"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.
I've spent the lastthree 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'sIvy. 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. LikeImeant nothing.
"Can we talk for a sec?" I grab her arm as she passes me.
