Page 8 of One More Made Up Love Song
It’s not that we don’t get along. My parents are good people who did a decent job raising me. But we are…what’s the best way to say it? Verydifferentkinds of people.
They’re both college professors in the mathematics department at the University of Washington, and while I hate to define anyone using stereotypes, they are everything you might expect math professors to be. They love classical music. They do crossword puzzles. Their after-dinner activity is to drink a glass of wine while trying to stump each other with calculus problems.
They do not have any tattoos, nor do they care for mine. They wear a lot of sweaters and a lot of corduroy and shirts buttoned all the way to the collar. They don’t yell. They rarely get upset. They never bark at the television during a sporting event or do anything but applaud politely at concerts.
After years of believing they would never have children, I was a surprise, born three days before my mother’s forty-first birthday, followed by my little brother, Harold, who was born two years later. They gave us everything they could with a practical, methodical approach to their parenting.
Even when I wanted to fly to Nashville and audition for Midnight Rush, they treated it like an equation, measuring what they called my natural aptitude against the potential risks. Lucky for me, when they solved for x, it equaled a trip to try for the future I knew I was destined to have.
Honestly, when I got the gig and moved to Nashville full-time, living with a host family until I turned eighteen, I thinkmy parents were relieved to have my very noisy presence out of the house.
Harold is a much better fit for their personality. He’s also a mathematician, currently working on his PhD, and he has a closet full of sweater vests and a cabinet full of quiz bowl ribbons and chess trophies.
That sort of thing is much more their speed. Not stadium concerts full of screaming fans and music they once said seemed “much too loud.”
I pull on a pair of pajama bottoms, though by this point, it almost feels stupid to sleep when I only have a couple hours before I need to be awake again.
I check my phone one last time and find a new text message, this one from Ivy.
Ivy
Hey, just wanted to give you a heads-up that as soon as we’re back in Nashville, I think I’m going to get my own place. Nothing will change about work. I’ll still be close by. But I’d like to set a regular work schedule so I can occasionally have some non-working hours too. We can talk details once we’re home. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about it so you don’t freak out if you see me hunting for apartments.
I read the text all the way through three times before I sink onto the edge of my bed.
There is nothing about this message that should upset me. I’m well aware how lucky I am to have Ivy. She’s a logistical genius, managing every aspect of my life with enviable precision, and she’s become a really close friend. It’s been amazing having her live with me, and not just because itmeans she’s always around when I need her. I also really like her company.
I wrack my brain for anything that’s happened in the past few weeks that might have prompted her decision. I know I frustrated her tonight, but not enough to have triggered something like this. It was just normal stuff. And she was fine when we said good night.
But am I missing something? Did I inadvertently offend her in some way? Hurt her feelings? Take advantage?
I wince at that last question, all too aware that the answer might be yes simply because shedoeslive with me. But I pay Ivy well. And my house is enormous. It’s not like we’re sharing a bathroom. She has her own entrance, and she’s living rent free.
It’s hard for me to wrap my head around her wanting her own place when she already has such a sweet setup.
Without really thinking about what I’m doing, I stand and open my bedroom door, tiptoeing down the narrow hallway to Ivy’s bunk. Wayne and Seth are on the right side of the narrow hall, but Ivy sleeps on the left side alone.
I yank back the privacy curtain of the upper bunk, and she jumps, her phone flying into the air before it lands back on her blankets with a thump. The height of her bunk makes us eye level.
“What is this about?” I say, holding up my phone.
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Freddie? You just scared me half to death. What if I’d been naked?” Her eyes drop to my bare chest, and her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink, just visible in the dim light of her bunk.
“Why would you be naked?” I ask.
“Maybe I sleep naked,” she says. “Some people do. Thepoint is, just because I don’t have a door doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock.”
I grin. “If you sleep naked when Seth is asleep less than four feet away, you’re braver than I am.”
“I don’tactuallysleep naked,” she whisper-yells. “I’m just saying. You still have to knock.”
“You’re right,” I say, conceding the point. “I should have knocked.” I hold up my phone one more time. “Now tell me why you’re moving out.”
She sighs. “Can we please talk about this tomorrow?”
“If you wanted to talk about it tomorrow, you should have texted me tomorrow. You texted me tonight, and now I’m not going to be able to sleep because I’m worried I’m a bad boss.”
“You aren’t a bad boss,” Ivy says, “but Seth and Wayne are both asleep, as you already pointed out, less than four feet away.”
