Page 31 of Fire

Ivy Cole is all about bold, quiet confidence. She’s the definition of feminine strength.

Or, at least, she used to be.

She sees me, lifts a hand, takes one step forward, then pauses, frozen in place like a rabbit sensing danger. I realize I’m glaring, trying to figure out all the ways my feelings for her have—and haven’t—changed. All the ways she’s changed. It’s a thunderstorm of activity clenched in my jaw. I’m sure I don’t look pleasant, but is it enough to warrant that deer in the headlights stare?

Either way, I release a breath. Close my eyes. Then open them with a sad smile, beckoning her over. With a worried nod, she crosses the room, her steps small and quick, as if she’s afraid to make me wait any longer than I already have. “Thank you for meeting with me, Micah. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

All these years, Ivy’s been the one for me, while I’ve been the devil for her.

I want to bark at her. To jump to my defense. To transfer my pain to her because how could she believe I would abandon her when she was pregnant with our daughter? She’s the one who broke up with me and I still would have been at her side the second I knew.

But I don’t bark, choosing to take a drink of coffee instead. Anger will get us nowhere. It’ll shut down communication and put us on the defensive when what we really need is collaboration.

“We have a lot to talk about,” I finally manage, though my voice is gruffer than I intend.

“We do.” Ivy pulls out a chair and sits too straight, right on the edge of the seat, like she’s poised to run at the first sign of danger.

That awful awkward silence settles over us again, one more thing for me to hate.

“In all the ways I imagined us reuniting, I never considered this one.” I swipe a hand over my mouth to shut myself up.

Enough. Stick to facts. To details. There is no room for emotion in this conversation.

“You imagined us reuniting?”

I imagined us married, I almost say, but shrug and take another drink to occupy my mouth.

“Okay. So.” Ivy inhales, sitting up even straighter and flexing her hands on the table, like she’s about to recite something she’s practiced more than once. “I owe you a massive apology. I should have tried harder to contact you. I should have trusted that I knew who you are better than my dad ever did. My choices kept you from knowing our daughter and I will regret that forever, Micah. Forever. I don’t know what our future holds, but it’s important to me that you’re part of Nell’s life as much or as little as you want. I’d like to start making decisions that lead us down that path. Together. If that’s what you want.” She sounds less and less certain with each word. When she finishes, she nods, exhaling, bracing, like she’s waiting for backlash.

I swallow hard, choking down emotion. Those words, our daughter, they do something to me. They wrap around my heart, so sweet, yet sharp and bitter. My throat tightens and I can’t speak. There’s so much I want to say, but none of it can get past that lump of emotion.

I stare at Ivy in silence. She starts to fidget.

Ivy never fidgets.

“So, um, yeah.” She pauses as my waiter returns to take her order, politely declines a drink, then refocuses on me. “I do wish you’d told me you weren’t going to have a phone, though. You know. Back then. Everything might have been different if I’d known…”

“I did tell you.” My voice is too low. Too harsh.

She flinches and I clear my throat and try again.

“I sent you a text from Dad’s phone, explaining what happened. Then I called. Then called again. And again. It all went unanswered like so many of my messages to you did at that time. I knew you were busy, new school, new city, new friends, and tried not to let your silence bother me, but it did. It was the whole reason my parents refused to replace my phone. I fought them about it for a while, but finally relented and accepted my punishment. It was that or go all the way insane.”

Because it felt like I was dying without her.

“I responded to every message you sent, Micah.”

Bullshit she did. I was glued to my phone back then, checking every few minutes for a glimmer of attention from her. Having it in my pocket made me obsess that I was missing her, so I carried it in my hand or had it on my desk, always in sight. Even then, I worried I missed a text, so I’d open the app only to be crushed to find she still hadn’t responded. And the night she broke up with me? Those two awful texts?

I’m so unhappy.

This isn’t working.

I called over and over and over until she must have turned her phone off because it went straight to voicemail and I never heard from her again. My phone hit the wall and the rest is history.

“Must’ve been my imagination then,” I growl, then take a drink of coffee, wishing it was beer.

Ivy shakes her head, brows furrowed, then folds her arms on the table. “If I’m remembering things wrong, I’m sorry. I’m far from perfect and maybe I was too wrapped up in myself. I’ve been told I can be that way.”

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