Mom appears with sandwiches, because that's what she does—shows up with exactly what we need, exactly when we need it. Turkey with the crusts cut off for me, extra pickle for Dad.
"The bread's fresh," she says, sliding the plate between us like a peace offering. "From that bakery you both pretend not to love." She winks at me. "And yes, Greg, I relabeled all the pickle jars."
Dad grunts, but his hand finds hers for just a moment. It's not much, but it's something. "The socket wrenches still go on the left," he mutters, already reaching for his sandwich. "And those boxes need to be stacked better."
"Heaven forbid we stack them wrong," Mom stage-whispers to me. "The garage gods might smite us."
I fight a laugh as Dad tries and fails to hide his own smile. He turns back to organizing, making sure the path to Mom's potting bench stays clear even as he grumbles about proper tool placement.
"You know," Dad starts again, and I can feel the lecture building. "I could ask around at work. The construction—"
"Greg." Mom's tone is firm. "Let the boy breathe."
He sighs, heavy with words he doesn't know how to say. Something about security and responsibility, and all those other things that make me want to deliver pizzas forever just to prove I can.
By evening, my back aches, my hands smell of motor oil, and Dad's retreated to his armchair throne to yell at the TV about the good old days, or whatever.
I grab my phone and collapse onto my rumpled bed, kicking aside the Xbox controller from last night's gaming session. I stayed up way too late trying to carry James through our co-op campaign. At least when he's not being a grumpy ass and actually logs on. The Xbox is more for fun anyway. Just me and the guys talking shit in party chat while we play.
Looking around, I realize my room's exactly how it was back in high school—Pokemon posters I keep meaning to take down, a pile of laundry that's probably gaining sentience, and photos from the glory days pinned haphazardlyabove my desk.
There's one of the football team, back when I thought being the funny guy was enough. Another from that road trip James and I took after graduation, both of us grinning like idiots with gas station coffee, pretending we had life figured out. A strip of photo booth pictures with Ivy from senior prom, before I spilled punch on her dress and she laughed instead of killing me. She still has it somewhere, pink stain and all, because that's who she is—someone who keeps the broken things.
Dating apps it is.
Not because I'm desperate, but because sometimes you just need someone who doesn't know your entire highlight reel of fuck-ups. Who won't look at you like they're just waiting for you to finally grow up.
Last week, I convinced this girl I was developing a secret app that lets dogs speak to their owners. The week before, I told someone I was a professional cheese taster taking a sabbatical tofind myself. I've got an entire collection of these stories now, each one more ridiculous than the last. My personal favorite was the time I pretended to be a consultant for haunted houses.
They play along while telling their own crazy tales. Everyone knows it's bullshit, but that's half the fun. By morning, you're both back to real life, no harm done. No expectations. No disappointment. No Greg Miller voice in your head asking when you're going to stop acting like life's one big game.
Swipe left. Left. Left. Oh, cute . . . never mind, she's looking for her soulmate. Yeah, that's gonna be a hard pass. I shift against my headboard, dodging the spring that's been trying to stab me for the past year.
I'm about to switch apps when my thumb freezes mid-swipe, and something in my chest snags.
That's . . .Ivy?
I blink hard but the image doesn't change. Blue hair falling in waves, vintage dress hugging killer curves she somehow hides under floaty layers, head thrown back laughing at something off-camera. My throat goes dry.
The beach photo makes my pulse speed up. When did she even . . .Right! That day she dragged me to help with her "summer photoshoot." I'd complained the whole time, but ended up carrying her camera equipment and making stupid jokes until she got the perfect shot. Because that's what we do. What we've always done. Me playing the clown while she creates something beautiful.
I zoom in before I can stop myself. Scroll back. Zoom again.
She's different here. Not the Ivy who shows up with hangover coffee and pretends not to judge my life choices. Not the girl who's always been steady while I bounce between hookups and dead-end jobs.
Thisversion of her? She's someone you'd actually have to try for. Someone who deserves better than midnight texts and half-assed promises.
The third photo's from her shop. Red lipstick. Bedroom eyes. Porcelain skin, full hips, soft edges, and goddess energy. Not the same girl who threw popcorn at my head last week for mocking her crystals, but the type of woman who stops traffic when she walks down Main Street, totally oblivious to how beautiful she is.
Her bio makes something hot twist in my gut:
Hopeless romantic with a mild crystal addiction, seeking someone who believes in magic (or at least won't judge my tarot card collection). Lover of old books, full moons, and meaningful conversation. Looking for something real. No hookups, no players, and definitely no guys who think astrology is dumb.
Bonus points if you can make me laugh.
Extra bonus points if you're not afraid of mycat judging you.
I lock my phone, as if that'll help. As if seeing her like that didn't already burn itself into the back of my eyelids.
