And maybe it's the wine, or it's that someone actually listened, but suddenly I'm crying.
"Shit—wait—" Caleb backpedals so fast he almost trips over his own feet. "What's happening? Why are there tears? I saved the Amazon box, we can return everything. The feed, the book—hell, I'll even burn the damn duck if you hate it that much—"
"These are happy tears, you absolute moron."
"Jesus Christ, don't do that to me." He deflates like someone popped a balloon, his thumbs wiping under my eyes. "My heart nearly stopped."
I launch myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck. The duck plushie smacks him in the back of the head. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Damn. If I'd known all it took to get you to jump me was some duck—ow!" He rubs his arm where I swatted him.
"Shut up." But I'm still grinning as I let him go.
He gives me a soft smile. "It's just ducks, Ivy. No need for the tears."
I open my mouth to say something—something stupid and grateful and probably too much—but then his phone rings.
"Yeah, Martin." He picks up with a grimace. "Sorry. I got . . . distracted." A pause. "Yes, I know the journey takes ten minutes. I'll be right there."
Caleb looks down at me, still holding his phone, and I tug my chunky cardigan back onto my shoulder, conscious of how my favorite maxi dress is twisted around my legs. The turtleneck underneath is definitely wrinkled from dinner, and I'm sure there's wine on the ivory flowers somewhere.
"You look pretty." His blue eyes glint in the light as his fingers catch a loose strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek that lands dangerously close to the corner of my mouth. My skin burns where his lips touched, but he just flashes that easy smile of his. "Happy birthday, Shortcake."
Then he's gone, leaving me on my porch watching him sprint to his car, and trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing. The engine revs and he speeds away from the curb, breaking at least three traffic laws.
Salem's teeth in my ankle remind me I still haven't fed him. "Alright, alright," I laugh, following my hangry cat inside.
"Caleb, you've got fiveminutes before I unplug that goddamn computer!" Dad yells from downstairs and I hope the microphone won't pick it up. My varsity jacket catches my eye from where it's hung since senior year, gathering dust next to rows of gleaming football trophies I can't bring myself to move. The Panic! At The Disco poster above them is curling at the edges. It reminds me of all the times I blasted 'I Write Sins Not Tragedies' just to piss Dad off.
The March sunlight stabs through the blinds, creating a glare on the screen that throws off my timing, and my character takes a fire blast straight to the face. The light catches on my streaming setup—dual monitors for gaming and chat, mic hanging off an arm mount, and a webcam. Only real investment I've made, unless you count the gaming chair I saved three months of pizza deliveries to buy, and the beat-up Xbox that's seen me through every breakup and bad day since high school.
"Seriously?" I adjust in my chair, squinting past the empty energy drinks cluttering my desk. "That's attempt twenty-eight down. Thanks, sun. Really appreciate the assist."
The chat floods with suggestions while I wait for the respawn.
Level up first.
Get better gear.
Git gud.
My revenge runs against this boss have somehow become the channel's most popular content. Turns out people love watching someone fail spectacularly while making dumb jokes. Who knew?
"Listen, I could go grind for higher stats, sure. Or . . ." I navigate back into the boss arena, ignoring how my latest donation total could actually pay some bills, "we could do this the stupid way. And let's be honest, we all know which option I'm choosing."
A bang from downstairs makes me jump. Dad's special way of morse-coding his disapproval through what sounds like every pot we own. I miss my dodge roll.
"Son of a—" I catch myself, remembering I'm live. "That's twenty-nine. New drinking game idea: take a shot every time I die. Wait, no, don't actually do that. I don't need that kind of liability."
My door flies open as I'm loading back in. Great. Perfect timing.
"It's ten in the morning," Dad grunts, wearing his faded Keystone Construction jacket like a badge of honor. He's supervised the building of half this town with his crews, not that anyone remembers that anymore.
He fills the doorway, his silver hair catching the light and making him appear distinguished in thatI could definitely play a stern general in a war movieway.
"Actually . . ." I glance at my second monitor. "It's ten-seventeen. And I'm working."
"Playing games isn't work." He steps into my room, my sacred space, and every bone in my body wants to point out that my laststream actually made decent money. Instead, I focus on dodging fireballs. Left, right, roll—
