I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over Ivy's name. Three dots appear in our text thread, and I tighten my grip, waiting. Hoping she'll say something first.
The dots disappear.
I drain my glass and signal Joey for another. But this time, it's not about pretending last week never happened. It's about drowning out the voice in my head that keeps asking: what if I'm not runningfrom Ivy at all? What if it's the version of me who actually tries? Who finally wants something enough to go after it?
The thing about lovingsomeone too much is how it sneaks up on you. Like water wearing down stone, gradual and persistent, until one day you look down and realize you've carved yourself hollow trying to fill the spaces they never asked you to.
I've drafted seventeen texts to Caleb this week. Each message lingers on my screen like a paper cut—sharp, small, and impossible to ignore. My thumb hovers over the last draft, but I don't hit send. Haven't sent a single one.
Because here's what I never noticed until Vinnie pointed it out: I'm the one who's constantly reaching. The one stretching myself over every gap Caleb leaves behind, building bridges he can use whenever he decides to come back.
A decade of friendship built on me showing up. Me listening to his family drama. Me rearranging my schedule when he needs to vent about his brother's perfect life or his dad's disappointment. Me pretending I'm not in love with him because that's safer than admitting how uneven this has always been.
The knock startles me out of my spiral. Three quick taps, two slow ones.
My heart lurches sideways. Because of course he shows up now, when I'm finally learning how to sit with the quiet. Just as I'm starting to see how many pieces of myself I've handed over, trying to keep him near.
"Ivy?" His voice slips through the door, stripped of its usual bravado.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the couch. Becausegod, I want to open that door. Still ache to erase how that night split something between us I'm not sure I can put back together.
That's who I am—the girl who can't stop caring, no matter how much it hurts. The friend who gives one more chance, fully aware it might break me. Because underneath all this newfound clarity about our uneven friendship, he's still my Caleb.
I pad to the door. When I open it, he's there with his signature grin and a pizza box balanced in one hand.
"My delivery intuition said you needed this," he says, lifting the box. "Extra cheese, minimal emotional baggage."
"You're late." I lean against the doorframe, aiming for casual even as my pulse races. "My emotional breakdown was scheduled an hour ago."
His smile flickers. Something's off. There's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that doesn't match his easy grin.
"Better late than never?" He holds up the pizza like a peace offering. "I even remembered your weird obsession with eggplant."
Salem chooses this moment to launch himself from the side table like a furry missile of vengeance. One second Caleb's standing there with his peace-offering, the next he's got nine pounds of angry black cat attached to his arm.
"Jesus fu—" Caleb yelps, pizza box wobbling. "When did yourcat turn feral?"
"Probably around the same time his favorite pizza guy ghosted us," I mutter, watching Salem unleash pure psychological warfare via toe beans. "Karma's a bitch in a fur coat."
Salem finally detaches himself with one final swipe, landing gracefully before stalking to his window perch.
"I deserved that," Caleb admits, examining the new ventilation holes in his sleeve. The pizza box looks like it survived the assault, which is honestly impressive. "Though I'm pretty sure he drew blood."
"You're lucky. Usually he goes for the jugular." I cross my arms, fighting the urge to check his wounds, because apparently, the silence between us hasn't killed my need to take care of him.
He shifts awkwardly, looking more lost than I've ever seen him. "Could we check on Ducky and everyone else?"
The walls I've been holding up shift. Of course he knows how to wear me down. And naturally, I'll say yes. Because I'm still the girl who unravels every time Caleb Miller looks at me with those infuriatingly blue eyes.
"Fine." I grab my cardigan off the hook, pretending I'm not already forgiving him. "But if Salem follows us out there, you're on your own. I don't intervene in acts of justified revenge."
His laugh comes out shaky but real. "Fair enough."
"Come on," I say, heading for the back door before I can change my mind. "Let's go see if Ducky remembers the guy who taught him bad bread-begging habits."
The moment we round the corner of my cottage, four fluffy bodies burst from what can only be described as the Versailles of duck architecture. The structure rises from my herb garden like some fever dream, where farmhouse meets fairy dwelling. White-painted lattice frames the entrance, now partially covered in morning glory vines. Little details everywhere betray how much thought Caleb had put into it—from the custom-height ramp for nervous Puddles,to the tiny carved hearts along the trim that he swears were "just practice cuts."
"Holy shit, look at you guys!" Caleb drops to his knees as they all come barreling toward him like tiny feathered missiles. At three months old, they're still more duckling than duck, all awkward legs and oversized feet they haven't grown into yet. Ducky leads the charge, slamming into his chest with flapping wings and what sounds suspiciously like a lecture. The others follow.
