Page 13 of Salvation (Rising From the Ashes #3)

Ivy

M y thumb hovers over a number I’ve come to know by heart. Campbell left hours ago, but my skin still feels raw, like I’ve scratched it too hard and now I’m about to bleed.

I don’t know what to do with it—any of it—so instead, I dial the number and press the phone against my ear, listening to it ring as I wait for my fiancé to answer.

My pulse kicks up, and I slip my thumb into my mouth, chewing at the side of my nail.

Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up.

The chant is so loud inside my head that it starts to ache. I sewed myself together a long time ago, but the stitches are beginning to come undone.

It’s not supposed to be this way. Brecks and I are getting married at the end of the year, yet the idea of that turns my stomach inside out.

We’ve hardly spoken since I’ve been in Benton Falls, only texting in passing.

The moment I found out about my daughter, I should have wanted to call him—to confide in him—but all I felt was dread.

“Hello.” Brecks’s strong voice rumbles through the line, and that dread sinks deeper.

“Hi.”

A beat of silence passes where neither of us says anything.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

And yet, it’s the only thing in my life that feels safe. Stable. My whole life, I’ve craved love and a family, and with Brecks, I can have that. He loves me—in his own way—and I love him in mine. It’s enough. He’s enough. He’s what I want.

My stomach churns again.

“I need to tell you something.” My voice wavers, burning my throat, but I blink away the tears. Now is not the time to break.

Another pause, and then a sigh. “Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something. Better yet, why don’t you just come home, and you can tell me then.”

Sadness stings my eyes, but another emotion burns brighter. It started the first day I read my grandmother’s letter, and it’s been slowly building, bubbling under my skin until this moment. Now it rages like an inferno, burning me alive.

“I’m not coming home, Brecks,” I bite out, taking a piece of that anger out on him. It’s not his fault, but I’m so tired of falling in line, following the path everyone else wants me to.

“What do you mean you’re not coming home, Ivy?” Brecks asks, and it’s obvious he’s holding back his temper. “We’re getting married.”

He’s right. We are, but I don’t know that we should be.

He should have been the first person I wanted to call when I read my grandmother’s letter, but he wasn’t.

Instead, it was a boy I loved sixteen years ago, and maybe it’s because we share that history.

It was just as much his to know as it was mine, but something inside me screams that’s not it.

I don’t love Campbell anymore. I can’t. Too many years have passed.

But I’m not sure I love Brecks, either. My grandparents pushed us together.

I thought he would be awful—stuck up like the rest of the people they socialized with—but somewhere along the way, he became my friend.

But is friendship enough to marry? To spend the rest of your life with someone?

I don’t know. I know it’s safer, and maybe that’s good enough.

“I have a daughter, B.”

“Take that to my office, please,” Brecks says, talking to someone on the other end.

This is part of the problem. Brecks is a great guy, but he’s never treated me like I’m the sun his world revolves around.

“I know you have a daughter, Ivy. We’ve talked about this.

What happened back then was awful, but what does this have to do with you coming home? ”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No. I mean, she’s alive. I have a daughter, and she’s alive.”

The truth is out, but it doesn’t set me free. People must be lying when they say that because it feels like I’m deeper in my cage than ever.

“What?”

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Scorched from the bitter truth in my mouth.

I have a daughter, and she’s alive.

“They lied, B. She’s alive. Why? Why would they lie?”

“I’m sure they had their reasons, Ivy.”

Another stitch pops, ripping open the wound with such force it takes my breath away. The ring on my finger digs into my skin, and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I need it off.

Off. Off. Off.

Pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I rip it off and sling it across the room. It lands against the floor with a clink, and I suck in deep breaths, trying to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

This is the problem. Brecks is my friend, but never more than a puppet to my grandparents. He never questioned them, and even now—with something this big—it’s still the same.

“I’m not coming home, Brecks,” I say, my voice resigned, and he doesn’t fight me. Doesn’t fight for me.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

______________________

After my phone call with Brecks, I let myself break down. I’ve grieved my daughter for years, and she’s been alive this whole time.

If I thought I hated my grandparents before, it’s nothing compared to my feelings now. The hatred is all-consuming, and it’s what pushes me out the door the next day because if I were to stay in that house a minute longer, it’s possible I would have burnt those white walls down right along with me.

So, I pick myself up off the floor, put on my makeup, and walk out the door.

After last night, I don’t know where my relationship stands with Brecks. It was teetering on the edge before, but now it feels like it’s been shoved off a cliff without any wings to fly.

None of this is fair to him. I’m not fair to him. I’m being selfish, but I need a few days to process one life-altering event before I move on to the next one.

I don’t put on my ring when I walk out the door, and this time, when I walk into the coffee shop, I have my head on a swivel, looking for a pair of bright blue eyes that easily steal my breath anytime they are pointed in my direction.

I used to chalk the intensity I felt around Campbell up as teenage infatuation, but I’m long past being a teenager—and it still feels like I’m being shocked with a cattle prod each time he looks at me.

But there’s something different about his eyes.

I noticed it on my first day in town and every time I’ve been in his presence since then.

It’s like the life has seeped out of them.

Instead of shining bright like the eyes in my memories, they are dull.

Lifeless. Something about Campbell has fundamentally changed since I left, but who am I to judge—so have I.

There is nothing funny about the situation we are in, but the thought causes me to snort anyway. It’s derisive and crude, and my grandmother would hate it. So I do it again out of spite, not caring that several eyes dart my way as I walk to the counter to place my order.

It’s empty, but I can hear noises coming from the back. So I settle in and wait, giving myself time to take in the place. There was never a coffee shop when I lived here before, but if there had been, this is the kind of place I would have wanted to hang out.

Benton Falls has a lot of old buildings, and the brick walls and open ceiling in this one appear to be original.

A metal sign that reads “Benton Brews” hangs on a wall to the left of the door.

Those elements, combined with the natural wood bar top and black-accented decor, make it just edgy enough to be inviting.

“Hi.”

I’m still looking around when a small voice speaks from beside me, startling me. I curse under my breath, then blush when my eyes land on a little boy who looks to be around four. He’s watching me with wide eyes, and it’s clear he just heard the word that slipped past my lips.

“That was a bad word,” I say. “Don’t repeat that.”

The boy watches me for another second, and then shrugs. “My dad used to say a lot of bad words.”

Something about the kid makes me nervous. Maybe it’s the way he watches me with intelligence far beyond that of a kid his age, or maybe it’s that I’ve spent my life avoiding kids because it hurt too much to be around them. Either way, I feel way over my head here.

Looking around, I search for his parents, positive that a kid his age shouldn’t be here alone, but when I come up empty, I turn back to him.

“Is your dad here?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ and keeps staring at me like I’m a puzzle to figure out. “I like your curls.”

“Uh—thank you?”

I’m thrown off–kilter, unsure what to do in this situation.

“You’re welcome. My sister—Maci—has curls like yours, but hers are always crazy cause she hates brushing them. I’m Mason.”

He babbles, changing from topic to topic, making my head dizzy.

I’m about to offer him my name in between one of his breaths, when a woman darts out from the back, a frazzled look on her face.

Her blonde hair is tied up in a bun, but some of it falls into her face.

She huffs, pushing it back as her eyes fall on the little boy, relief and frustration playing in equal parts across her features.

Mason dunks under the counter, hiding out of view of who I assume is his mother, since they have the same colored hazel eyes. It’s too late, though. She’s already spied him.

“Mason,” the woman says, practically lying on top of the counter to see her son. She’s yet to notice me; her attention is zeroed in on the boy, hiding behind my legs. “You’re supposed to be upstairs in my office with your sister. What did I tell you about coming down here?”

The kid peeks out from around my legs, looking at his mom with all the innocence of a child. I melt a little at the sight, but his mom remains firm, staring down at him with pursed lips and a raised brow.

“I wanted to help you, Momma,” Mason says, a plea in his voice.

The woman lets out a long sigh. “I know, kid.”

The pair stares at each other for a moment, something significant passing between them that I can’t understand. When it stretches on for another minute, I clear my throat, starting to feel like an intruder on an important parental lesson.

The woman jumps, clamoring off the bar top she’d been sprawled across, and swipes her hand down her apron.

“I am so sorry. I—uh—I was zoned in. Mason—upstairs,” she says with a snap of her fingers.

Mason darts from behind me and through the doors leading into the back.

I let out a soft chuckle when he stops right before disappearing and wiggles his fingers under his chin in a goodbye wave.

The woman notices and rolls her eyes, shaking her head in a light-hearted exasperation before turning back to me. “Again—I am so sorry.”

I smile, hoping it reassures her.

“It’s fine. I haven’t been here long, and Mason and I were just talking,” I say.

She huffs out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I’m sure you were. He still hasn’t caught on to the whole stranger danger lesson. To him, everyone has the potential to be a friend.”

“Right,” I say, feeling awkward since I’m the “stranger danger” in question.

The woman must notice my unease because she smiles and claps her hands together. “Anyway, I’m Zoey. I own this place. I haven’t seen you around. Are you just passing through?”

I shake my head, finding it nice that at least one person here doesn’t know me or my grandparents. “Not exactly. I—umm—I inherited a house here. I’m still figuring out what to do with it.”

It’s at least part of the truth. It’s not like I can just blurt out that I have a daughter I thought was dead, and I’m at least sticking around until I find her, and after that—well, I don’t know what comes after that.

“Oh? What house?”

“Ummm—the Cunningham house. Over on Lincoln Street.”

Zoey gasps. “No way. I drive by that house all the time just to look at it. It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” My smile is tight because she’s right. Objectively, it is a beautiful home, but so many ugly things have taken place inside those walls that I don’t know if I can ever let myself love it.

Once again, Zoey notices the tension and changes the subject. “Listen to me rambling on. You came for substance. What can I get you?”

“A coffee, please. Black.” I hesitate a minute, casting a glance at the display case full of pastries. I bite my lip, talking myself out of it. “And that’s it.”

Zoey grins. “Coming right up.”

She busies herself, grabbing a cup and the coffee pot, and I decide I like her. She didn’t push for my story for small-town gossip. She realized I was uncomfortable and moved on. Not many people are like that.

In no time, she’s sliding the coffee cup in front of me along with a bag.

“What’s this?” I ask, my brows dipping in confusion.

Zoey shrugs. “Sometimes you just need the pastry.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes. She couldn’t possibly know how badly I needed that one act of kindness, but I’ll forever be thankful for it anyway.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice a whisper to keep it from breaking. “What do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house. Consider it reimbursement for having to be a witness to me throwing myself over a counter.”

I laugh, feeling lighter if only for a second.

“Well, thanks again. I’ll definitely be back.” With the coffee cup and bag in hand, I lift a hand and wave goodbye, heading for the door. Zoey waves back, and I’m about to head out when a flyer catches my attention.

It’s hung to the right of the door, the bright colors drawing my eye. At the top, it reads, “Local Painter Wanted for Community Center Mural.”

Painting has always been a part of me—a way for me to express myself when my voice felt silent.

I made a career of it, but lately, it feels lackluster.

I work on commission for high- end clients, providing artwork for their homes, but nothing about it feels meaningful anymore.

It’s why all my canvases have remained blank.

Something about this community center project calls to me, though.

Without analyzing it like I usually do, I pick up the phone and call the number at the bottom.