteed yes when everyone else said no?" Her voice stays steady, controlled. "I spent ten years waiting for you to see me. Really see me. Not just when you were lonely or scared or needed someone to remind you that you mattered."
She's right. I've spent all that time treating her heart like a rest stop. Somewhere safe to pull over when the world got too heavy, never thinking about what it cost her to keep the lights on.
"I see you now."
"Now?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "When I'm walking away. When you finally realize your safety net might disappear."
"I have feelings for you." The words tumble out desperately. "Real ones. That night wasn't—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand, and I notice it shaking. "You don't get to say that now. Not when you only realized it was real after you broke it."
"I panicked."
"And that's supposed to make it better?" Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the tears gathering in them. "That you deliberately hurt me because you were scared I might hurt you first?"
"No, I—" I step forward, but she moves back. "I'm sorry for what I said, but this thing between us—"
"What thing, Caleb?" The softness of her voice devastates me. "The one where I convince myself that if I'm enough for you to love me back?"
"I do love you." The words rip out of me. "I've always—"
"Stop." She doesn't yell it. Just looks at me with eyes that have finally stopped hoping. "You don't love me, Caleb. You love how I make you feel."
"That's not . . ." My voice breaks. "I'll prove it to you. I'll show you I can be better. I'll earn your trust back. Just tell me how to fix this."
"That's the thing." Her smile wobbles, and it's worse than tears. "I don't need you to prove anything to me. If you want to grow, to change, to finally face whatever you're running from . . . do it for yourself. Not for me. I'm done waiting."
My chest caves in. "Ivy, please. I know I fucked up, but we can fix this. We can—"
"We can't." She wipes her eyes. "I'm sorry for what I said to you that night.
I became someone I didn't recognize. Someone cruel.
Some of it might have been true, but the way I used your insecurities to hurt you was wrong.
I've spent my whole life trying to be kind, to lift others up, and instead I turned into someone who tears people down. "
"I'm sorry too," I say quietly. "For what I said about you. I didn't mean it."
Something shifts in her expression, and for a second, I see her waver. Her eyes soften, and I catch the smallest intake of breath.
Hope flares dangerous and bright in my chest. "So we're good?"
"No." The single word destroys me. "We're not good. We're not enemies, but we're not . . . whatever we were before."
My throat closes. "So that's it? We're done?"
"I need boundaries, Caleb." She says it gently, like she's letting me down easy.
"Ten years of us and we're just . . . done?"
Before she can answer, the door bursts open. Amelia stumbles in, face pale, phone clutched in her hand.
"It's James. He's at the hospital." Her voice shakes.
"What? What happened?"
"His mom had surgery, but that's not—" Amelia swallows hard. "Brodie texted me. James is being admitted."
"What do you mean, admitted?" Ivy steps forward, her hand unconsciously reaching for mine before she catches herself. The almost-touch burns worse than if she'd actually made contact. "Is he okay?"
"I don't know." Amelia's eyes are wide, scared. "Brodie said it was bad."
"Caleb?" Ivy's voice breaks through the static in my head. "We should go."
And there it is. That soft concern I don't deserve. Even now, even after everything, she still cares. Still shows up.
"Yeah." I force my legs to move. "Let's go."
We leave the bowling alley behind, the conversation unfinished, the wounds still raw. But somehow, watching Ivy slide into Amelia's car instead of mine feels like the real ending.
Maybe some breaks are meant to stay broken.