Good. Tell me about your siblings.
He tells me about his two younger siblings. As he texts about their banter and the way they function as a team, my admiration for him grows.
When that topic fades, another question slips out before I can overthink it.
Ivy:
What’s your biggest fear?
His response takes longer this time. Long enough that I start to regret asking.
Then—
King:
Becoming the person people expect me to be instead of who I actually am.
I read it thrice, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Ivy:
I understand that more than you know.
King:
Tell me.
And I do.
I tell him about growing up as my brother’s little sister. Because I’ve never met King, I leave out Marcus’s name and the NHL part, simply saying my brother is very successful.
I text about how I learned to be brilliant because being anything else means being invisible. About the weight of parental expectations and needing to execute things perfectly every time.
I tell him things I haven’t told anyone except maybe Sloane after too much wine. When I finally look up, I’ve eaten all the burger, chicken, and chips, and it’s almost time to go to my parents’ house.
I type.
Ivy:
I’ve got family dinner.
Then I freshen up and leave a note for the sleeping Sloane before driving out.
***
The savory smell of meat and vegetables from pot roast fills the Chandler family home when I arrive.
“Ivy.” My mother walks out from the kitchen, perfectly styled in a cashmere sweater. “You’re late.”
“Traffic was bad.”
“Traffic is always bad.” She air-kisses both my cheeks. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume makes my nose itch. “Your father’s in his study. Marcus is already here. Go freshen up.”
I don’t bother telling her I already freshened up before coming. She won’t listen.
I head upstairs to my old bedroom, now converted into a guest room that’s erased most of the evidence I ever lived here. There’sstill one photo on the dresser. It’s me, at sixteen, graduating high school two years early and looking painfully small next to Marcus in his hockey gear.
My phone buzzes.
