Not because I didn't want it—fuck, I wanted it so bad my hands shook when I read the email—but because wanting things is the fastest way to find out you're not good enough for them. Because what if I tried and failed? What if I put myself out there and proved everyone right? Easier to joke about "maybe someday" than actually risk becoming another cautionary tale about reaching beyond your level.
But while I sit on the sidelines, Ivy has built this whole life. Not just the store—though yeah, she's crushing that too—but the way she keeps growing; pushing forward while I'm stuck running in circles.
And yeah, I get it—eventually she'll wake up and realize I'm the friend she's already outgrown. The one who shows up at her door in the middle of the night because I can't sleep. Who crashes on her couch when the noise in my head gets too loud. The guy who screws up and needs her to explain why because I still don't know how to exist without her translating life for me.
She deserves more than playing therapist to my disasters. More than constantly smoothing things over when I screw up or ghost someone because the feelings hit too close. One day, she'll get tired of sweeping up the wreckage every time I implode.
Or worse—some guy will come along who actually has his shit together. Someone who doesn't need hand-holding through every basic adult decision. He'll take one look at our friendship, at how I'm constantly in her space, always needing something, and see exactly what I am: a fucking anchor dragging her down.
The thing is, I don't have a clue how to exist in this world without her. Who I even am without her voice in my head reminding me I'm not completely fucking everythingup.
"There you are."
I whirl around to find Ivy standing at the edge of the path, one hand shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. She's still wearing that dress, and she still looks pretty. I turn back to the water.
"You alive," she asks, "or did you decide to run into the woods and become a feral cryptid?"
"Just needed air." I skip another rock. Five bounces. New record. "And fewer fork options. Since when does dessert get its own tiny fork?"
She walks over, settling into the grass beside me. Close enough to catch that familiar lavender-citrus mix. The same combination she's worn since high school. It's distinctly Ivy, warm and bright and grounding all at once.
"You want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about."
She doesn't push, but she doesn't leave either. That's the thing about Ivy—she knows how to wait people out. Not like James with his terrible advice, or Brodie trying to fix everything. She just . . . stays.
"Do you think Magnolia dreams in flower arrangements?" she asks finally. "Or just wakes up possessed by the ghost of Martha Stewart?"
I snort. "She definitely has someone on staff to refill her water bottle with holy rosé."
"And did you see her face when the salad wasn't 'architectural' enough?" Ivy's impression of Magnolia's accent is terrible and somehow perfect. "Like the lettuce personally offended her country club membership."
"Pretty sure that's why Jefferson started stress-eating his mashed potatoes."
"God, that whole situation . . ." She shakes her head, blue waves catching the sunlight. "I haven't seen that much drama since Amelia tried dating twins."
"At the same time?"
"Different area codes. Still ended badly."
We fall into another comfortable silence as a breeze ripples across the pond, making the willow branches dance. It's actually kind of nice out here, away from all the wedding chaos.
"You and Virginia seemed friendly." Ivy says carefully.
"She's just trying to piss off Jefferson."
"Maybe." I watch her mutilate a blade of grass. "She's pretty."
"Yeah." I study her profile, trying to read whatever's happening behind those careful words. Ivy's usually the first to tease me about hookups, always quick to point out my terrible taste in women. But something about this conversation seems different. "Not really my type, though."
"Since when do you have a type?" The joke lands flat. "Besides 'breathing and interested'?"
"Hey, I have standards."
"Name one."
"Must be able to recognize at least three Pokémon."
