Page 11

Ivy

"He didn't come home last night."

"At all?" Dorian's voice crackles through my earbuds as I pace our kitchen. Our kitchen. God, when did I get so possessive?

"Nope. Just... drove away. After telling me his mother wanted to discuss 'business.' Like I'm too stupid to understand hockey contracts."

"Dick move," Dorian agrees. "He could've at least invited you."

"Right? And lately he's been so... distant. Like, he used to text me before and after every game. Now I'm lucky if I get a quick 'heading out' before he disappears with the team for hours."

"Well, it is playoff push..."

"I know that. But he has time to do interviews with that new social media manager. Did you see the one she posted yesterday? All giggly and touching his arm like they’re on The Bachelor or something—”

"Honey..."

"And he never wants to do date nights anymore. Everything's team dinners or PR events. When I suggest something just us, he's always 'too tired' or has 'early practice.'"

"That part does suck," Dorian admits. "You deserve attention too."

"It's like... the more I try to hold on, the more he pulls away. So I try harder, and he retreats more, and..." I sink onto a bar stool, suddenly exhausted. "I don't know how to fix it."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"I try. But he gets defensive. Says I'm being manipulative. That I need to understand his schedule, his obligations."

"And do you? Understand them?"

"I thought I did. Back in the beginning, everything was perfect. He made time for us, no matter what. Now it's like... like I'm an afterthought."

"So you're checking his phone because...?"

"Because something changed! He's different. Distant. And every time I bring it up, he makes me feel crazy for noticing."

"Ivy..."

"I know what you're going to say. That I'm pushing him away. That I'm seeing things that aren't there."

"Actually," Dorian says gently, "I was going to say you're both caught in a really shitty cycle. He's pulling away, which makes you grab harder, which makes him retreat more..."

I stare at my phone. No messages since last night.

"And maybe," he continues, "you're so scared of becoming your mom that you're creating the very situation you're afraid of."

"I'm not—" But my voice cracks. "I just want him to show me I matter."

"By proving it every five minutes?"

"That's not fair."

"Neither is punishing him for things your dad did."

The words land sharp and cold, like a cracked window in winter.. "That's not what this is."

"No? Because from here it looks like you're both messing this up. Him by checking out, you by holding on too tight."

I wipe my eyes, angry at the tears. "So what am I supposed to do? Just pretend everything's fine while he pulls further away?"

"No. But maybe stop looking for proof that he's leaving... before you give him reason to."

*

I spend the rest of the day lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking.

I shouldn't text him. Shouldn't call. Shouldn't check his social media to see if he's liked any posts or been tagged in photos.

Don't be that girl, Ivy.

When evening comes, I decide to make dinner—his favorite pasta. Not because I'm trying to win him back. Not because I'm that desperate girlfriend who thinks food fixes everything. Just... because it's normal. And normal is what we need.

Don't wait by the window. Don't check your phone. Don't spiral.

The door opens just after eight. I'm at the stove, stirring sauce that's been ready for hours, pretending I haven't been listening for his key.

"Dinner's still warm if you want it." My voice comes out steady. Natural. Like I haven't spent all day rehearsing this moment. Like my heart isn't trying to break free from my chest.

"I'm not hungry." He stands in the doorway, not quite entering the kitchen. Not quite looking at me.

Don't ask where he was. Don't ask why he didn't call. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.

I focus on wiping down the counter, my movements deliberate. Normal. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things I'm not saying.

"I think we need some time apart." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'll stay at Ethan's. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to figure things out. I can help you find a place if you want."

The dishtowel in my hand stills. I set it down carefully, precisely, like it's the most important task in the world.

"Okay."

It comes out steady. Almost indifferent. Like my heart isn't shattering behind my ribs.

He hesitates, like he's waiting for something. Tears maybe. Accusations. A fight.

I give him none of it.

After a moment, he clears his throat. "I'm gonna grab a few things." He turns and heads to our room.

His room.

The room.

I finish wiping the counter. Put away the untouched food. Load the dishwasher. Each movement careful, controlled, normal.

After a few minutes, I hear the penthouse door closing softly behind him.

Only then do I let myself feel it.

Only then do I let myself break.