Page 1 of Writing On The Wall

CHAPTER ONE

IVY

“Come on, Ross. Pick up, pick up, pick up!”

I lean on the bare kitchen counter with one hand, hating the echo of my voice within the empty room. I fix my eyes on the moving boxes scattered across the living room as I wait for Ross to answer my call.

A guttural growl escapes after I hang up. I can’t believe my brother left me in this position.

The doorbell rings, making my shoulders drop, but I refuse to let defeat drape its heavy cloak over me.Everything will be okay.

I roll my shoulders back, forcing my chin up as I swing the door open with a tight smile. “Hey, Carl,” I greet the man at my doorstep, and he removes his hat as he takes a tentative step inside.

“We still…” He motions sheepishly to the boxes with his hat in hand.

“Yup.”

“Right.” He takes a step into the hall to signal someonewith a nod. A string bean of a man joins us, tightening one of those back support belts around his waist.

“Mornin’, Miss Ivy. We’ll take good care of your things till you’re ready for ‘em. Don’t you worry.”

“Appreciate it.” I smile back, dragging a hand over the box with myThe Lord Of The RingsDVD’s inside. Why am I still hanging on to these? Everything is digital now. “I’ve gotta get to work. Thank you, Carl. You can leave the door key on the counter on your way out. And remember, don’t say anything to Gran.”

I’m taking a huge risk by getting the man who works as a security guard at Gran’s retirement village to put all my things in storage. But he owes me a favor, and I’m officially desperate enough to cash it in. Still, I’ll have to be careful. The last thing I need is Gran catching wind of my current situation.

“You gonna be okay getting the small things to your friend’s house?”

“Oh, uh…yup. I’ll manage. This is a huge help, Carl. Thank you again.” I shoot him another smile as I offer a quick side hug.

My left heel bounces as I drive to the school where I teach second grade. I fear the sudden change in my life will be glaringly obvious to my coworkers, and my stomach knots from the combination of hunger and anxiety as I park in the teachers’ lot. I skipped breakfast and spent the morning stuffing things into my car, so I guess it’s the mystery basket in the teachers’ lounge for me today.

When I step into the lounge with an exhale, I find my work husband Toby in his usual spot by the table near the window.

“Hey Bee,” I greet him with a wave. He lifts his head, a warm smile on his classically handsome face and his trademark bow tie on display. His thick hair holds a slight curl, and I imagine most women would love running their hands throughit. He’s mastered the preppy hipster vibe, having owned the style long before it was cool. All this, and he’s innocently unaware of his nerd-appeal.

I fish out the least suspicious bag of oatmeal then pull out a large mug and empty the contents inside.

“You have a good weekend?” Toby asks, pushing off the counter to open the fridge and retrieve the milk before handing it to me.

“Oh, um, yeah. It was okay” I nod, filling up the kettle. “How was dinner with your parents?”

“More of the usual.” He shrugs. “My mother comparing me to my brother. Dad trying to ignite a sudden love for football.” His self-deprecating chuckle makes me grimace. Toby is one of the smartest, most caring people I know. Unfortunately, his passion for inspiring young minds goes unnoticed by his family because they’ve never been able to accept that he’s not the next Patrick Mahomes.

”I’m sorry, Bee.”

“You’re committed to that nickname?” He winces.

“It’s that orToblerone.But you’ll have to fill out an application for a status change. We take these things very seriously.Rollin’ with my bro Toblerone.”

“I think I’ll stick with Bee, then,” he deadpans.

With my wedge heels on, I’m only a few inches shorter than Toby. Most people tower over my five-foot-half-inch stature (yes, I’m fighting for that half-inch), but Toby is on the shorter side, too, and I appreciate that he doesn’t tease me about my height. Maybe it’s because he’s had to contend with his own share of short jokes over the years.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, tossing a pinch of salt into the mug.

”I don’t think so.”

“What you need is a fake girlfriend to appease them.” I point toward him with my spoon.

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