King:
Marie Curie. I’ll ask if she ever regretted the sacrifices she made for her work.
Ivy:
That’s very thoughtful.
King:
Thank you. Your turn.
Ivy:
Ada Lovelace. First computer programmer. A Victorian-era mathematician. I want to know what it was like being that smart in a world that didn’t know what to do with smart women?
I smile.
King:
Sounds familiar.
Ivy:
What does?
King:
Being brilliant in a world that doesn’t know what to do with you.
Ivy:
Are you calling me brilliant or suggesting the world doesn’t know what to do with me?
King:
Both.
There's a longer pause this time. The dots appear and disappear twice.
Ivy:
You don’t know me.
King:
I’m working on changing that.
Riley orders Thai food while Rowan pulls up some marketing report he needs my opinion on. When we’re done with that, I show the twins game footage, and we analyze my performance from practice.
We fall into easy sibling rhythm. The three of us against the world, the way it’s been since our parents died.
I was nineteen. They were fourteen. Suddenly, I was guardian, brother, and barely an adult trying to hold everything together with a rookie NHL contract and no parents.
Now, they’re twenty-three and thriving. Riley is in art school, creating things that make people feel. Rowan is in sports marketing, analyzing data and building strategies.
And I’m texting a woman I’ve never met properly while pretending to be someone else.
“Gregory called today,” Rowan says casually, but his fingers tap against his tablet. It’s a nervous tell from childhood.
