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. Reallysee 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—"
"Whatthing, Caleb?" The softness of her voice devastates me. "The one where I convince myself that if I'menoughfor 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.
