Page 67 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I pour a glass of whiskey I don’t drink and set it down next to her favorite tea tin on the counter. The amber liquid catches the light, and for a second, I think about throwing it. Letting the glass shatter against the wall, just to feel something break that isn’t inside me. My hand trembles slightly, the heat of restraint humming just beneath my skin. But I don’t move. I don’t lash out. I just sit there and stare at it, still, aching. It’s the little things, the way she reorganized my spice rack without asking, the sketch she left on a napkin by the toaster. They’ve been anchors, proof she was still tethered here. To me. But today… today the thread feels loose.
I open the ring box. Slowly. Just once. It’s a simple velvet box, kind jewelers hand over with reverence and just enough weight to make the moment feel real. Inside, the diamond catches the light like it knows what it means. I picture her hand, her eyes when I ask. I picture saying the words not in a ballroom, not in front of cameras, but here. In the warehouse. While she’s arguing over skylights and gallery walls. Then I close the box.Because the longer I stare at it, the farther away the moment feels.
I sit at the kitchen table, try to draft something on my phone. A note. A message. A speech. Anything:You once said legacy doesn’t matter if it hurts. I want to build one that heals.
I delete it. Too much. Too soon.
I think about calling Julian. He’s not just a fixer. He’s one of the few people Ivy still trusts. If something was wrong, truly wrong, he’d know. He’d tell me. I scroll to his name in my contacts. My thumb hovers. Then I press call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. I leave a message anyway, keeping my voice calm even as my pulse quickens.
"Julian, it’s Jack. Look, I know this isn’t urgent on paper, but... have you heard from Ivy? She didn’t show today. Didn’t text. It’s not like her. I’m not panicking, just... call me back when you can. Please."
I hang up, but the unease doesn’t. I head back out. I need to move. I need something to anchor me.
***
I am back at the warehouse. I unlock the side entrance and step inside. Late afternoon light filters in through the high windows. Her voice isn’t echoing today. Her laughter isn’t filling the space.
I set the ring box down on the table beside Pilar’s revised blueprint. I don’t open it again. I don’t need to. I already know what’s inside. But right now, I don’t know what’s outside this room, outside my reach, outside the carefully built plans I’ve been piecing together like a future. She should’ve been here by now. She never misses walkthroughs. She doesn’t forget to text. Ivy’s many things, scattered sometimes, spontaneous, but she doesn’t disappear. Not without a word. And yet… nothing.
The buzz of the city fades behind the walls. A siren wails far in the distance. I sit on the edge of the mezzanine stairs andrub my palms together, trying to chase the chill that’s settled into my bones. I scroll through our old texts, rereading them like they might explain what today is missing. Photos from site visits. Half-formed dinner plans. Bad puns about construction materials. Her last message from last night is still there, just a simple:Later.
And now, it feels like a question instead of a promise. Later when? Later… if? I grab my phone again and type something.
Jack:Where are you? Just want to make sure you’re okay.
I don’t send it. I delete it. Because if she’s just overwhelmed, the last thing she needs is me pushing. But if she’s not, if something happened, then I’m sitting here like a fool, waiting for a door that isn’t going to open.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the framed beams and barely recognize myself. Tense. Distracted. Still wearing the coat I never took off. I loosen the collar, set the ring box back into my pocket, and lean against the frame she once traced with her fingers while explaining her vision for the gallery walls.
It’s just one day, I tell myself. Maybe she’s offline. Maybe she needed space. Maybe she’s sketching somewhere with her phone turned off and her mind on something brighter than this foundation, this city, this weight we’ve both been carrying. But maybe she’s not. Maybe I forgot to tell her something that mattered. Or maybe, worst of all, I waited too long to say something I should’ve said sooner.
My phone buzzes. It startles me more than it should. The sound ricochets off the steel rafters and slices through the quiet like a warning. I reach for it quickly, the device suddenly heavy in my hand, like it knows it carries more than just words. I look down. One new message. From Julian.
For a second, I don’t open it. My thumb hovers over the screen, my heart beating harder than it should for a simple notification. It could be nothing. Or it could be everything. Thesilence from Ivy today, the message I left, the ache that’s been growing louder with each passing hour, it all presses against the edges of this moment.
Outside, the city moves on without me. Inside, I stand completely still. I tap the screen. The message loads. Whatever it says, I already know it’s going to change everything.
35
IVY
Idon’t knock. I just buzz Sienna’s building at some obscene hour and climb the stairs with my heart in pieces, each step a hollow echo of everything I’m afraid to admit. The city outside is hushed, but inside me, everything screams. My hands shake as I press the buzzer. The metal door groans when it swings open.
When she opens the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She’s barefoot, bleary-eyed, wearing a paint-splattered tee and an oversized cardigan that slips off one shoulder. Her face is soft with sleep, but her eyes sharpen the second they meet mine. She steps aside, lets me in, and locks the door behind us.
Her apartment is exactly what I need, vibrant, chaotic, fully alive. The scent of roasted coffee, turpentine, old books, and citrus oil clings to the warm air like a lived-in story. Canvases lean against the walls like half-finished thoughts, some brilliant, some quietly waiting. Unframed sketches sit beside mugs full of brushes. Strands of fairy lights glow low over the windows, and a cracked bulb over the stove casts long golden streaks across the hardwood floor like sunlight caught in amber. It’s the kindof place that welcomes mess. But tonight, I feel like a crack even this space can’t carry. I feel like something brittle and breaking.
Sienna disappears into the kitchen and returns with a blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon. She drapes it over my shoulders like she’s done it a hundred times, her fingers brushing my skin, warm and grounding.
“You don’t have to explain,” she says, voice low and rough with sleep. “But if you need to throw something, aim for the pillows. I hate them.”
I collapse onto her couch, fists clenched in the folds of the blanket. The cushions dip and hold me like a memory. The words spill out in broken fragments, unpolished, vulnerable. I tell her Jack said he had a work call. That the timing didn’t add up. That the woman she saw with him felt too familiar, too close. That I ran because I’ve been here before and didn’t want to be here again. The words drag across my throat like sandpaper.
She listens like it’s a muscle memory. Her eyes don’t flicker away, even once. She holds my gaze the way only someone who knows how to survive can.
When I finish, she pours a splash of whiskey into a chipped teacup and presses it into my hands. It’s still warm from her palms, and the ceramic bites into my fingers with a grounding kind of heat.
“Men lie,” she says simply. “And I wish I could tell you Jack isn’t one of them. But I only saw a flash. A woman. A smile. His hand on her back. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything. I don’t know. But you should.”
