Chapter 45 Ivy
A week can change everything and nothing at all. Mid-July heat shimmers off the pavement as Amelia loops her arm through mine, and there have been no calls, no messages from Caleb. It shouldn't surprise me. He's always been good at avoiding. Still, I thought this time might be different.
"If you check your phone one more time, I'm throwing it in traffic." Amelia steers me around a couple making out against Brookside Books' window display. "That's the eighth check in ten minutes. I'm starting to worry about repetitive stress injury."
"I wasn't—"
"Save it." She tugs me closer, her voice softening. "Today is about my pre-birthday crisis, because after everything with James, an actual celebration feels . . ." She trails off, swallowing hard, "wrong. Like tempting fate, or something equally stupid and superstitious."
"Your birthday's not for another week," I point out, but she waves this off with her free hand.
"Tell that to my existential dread." She attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Besides, nothing says emotional stability like getting a spine tattoo."
The Black Rose sign comes into view, its thorned lettering from Brodie's artwork casting elegant shadows in the morning light.
New tattoos cover the exposed brick—everything from bold sailor pieces to finely detailed Japanese work.
A massive dragon wraps around one corner, its scales shifting from traditional to neo-traditional, while geometric patterns float beneath it like modern constellations.
The door chimes as we enter, and Marcus glances up from where he's perched on the reception desk. His styled chestnut hair falls just so over one eye.
"Uh-oh, birthday tattoo?" His grin turns wicked. "That's how I ended up with a crying sun on my butt."
"Please tell me you're joking,"
"A gentleman never tells. But Mia has pictures."
I'm about to respond when something catches my eye—a hot pink fluffy pillow nestled among the leather cushions of the waiting area couch. Next to it, looking hilariously out of place, sits a Cliffside Sunrise Yankee Candle.
"Don't ask about the pillow," Marcus stage-whispers, catching my confused glance. "Mia and I have a running bet on how long before Brodie notices. She says a week. I give it till Thursday."
A delighted squeal interrupts our conspiracy as Mia appears from the back room.
Her red hair catches the light like copper wire, framing a face dusted with freckles.
Today she's wearing a dress of pale blue tulle, soft layers floating around her tiny frame, paired incongruously with silver glitter-covered boots.
Everything about her radiates joy, from her bouncing steps to the way she practically dances across the floor.
"Finally!" She launches herself at Amelia. "I've been practicing that design all week." She pulls out her sketch pad, filled with variations of the koi fish pattern she'd chosen. "I even did some on oranges to get the curve right."
"Mia." Brodie's voice carries from his station, where he's setting up with military precision. But I notice the way his gaze softens on her, how he's already shifted everything to the perfect height for her small frame. "What did we say about tackling clients?"
"That it's only okay if they're ready?" She grins, unrepentant. "And Amelia's basically always ready. Right?"
"For you? Without question." Amelia returns her hug with equal force. "Though I'm still not convinced about letting you near me with needles."
"Actually," Brodie cuts in. "She's doing the outline. Her line work's cleaner than half the artists I've trained. That is if she can keep her hands that steady while bouncing around like a sugar-high pixie."
"Are you sure?" Mia's eyes go wide. "But you said—"
"I said when you were ready," Brodie cuts her off. "And after seeing those practice pieces yesterday . . ." He trails off, focusing intently on arranging his machines, but we all catch the slight smile he tries to hide.
I settle into the spare seat next to the tattoo chair. Everything here has its place. The machines lined up by size, ink caps organized by shade, even his reference sketches perfectly aligned.
"I've got the perfect playlist!" Mia announces, twirling toward the sound system. "I call it 'Songs to Get Stabbed To: The Gentle Edition.'"
"The gentle edition?" I ask. "As opposed to what, exactly?"
"Oh, you don't want to know about Murder Hours," Marcus chimes in. "That's strictly reserved for chest pieces, and angry exes getting cover-ups."
"Stop hovering and sit down," Brodie tells Marcus, who's circling the station. "You're making me nervous."
"Why does your setup look like a medieval torture device?" Amelia shrugs off her jacket, eyeing the chair.
"Because I'm about to tattoo a professional whiner."
"Excuse me? I am a customer. Show some respect."
"Drama queen." Brodie adjusts the chair's height with practiced efficiency.
Marcus and Mia exchange delighted looks. "He's just cranky you're not letting him freestyle a skull with angel wings," Marcus calls out, ducking the towel Brodie throws at his head.
"And you're absolutely sure about this?" I ask Amelia. "Because as your best friend, I feel obligated to remind you that you once cried getting your ear pierced."
"That was different," she protests, shifting on the chair. "I was sixteen and did it with a safety pin at home."
"You did what?" Brodie's head snaps up.
"In my defense," Amelia grins, "I was going through my rebellious phase. Also, I had excellent technique."
"It's true," I confirm.
"Okay." Brodie gestures to the chair. "Let's get the stencil on and—Jesus Christ, Amelia!" He spins around as she casually strips off her top, dropping it on the nearby counter. "Could've waited for the privacy screen."
"Please," she settles onto the chair, all confidence and casual grace. "Like you haven't seen your fair share of skin. Don't be dramatic."
"It's called professional courtesy," he mutters, still facing the wall while Mia laughs.
"Since when are you proper?" Amelia teases, then lets out a small gasp as Mia's cold hands touch her skin. "Warning next time!"
"Sorry!" Mia grins, reaching for the stencil. "Okay, hold still. This is going to feel weird, and cold."
She carefully positions the transfer paper against Amelia's spine, smoothing it down.
"The trick is getting it perfectly centered," she murmurs, tongue poking out in concentration as she works from top to bottom.
"Brodie taught me to use the spine as my guideline, but you have to account for how people naturally sit . . ."
When she peels the paper away, the purple outline of two koi fish appears on Amelia's skin, their tails flowing into delicate spirals.
"Brodie, come check the placement?"
He moves behind her. "See how the top koi aligns with her shoulder blade? That's exactly what we want. The flow is perfect."
Mia glows under the praise.
"Okay, show me what you've got."
The needle buzzes to life in Mia's hand. "Ready?"
Amelia's fingers find mine, squeezing tight. "If I pass out—"
"You won't," I assure her.
The first touch of the needle makes Amelia jump. "Holy mother of—this is fine. This is totally fine. I am zen. I am—ow!"
"Breathe," Brodie instructs. "And stop moving, unless you want this koi fish to look like it's having a stroke."
I watch the design take shape. It's beautiful, even half-finished, and with Amelia threatening creative violence every few minutes.
The next hour passes in waves of needle buzzing and gentle teasing. Mia proves to be as precise as Brodie promised, her small hands adding delicate details while he works on the broader strokes.
"Almost done," Brodie announces, and I realize I've been so lost in watching the process that I've forgotten to check my phone. Progress, maybe.
"Thank God," Amelia sighs. "My spine feels like it's been through a meat grinder, but like, a really artistic one."
"It's not that bad," Brodie mutters. He's been quiet for the last twenty minutes, sneaking glances my way whenever he thinks my attention's elsewhere.
"Okay," Amelia says as Mia starts the final cleanup. "What is it? You've been weird all day. Did I unknowingly ask for a tramp stamp? Is there a skull hidden in there somewhere?"
Brodie's hands still and he sighs. "Caleb's gone."
"What do you mean gone?" Amelia twists in her chair, wincing as the movement pulls at her fresh tattoo.
I catch Mia trying not to eavesdrop. She keeps shooting me soft, sympathetic looks that make my skin crawl. I don't need anyone's pity, especially not over this.
"He left last night." Brodie still won't look at me. "Took that job in Boston. The gaming company thing."
Something inside me goes very quiet. After all, I'm the one who asked for boundaries. I just didn't expect him to build a whole city between us.
"Boston?" The word falls from my lips, barely a whisper.
"Leaving without a word. How very on-brand," Amelia snaps, trying to sit up before Mia gently pushes her back down.
"Look," Brodie finally meets my eyes. "He's trying. He needed this. You know he did."
And that's the worst of it—I do. Some small, infuriating part of me is even proud of him for finally taking a chance, for choosing growth over comfort. But that voice is being drowned out by the one screaming I deserved more than a secondhand goodbye.
"Yeah. No, it's fine." I'm impressed by how steady I sound. "He should've told me himself, though."
"Ivy—" Amelia starts, but I cut her off.
"I'm fine. Really. If Caleb wants to pretend I don't exist anymore, that's fine. I can return the favor." I grab my bag, needing to escape before their sympathy suffocates me, "I should go."
"But what about lunch?" Amelia protests. "We were all going to that new Mexican place after this."
"You can't bail on tacos! I was looking forward to watching you devour your weight in guacamole." Marcus protests.
"Rain check," I say, already backing toward the door. "I just remembered I have inventory to finish."
"On your day off?" Mia's eyebrows shoot up.
I freeze, suddenly remembering I drove Amelia here. My escape plan hits a wall.
Marcus steps forward, his eyes full of gentle understanding. "Hey, I can drive Amelia back after lunch. If you need to go, it's fine." His voice is so soft, so kind, that tears threaten anyway.
"I'll come by later," Amelia calls out. "We can get drunk and not talk about feelings."
"Don't bother." The words come out shaky, my voice threatening to break. "I mean, you should rest, and you can't drink. New tattoo, and all." I can feel the pressure building behind my eyes, the tightness in my throat that means I have about thirty seconds before I completely fall apart.
"Ivy." Brodie's voice stops me at the door. "He did want to—"
"Don't." I cut him off. My fingers curl so tight around the strap of my bag, I swear I hear the leather creak. "Whatever excuse you're about to make for him? Save it."
I'm staring at my bedroom ceiling at two a.m., Salem purring against my ribs, when I remember Bali is twelve hours ahead. Which means my parents are probably drinking their morning coffee on some temple terrace, watching the sunrise.
My fingers find my phone before my brain can talk me out of it.
"Ivy?" Mom's voice is warm with surprise. "Pixie, it's—"
"He left." The words crack out of me. "He just . . . Mom, he left for Boston, and didn't even . . ." The sob that escapes is ugly and raw. "I thought this time he might . . . I can't . . . I don't understand why everyone always—"
"Oh, baby." Her voice turns into tone she used when I'd wake up from nightmares as a kid. "Breathe for me, okay? Just breathe."
But I can't. Everything spills out in hiccupping, breathless chunks—the wedding, the messy after, our argument. How I asked for space, and he gave the whole town without him here, and thirty miles, between us.
There's shuffling on the other end, Dad's voice murmuring something I can't catch.
"Ivy," Mom says gently. "Come see us."
"I can't just . . . I have the shop, and the ducks, and Salem—"
"Ivy," Dad's voice comes through, warm and certain. "You sound like you're drowning. When's the last time you took a real breath?"
My throat closes up again. "I don't know if I can just . . . go."
"Why not?" Mom asks. "What's really keeping you there right now?"
I close my eyes. "I'd have to arrange coverage for the shop. And find someone to watch my furry children. And figure out—"
"Book the flight first," Dad interrupts, laughing softly. "The rest will follow. It always does."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll book something soon."
"We'll be here," Mom promises. "We're always here."
After we hang up, I pull out my laptop, Salem repositioning himself across my thighs. The flight prices make me wince. August is peak tourist season, and apparently everyone wants to escape to Bali right now. But September? September is half the price, which means I can actually afford to go.
Six weeks. It's farther away than I'd like, but it gives me time to tie up all the loose ends that seem impossible right now.
I click purchase, the confirmation email landing in my inbox like a promise I'm finally ready to keep.