Page 64 of Ink Me Three Times
My stomach drops.
I don’t press. I don’t have to. The tension in his shoulders, the way he won’t quite meet my gaze… it says enough. It says everything.
This is aboutme.
They all know aboutme.
The realization hits like a cold wave. And for a second, I can’t breathe.
I clear my throat, force a tight smile. "Right. Well. I should… I should get out of your hair."
Freddie’s brow furrows. "Ivy…"
"No, it’s fine," I say too quickly. I scoop up my bag like it might explode if I don’t handle it gently.
As I bypass Penny, she blinks up at me from where she’s curled in a blanket, eyes still glued to the TV. "You’re leaving?"
"Yeah, kiddo. I’ve got some stuff to do." My voice sounds light, but it feels like it’s coming from somewhere very far away. "Thanks for letting me hog the couch."
Penny frowns a little, then gives a small wave. "Bye, Ivy."
"Bye, munchkin."
Freddie is watching me, tense. "Ivy…"
"Seriously. It’s fine." The words come out too fast. I move toward the door like it’s a lifeline. "See you in the morning."
"Ivy, wait a sec…"
But I’m already pulling the door open, already stepping outside.
If I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Or worse, something too real. Something I’m not ready to admit, even to myself.
The door shuts behind me, and the cool night air hits like a slap.
I walk fast.
Too fast.
Like I can outrun the heat in my face, the lump tightening in my throat, the panic curling in my gut.
Like if I keep moving, none of it, Freddie’s words, his silence, the fracture I’ve caused, can catch me.
And right now, that’s all I can do.
Just keep moving.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Timothy
The punching bagthuds under my fists, over and over, until my knuckles burn through the wraps. I don’t stop. Not yet.
Each strike lands with a sharp jolt up my forearms. Sweat drips into my eyes, stings, blurs the room. The wraps have slipped, and the fabric’s soaked through. Skin’s probably splitting underneath, but I don’t care. That’s the point.
The gym is quiet for a Friday night… just the soft clink of weights, the rhythmic hiss of someone’s jump rope, and muffled music bleeding through shitty earbuds across the room. My own thoughts are louder. That’s the problem.
I came here to work them out of me, beat them into submission, but they’re clinging on. Stubborn as hell. Gnawing.
