"I'm not," I protest weakly. "I just happen to like those particular ducks."
She reaches up and pats my cheek. "Don't worry, your babies are in good hands. Amelia may act tough, but I caught her yesterday calling Puddles 'the handsomest boy in all the land.'"
I try not to look visibly relieved. "Well, he is pretty handsome."
The check-in counter is being operated by a woman who's clearly been dealing with difficult customers since dawn. She maintains impressive composure as Dad insists on checking the weight of each bag twice and questions whether his carry-on is "really regulation size."
"Sir, it's fine," she says for the third time, her smile now purely decorative.
"Is he always like this at airports?" Ivy whispers, keeping a safe distance from the radius of chaos.
"Worse," I mutter. "Wait till security. He once got into a twenty-minute debate about whether his belt buckle was too big."
She snorts, quickly covering her mouth when Dad whips around to glare at us. Mom smiles and pats his arm, mouthing 'let them be' when he starts to say something.
Dad spends five full minutes arranging his items in the plastic bins, muttering about how "back in his day" airport security wasn't this complicated. Then, because the universe has a sense of humor, he gets randomly selected for additional screening.
"You've got to be kidding me," he grumbles, as a TSA agent, who looks like The Rock's buffer cousin, waves him over.
Ivy and I exchange glances, both fighting off grins. Mom catches us and whispers, "Behave, you two," but I notice she'sstruggling to hide a laugh of her own as the agent pats down Dad's cargo shorts with methodical precision.
"Sir, please spread your legs wider."
Dad's face turns an impressive shade of red. I have to look away before I lose it completely, and find Ivy suddenly very interested in adjusting her shoelaces, her shoulders quaking with silent laughter.
Once we're through, Ivy straightens up. "I'm going to grab coffee for everyone. Requests?"
Mom lights up. "Oh, you don't have to—"
"I want to," Ivy insists. "Consider it my late-arrival penance."
"Black coffee," Dad grunts, fishing out a thirty from his wallet and pressing it into Ivy's hand without making eye contact. "Get yourself something too." He pauses, then adds another ten. "Airport prices are highway robbery."
"I was going to—" Ivy starts to protest, but Mom smiles warmly.
"Just take it, honey. It's his way." She pauses. "I'll have a caramel latte, please."
Ivy looks at me, eyebrow raised. "Large cold brew, extra shot, splash of oat milk?"
"You memorized my coffee order?"
"Please. Like you don't have my usual pizza practically engraved in your brain."
"Extra cheese, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, and . . ." I make a face "eggplant, because you're weird."
"See? Same thing." She spins toward Starbucks. "And it's delicious, you just have the taste buds of a five-year-old."
That planning glint is already in Mom's eyes as she watches us, and as soon as Ivy's out of earshot, she pounces.
"She's such a lovely girl," she starts, andoh boy, here we go.
"Mom."
"I'm just saying, I'm glad you brought someone. And out of all people . . ." She trails off meaningfully.
"We're just friends."
"Mm-hmm." She pats my arm. "Sure, sure."
