The truth claws at my throat, desperate to escape. But this is Ivy—the girl who's seen me faceplant into every metaphorical wall and still believes I'll eventually learn to duck.
"Because what if I'm not good enough?" The words tear out of me before I can lock them down. "What if I walk in there and they realize I'm just . . . some guy who got lucky with a few lines of code? What if . . ." My voice catches, rough and exposed, and I hate how much is bleeding through. "What if I finally try for something real and prove everyone right about me?"
"Or what if you're exactly what they're looking for?" Her eyes blazing with that fierce belief she's always had in me. "I've seen your stream, Caleb. Yes, maybe I don't get half of what you do, and can't even begin to wrap my head around the coding part, but you know your stuff. You light up when you talk about it. The way you see games, how you can make them better—that's not luck. That's talent."
"Ivy—"
"No, listen to me." She cuts me off. "You're allowed to want more. You're allowed to be good at something and own it."
"It's easier to stay at home." I attempt a smile. "Known territory."
"Safe isn't living, Caleb."
"The job's in Boston," I counter, like distance is the real issue here. "At least for the first few months."
"That could be good, right?" Something flickers in her expression. "Fresh start, new city."
"Yeah." I watch her in the fading light. How do I tell her that Boston might as well be Mars? That the thought of facing that opportunity without her in my corner makes my lungs forget how oxygen works? "Maybe."
Her gaze lingers on me before she speaks. "You need to stop floating, Caleb. You're better than this limbo you've built."
Her words hang there, not as a question, but as a weight I've carried in silence and still can't bring myself to say out loud. Because the truth is, she's right. I've been floating for years. Have been since Matt graduate with honors while I scraped by. Stuck in this half-state—drifting, stalling, convincing myself it's safer. Floating means I don't have to fail. It means I don't have to watch the people I care about move on while I stay exactly where they left me. And maybe most of all, it means I get to keep this—her—close. Because if I reach for more and fall flat, I won't just lose an opportunity. I'll lose the one constant that's made any of this worth it.
But I swallow those words back like bitter medicine. Instead, I let the silence stretch, and pretend I don't already know how this ends.
"While we're on the subject of avoiding things . . ." Her voice shifts. "Are you finally going to talk to Matt?"
The question settles between us, and something inside me locks up so tightly it hurts. "And we're done here."
"I just think—"
"Why is it your job to fix everything?" I don't raise my voice, but the bite in it is deliberate.
She recoils like I've slapped her, and guilt immediately floods my system. "I'm not trying to fix anything. But I hate seeing you both hurt when it's obvious you miss each other."
"Ivy . . ." I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched, pulse knocking hard in my throat. "Can we not do this right now?"
"Fine." But her voice has that careful neutrality that means I've upset her. "We should head back anyway. It's getting late."
"Hey." I ride closer to her. "I'm sorry. I'm being an ass."
"You are." But her lips quirks up. "A very uncoordinated ass."
"But a charming one, right?" I offer her a smile that walks the line between cocky and contrite, which usually gets me off the hook. "Besides, you love me anyway."
She softens slightly, like she always does, and relief floods my system. Because that's our pattern—I mess up, she forgives me, we go back to normal. A dance we've perfected over years.
I woke up thismorning with Ivy wrapped around me like some kind of affection-starved python, her thigh thrown across mine. For a solid minute, I'd laid there. The world's most conflicted statue, cataloging every soft curve pressed against me, before my brain kicked in and I'd carefully extracted myself.
And now, because Matt couldn't keep his mouth shut about this "mandatory" dance lesson over breakfast, I'm watching Kristal strut toward us in what appears to be an entire craft store's worth of sequins. I was planning to skip it, maybe fake spontaneous combustion, or blame food poisoning from that sketchy egg-white omelet. But then Ivy lit up at the idea. And apparently, I'm physically incapable of saying no when she gets that sparkly-eyed look.
So here I am, about to voluntarily press myself against Ivy while some bedazzled pocket rocket yells at me about "feeling the rhythm in my soul." Just what I need after spending all morning trying to forget how perfectly she fit against me.
"Dude." Matt elbows me, his shit-eating grin already in place. "You sure you remember how to lead? It's been a while since you danced with anything besides your Xbox controller."
I flip him off without looking. Sarah catches it and sighs. "Boys, please."
"What?" Matt wraps an arm around her waist. "I'm making sure my little brother doesn't embarrass himself."
