Something cold settles in my stomach. Because Ivy's not supposed to be on dating apps. She's supposed to be . . . well . . .Ivy.Safe. Constant. The girl who always has a tarot deck in her bag, and a way of looking at me like she sees straight through the disaster zone. The one who lets me crash on her couch when home gets too suffocating. Who still has faith in me even when I don't give her a reason to.
She's the girl you figure your shit out for.Someday. Not now. Not when you're half a wreckage with nothing real to offer. Not while you're still playing at the game of life instead of living it. And definitely not when you're more likely to break her heart than deserve it.
I grab my keys before I can think too hard about that.
"Caleb! Dinner!"
Yeah, not happening. After this morning's lecture marathon in the garage, dinner's guaranteed to be another Greg Miller Greatest Hits album. And Mom's been extra wedding-crazy lately. I even caught her on the phone with her book club friend, plotting to set me up with Karen's daughter, or Susan's niece, or whoever else is "such a nice girl" and "would make a perfect plus-one."
"Heading out!" I yell back, already reaching for my jacket.
"The hell you are," Dad shouts. "Your mother made meat loaf. And we need to discuss your plans for—"
"Sorry, already got something lined up!" Not technically a lie.
I'm about to make plans with Ivy.
She'll probably be in her pajamas, watching some terrible horror movie, pretending she's not drooling over another masked killer. We'll order takeout, and I'll give her crap for being on the apps after all her speeches about "letting love find you naturally."
Nothing weird about showing up unannounced. That's our thing. Always has been.
"Caleb Miller, you get down here right now!" Dad's using hisI'm not askingvoice. "I will not—"
I'm out the door before he can finish that sentence, but my ribs squeeze in as I start the car, catching Mom's disappointed face in the window. Yet the churn in my stomach? That's surely relief about dodging another family dinner from hell.
I'm halfway throughThe Conjuring, loving every creepy second, when Salem's ears perk up. A moment later, familiar footsteps creak on my porch, followed by a knock that's more rhythm than request.
"It's open!" I call, not bothering to move. Only one person shows up unannounced at this hour, and he's seen me in worse states than a green face mask and my oldest pajamas.
Caleb's dark blond curls are a chaotic mess, telling me something's wrong before he even speaks. He's got that restless energy he gets when he's upset.
He ducks under the dried herbs hanging above the entry, batting away a sprig of lavender. "One of these days I'm going to get concussed by your door garden. Though I guess that's one way to cure insomnia—herbal head trauma."
"It's for protection," I say, not bothering to move. "And cleansing energy."
"Ah yes, because nothing says 'good vibes only' like getting whacked in the face with sage." He grins, and his eyes widen when he takes me in. "Please tell me that's not permanent," he gestures at my face. "Because I've got to say, green isn't really your—holy shit, is thatThe Conjuring?Again?"
"It's a classic. Besides, you're the one who screamed during the basement scene."
"That was a sneeze!" He flops onto my couch with his usual lack of grace, all six feet of him somehow managing to take up the entire space despite the fact that he's built more like a teddy bear than a linebacker these days. "And that movie was nightmare fuel."
"Only if you're a wimp." I toss a pillow at him. "Some of us actually enjoy a good haunting."
"Yeah, well, some of us are normal." He catches the pillow without looking. "What even is that on your face?"
"French green clay mask. Want one? It'll help with your pores."
"Hard pass." He steals my throw blanket, elbowing me in that accidentally-on-purpose way. "Also, you know what doesn't give you nightmares? Literally any other genre of movie."
I pause the film right as a door creaks ominously on screen. "Fine. But only because you look like you need a distraction. Greg or Matt this time?"
It's always been like that with Caleb. Every crack in his smile, every shadow behind his jokes, leads back to one ofthem. He doesn't even have to say it anymore. I see it in the way his shoulders curve inward, and how his fingers tap against his thigh when he's trying to remain composed.
"Greg." He slouches deeper into the cushions. "Four hours of reorganizing the garage while he critiqued my existence."
The weight in his voice makes my heart ache. Most people buy his class clown act, the easy charm and deflecting jokes. It took me years to earn the moments when he lets the mask slip. When thequick comebacks fade and real hurt bleeds through. Now, I'm the only person he's honest with. The only one who gets to see him without the performance.
"Want to talk about it?"
