No. Absolutely not.
"Actually, Marcus, I'm here with someone." I pull free of his grip and move back to Ivy's side. Not just next to her, close enoughthat it's clear we're together. "This is Ivy Rose. We went to school with her."
Marcus squints at her like he's trying to place her face. "Oh yeah? Sorry, I don't really remember—"
"She was in our graduating class," I say, and there's an edge to my voice I don't bother hiding. "Same homeroom as you for four years."
"Huh. Small world." Marcus has already lost interest. "Anyway, man, come grab a beer when you get a chance. It'll be like old times."
He wanders off, and I feel Ivy tense beside me.
"See?" she says quietly. "Invisible."
"He's an idiot."
"He's everyone. I went to school with these people for twelve years and they don't remember me." She's trying to sound tough, but I can hear the hurt underneath. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
"Well, I'm not used to it, and it's not fine." I turn to face her fully. "Ivy, I remember you. I've always remembered you."
"Because I was Levi's friend."
"Because you were you." I'm saying too much, but I can't seem to stop. "Do you remember the spring of senior year? April, I think. You came over to study with Levi, but he got called into work at the hardware store."
She blinks. "I... maybe?"
"You stayed anyway. We ended up sitting on the back porch, and you told me about the books you were reading. You were on this gothic literature kick—Brontë sisters, Daphne du Maurier. You said Rebecca was the most romantic book ever written, even though it's also terrifying."
Her mouth opens slightly. She remembers. I can see it in her eyes.
"You asked what I was reading," I continue, "and I told you it was all organic chemistry textbooks and medical journals. You said that was sad, that everyone should read something just for the joy of it. So, you loaned me your copy of Jane Eyre."
"You never gave it back," she whispers.
"I know. I still have it." It's in my apartment in the city, on my bookshelf between a book about anatomy and a collection of poetry I pretend I don't own. I've read it four times. "It has your notes in the margins. You underlined all the parts where Rochester says something romantic, and you drew little hearts next to your favorite quotes."
Ivy's face has gone pink. "That's... God, that's embarrassing."
"It's not. It's you." I smile, remembering the way I'd traced those little hearts with my finger, wondering what it would be like to be the kind of man she drew hearts for. "We talked for three hours that day. About books and med school and what we wanted our lives to look like. You said you wanted to be a librarian in a small town, somewhere quiet where you could make sure kids always had books to escape into. I said I wanted to be a surgeon in a big city, somewhere I could make a difference."
"I remember," she says.
"You told me both of those things mattered. That helping people didn't have to look impressive to be important." I take a breath. "That stuck with me. When I was drowning in residency, working hundred-hour weeks, I'd think about what you said. It helped."
She's looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time. Or maybe like she's trying to reconcile the boy I was with the man I am. "You remembered all of that."
"I remember everything about you, Ivy." It's the truth. The whole, terrifying truth. "I remember that you drink your coffee with too much cream and not enough sugar. I remember that you bite your lip when you're thinking. I remember that you have this smile, this real smile that only comes out when you forget to be self-conscious, and it's the best thing I've ever seen."
"Owen." She says my name like a prayer. Or a question. Or maybe both.
I'm standing too close to her. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, close enough to count the freckles across her nose. Close enough to do something stupid.
The smart thing would be to step back. To make a joke, lighten the mood, pretend I didn't just lay out fifteen years of feelings in the lobby of our high school reunion.
But I've spent fifteen years being smart. Building the life I thought I was supposed to want. And right now, standing here with Ivy Rose looking at me like that, I can't remember why any of it mattered.
"One drink," I say. "But not in there." I gesture toward the event room, where I can hear Marcus's loud laugh echoing off the walls. "Somewhere we can actually talk. Is that okay?"
She nods, not trusting herself to speak.
