"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."
