Page 11 of Riot

Her bedroom door is open a crack, but it’s enough for me to see inside.

Ivy is sitting in the nursing chair at the window, feeding her daughter. That scene isn’t unusual, but everything else is.

Her expression is unguarded in a way I’ve never seen, and I’m transfixed by the only emotion coming through strong and clear.

Devastating sadness.

My chest cracks open, a wound so deep slicing through me as I confirm what I already suspected—the Ivy she lets us see ain’t the real one.

This is.

Those walls she has around her are so fucking high, so fucking impenetrable that we’ve all missed what’s right in front of our faces.

She’s playing a role, and we’ve all fallen for it.

My throat clogs as a tear rolls down her cheek, then another. The hopelessness on her face as she stares at nothing makes me want to burn everything to the ground.

An urge to fling open the door and pull her into my arms has me faltering a step. This isn’t something I’m meant to see. This is a private moment, and standing here, watching, is a violation.

She’s already had so many things taken from her, and I won’t take anything else. I want her to open up to me, but on her terms.

So, I step back from the door and shove down the raging storm of emotions twisting my insides.

Then, I yell her name to give her the chance to hide her tears.

“Uh, just a second,” she shouts back. Her voice wobbles, and I wait, my gaze locked on the wall in front of me. I’d wait as long as she needs, but she composes herself quickly. “Come in.”

I move to the door in a few tight steps and push it open. Her eyes are dry, the mask she’s been wearing all these months back in place.

Guilt and shame wash through me. I saw her vulnerable, and she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see that.

She frowns at me when I don’t say anything. “You need something?”

I rub the back of my neck, the muscles strung tight like a bow. “You hidin’ in here?” I ask instead of answering her.

“I was tired. And I’m not in the mood to listen to you and Toby yelling at the TV.”

Her smile is practiced, robotic, and the dark smudges under her eyes look more like bruises. She ain’t sleeping, and it has nothing to do with the baby in her arms.

I shouldn’t push, but that fierce ache in my gut won’t settle. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Those words are too light, too easy. My senses flash a warning, but I don’t know how to bridge this chasm she’s put between us without being clumsy.

“Toby’s goin’ to bed. You wanna watch a movie with me?”

That watery, thin smile makes an appearance again, and I fucking hate it. It’s not her. It’s not my Ivy. “Not tonight.”

Let it go…

But I can’t. I need to gauge where her head is at and find the solution to whatever is bothering her. “You gonna sleep?”

She glances towards the double bed and her throat bobs, as if she’s…

Scared?

What the fuck?

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