I know she’s right. I’ve told her all about my ex, and how manipulative he was, so I don’t need to rehash it all with her. Every single thing he did for me, he held against me. There was not one gift, or one favor that did not get thrown back in my face.
I recognize he’s the main reason I do this, but it’s still hard to stop. I was so raw and vulnerable after my parents death. He was all I had, so when he started acting like everything he did for me was some huge favor or inconvenience, I believed him.
When I’d ask him for little things—honestly bare minimum—he would sigh, and lay on the guilt trips. It got so bad, that I just stopped asking for help. He made me feel that if I relied on him too much, or was too dependent on him, he’d resent me, or worse, leave.
After years of therapy I understand that that’s not how healthy relationships work, and you should be able to trust and rely on your partner. And I do trust Wesley, I guess old habits just die hard.
It’s a tough instinct to fight. When every fiber of you is telling you to shoulder your own weight, to heal your own wounds, and to spare anyone around you the burden ofyou, it’s incredibly difficult to ask for help.
Sophie does me the courtesy and snaps me out of my thoughts. “So, don’t you think you should be able to tell the man that clearly loves you, important things about you, like your god damn birthday?” she asks, twirling a lock of long blonde hair around her finger, checking the ends casually as if she didn’t just drop theLword.
I rear my head back. “Love me?” I all but gasp, as if I was clutching my pearls.
I slam both of my hands on the table, and lean toward my mischievously smirking friend.
“Is that what he told you? What did he say? Tell me exactly what he said verbatim, or I’m going to throw up right now,” I demand.
She snickers. “He didn’t tell me anything. I can see it. We can all see it. But now I know for sure that you love him too,” she responds, then sips a piece of ice into her mouth and crunches loudly, a victorious look on her beautiful face.
I blush furiously, and Sophie ‘uh-huhs’ smugly. Of course I love him. I knew it all the way back in Texas. I love that little girl too.
Fiercely.
I haven’t told him yet. I know he said he doesn’t want to scare me away, but I feel the same. He was so reluctant to bring someone into his and Delilah’s life again, I don’t want to rush his process.
I’ll wait as long as I have to, because they’reitfor me.
When he’s finally ready to bring me fully into his and Delilah’s bubble, I’ll be there, no hesitation. I feel like I’ve finally found my place with them, and I’d wait however long I needed to for him to be ready to accept me into their world.
For him, I'd wait forever.
The look of horror on his face when he found out it was my birthday flashes through my mind, and I internally cringe. I feel like an asshole.
“Just do something for me, will you?” Sophie pipes up, serious again.
“Anything.”
“Ask for help when you need it. When something matters, tell Wes. We love you. You’re family now, Ivy.”
I nod vehemently and give Sophie a watery smile. “I will.”
————
I kiss Sophie’s cheek and slip out of her car when she drops me off. We keep our promise and are back before Lilah’s bedtime. I watch as Sophie drives off toward her house a few miles down the road, then take a deep breath, readying myself to face Wesley again. I look at the sun that still lights the sky, summoning courage, and head up the porch.
When I walk in the door, my heart stalls in my chest, as Wesley and Delilah scare the living shit out of me. Just as I swing the door open I’m accosted by a loud shrill sound, and the two cutest people on the planet sporting party hats and blowing on what I now realize, are party noisemakers.
I clutch my chest in shock as they yell in unison, “Happy Birthday!”
Delilah is grinning ear to ear and Wesley’s lips twitch at my reaction. I can’t help it, I laugh uncontrollably, cackling at how bad they scared me. When I get myself under control, I wipe under my eyes and re-focus on them.
Delilah grabs what looks like her homemade card, and a large white gift bag she struggles to carry. She drags them over to me, and hands me the card first. It’s yellow paper, covered in stickers, pom-poms and belligerent drawings, and when I unfold it, it just says “IVY”. I throw my head back and laugh again, then bend down and wrap my arms around her, squeezing her tight.
“Thank you, I love it,” I tell her honestly. “I’ll hang it up in my room.”
Delilah beams at that, then points to the bag at her feet. “That’s for you,” she shouts.
She’s bouncing up and down, hardly containing her excitement. I glance up at Wesley, and he tips his head toward the bag. He has his hands in his pockets, and rocks back on his heels as his colorful, corded forearms flex like he’s fidgeting in his pockets.
