When it’s done, I pour some into a mug. It smells like failure. And the taste is worse—like bitter regret and poor choices.
When Ivy makes it, the taste is like Christmas morning and a lazy day at the beach wrapped into one.
Drew’s gaze flicks to the patio doors. Then back to me.
He doesn’t have to say it. The question hangs in the room anyway.
No balcony. No Ivy. No humming. No organized chaos. No vanilla-sugar scent in the air like the house has been claimed.
I take another sip and immediately wish I could spit it back into the pot and start over.
Drew clears his throat. “So…”
I cut him off before he finishes. “Don’t.”
He closes his mouth.
Good.
Because if he says her name, I’m going to do something unhinged, like admit I miss her. Or throw the coffee pot and my mug through the window.
Instead, I grab my keys and head for the door.
“You’re leaving already?” Drew asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to?—”
“No.”
He raises his hands. “Okay. Right. Boundaries. Respect. I’m learning.”
I pause at the front door and glance back at him. “Lock the patio door if you want.”
His eyes widen. “Do you want me to?”
“No.”
His mouth opens.
Then closes.
I leave before my self-control careens further out of control.
By ten-thirty,I’ve rewritten the same email three times.
By eleven, I’ve checked the security camera feed in my bedroom twice.
There’s nothing new.
I debate throwing my phone in the trash.
By noon, I’m staring at my phone like it’s going to blink and reveal Ivy’s at my house.
It doesn’t. She hasn’t come by.
I sigh. This is ridiculous, because I do not track people. I track contracts. Timelines. Financial statements. Risk assessment.
