She gives us one final, icy beat of confirmation before leaving.
Ivy detonates.
“THREE MILLION DOLLARS!” She paces in a circle like she’s going to burn a groove into the planks. “THREE—threeeee—THAT’S what I promised Saltwater Saviors. That number, I accounted for.”
Her voice is ascending into a frequency only baby sea lions can hear.
“Yes, we cleared a million per day, but I had to rework the metadata, push three extra newsletters, and act as a twenty-four-seven fluffer to keep the algorithm interested. I kept things on schedule. Now she wants another half million? FROM WHERE?! THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN WHERE MY WILL TO LIVE JUST SANK?!”
“Ivy, breathe.”
”Iambreathing!“ she snaps.
She’s not. Her chest is rising too fast, too shallow, her shirt straining with every panicked inhale.
“OH FUCK—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!Cole, we can’t hit this goal. Which means neither of us gets the promotion. Our careers are sinking like the Titanic.” She grips the rail, knuckles turning white. “I’m going to be sick. I can’t breathe.”
She leans over the side of the vessel, her breath coming in sharp, little gasps.
Dammit.
My hand finds her back, hesitant and gentle. She doesn’t pull away, and that right there says everything about how bad this really is.
I stare at the water while she pulls herself back together, or tries to, and suddenly, my whole weekend of “winning” moments crashes into me like a wave.
The ATV in the lobby. I let Blaze go, because chaos looks good on camera. Sure, I had a blast, but I could’ve stopped it.
The foam cannon. I turned it into a fucking spectacle, because drama gets views. Fun? Hell yeah, but I should’ve unplugged the machine.
The ghost net. The gloves I didn’t grab because I cared more about a viral moment.
It dawns on me.
This is all my fault.
Every time I was “saving” the moment, I was creating more work for her.
She makes things solid. So they don’t fall apart.
I break them and call it content. There’s a word for that.Noise.
Impact that lasts. Not noise.
When Reece, my boss at Dare4Change, said that to us before, I didn’t understand. Now I do.
I grab my phone, thumbs flying across the screen before I chicken out. A text to Reece, short and to the point. He was right. About all of it. About what actually counts.
My hand moves in slow circles across Ivy’s back.
I know now is the worst possible moment. She doesn’t want to hear it, but I’ve waited too damn long to say it.
“Ivy, Books for Every Block was your win. I tossed out a half-baked idea. You were the architect. You built the team and the metrics.” I rub my jaw, frustration bleeding into the words. “I’ve been acting like my ‘ideas’ and your actual work are the same. They’re not.”
She straightens, pulling her breath back under control—almost.
“You don’t want my apology. Tough. Because I see you, Ivy. All of you. And I should’ve fucking said it months ago.”
Her composure slips, then snaps back into place.
