Writing On The Wall (The King Brothers Duology #2)

Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

IVY

I wasn’t planning on seeing Ethan today, but that’s not the reason I put a little extra effort into my appearance. I’m visiting Gran and then Opal and Gail later.

That’s the reason.

The only reason.

I opt for denim overalls over my favorite flower patterned tank-top—nothing extravagant. My overalls are adorned with fingerprint-shaped paint smudges—clear evidence of my profession since glitter glue and poster paint find their way onto everything I wear. My teal wedges and a cherry pink hair bow complete my look.

Sometimes I entertain the idea of stepping out in flip-flops or Crocs. I admittedly find their comfort alluring. But then I’m reminded of the pizza delivery guy who mistook me for a kid who was home alone last month, or the embarrassment I feel each time I have to get a step stool just to fetch a glass from the cupboard for a guest in my own kitchen.

It’s no wonder why I prioritize the added height over comfort .

“So what’s the plan for today?” I call out, walking down the hallway to find the living room empty. “Ethan?”

I lift a blind open, looking up and down the street. No truck.

Rude.

My hands rest on my hips as I huff out a breath, reading over Ethan’s fix-it list . My stomach cuts an annoying little flip when my eyes land on the message he must have added to the wall after I left last night.

“Your ladder is crap. Don’t climb it. Will bring new one.”

This man put the word crap on my wall. He should come with a warning: Inclined to aggravate and cause confusion. I don’t know what to make of his grouchy protectiveness.

I decide to call Ember while I rip off wall paper in the kitchen.

“Vee! How’s the reno going?”

“Meh. It’s going.”

“Ethan being helpful?”

I snort out a laugh. “If you call grumpy and overly protective helpful, then sure.”

“Just to be clear, it is Ethan King we’re talking about, right?”

“The one and only.” I grunt, stepping onto a stool to start scraping the wall.

“Huh,” she replies thoughtfully.

“What, huh ?” I frown, flicking pieces of wallpaper off my shoulder.

“Nothing. It’s just interesting. Ethan has always seemed so laid back. But he seems different with you.”

“Yeah, apparently that’s ‘cause my very existence annoys him.”

“Did you just roll your eyes?”

“You’ll never know.” I continue scraping. “Hang on,” I tell Ember when I hear a car door shut. For the second time today, I peek through my blinds, this time finding Ethan’s truck backed into my driveway.

I guess the grump has decided to return after all.

“What’s happening?” Ember asks.

“Ethan was here this morning. Then he wasn’t. Now he’s back.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with the details,” she drawls sarcastically. “Um, Earth to Ivy,” she calls out a moment later when I stop replying.

“Sorry. There’s a lot unfolding.”

“You’re literally torturing me.”

“Hang on, let my eyeballs catch up.” I stare at the scenario playing out. “It’s actually kind of delightful. Ethan is doing the ‘I just walked into a spiderweb’ dance next to his truck.”

“Unexpected. Please continue.”

“Whoa—okay. Um…his shirt just came off…”

“A show. Nice. More details?”

“He’s shaking his shirt out. The shirt is being inspected like it’s covered in toxic chemicals.”

I’m hiding beside the window with one hand lifting a single blind, completely transfixed by Ethan’s golden skin.

“Come on, I need updates!” Ember shouts, making me wince and pull the phone away from my ear.

“He’s still looking for something, but the shirt has been given the all clear. Boots and ground are being investigated.”

Ethan does a full body shiver, seemingly giving up on his search. “Oh my gosh! Is Ethan scared of spiders ?” I squeal, and the grin on my face nearly touches my ears. “This is amazing,” I whisper.

“I’m concerned about your level of excitement over this,” Ember says in return. “Unless you’re plotting ways to get him out of his shirt again? ”

I scoff, dropping the blind as Ethan ends his performance and stomps toward the garage, still topless except for the tool belt he’s got slung over his bare shoulder.

“It’s just something to keep in my pocket, a little ammunition.”

“You’re starting a war.”

“Ethan started this war the first day we met, and you know it.” I scowl.

“Fine. What did you call about again?” she asks over a yawn.

“Just checking in. I’m doing mindless work and need the company.”

“Go find the shirtless grump, and you’ll have some.”

I walk back to the kitchen and pick up the scraper, staring up at the faded wallpaper that’s been there for decades, the one Gran probably picked out. “I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later. He’s doing something in the garage.”

“That man never slows down.”

I hoist myself up onto a counter, grunting out my reply. “True.” Another reminder that this town won’t keep him here.

“Love you, Vee. Don’t murder anyone.”

“But Nicolas taught me so much about how to get away with it,” I joke, referring to Ember’s cat and his crime show obsession. “Love you, Em. I’ll see you soon.”

I scrape away for the next ten minutes, peeling away the layers like old memories that have imprinted themselves into the walls.

I manage to get the majority of the wallpaper off, but there are still a few stubborn parts that will need to be sprayed. That’s one thing I managed to research on my lunch break yesterday.

Dry strips of the paper rustle on the countertop as I shift around. I probably should have covered the area before I started.

Acknowledging that I have dyslexia—if only to myself—has meant coming to terms with doing things in an order that might seem strange to others. It’s all part of my life story of trial and error. Try, re-adjust. Try, re-adjust.

Sometimes it feels like pushing a wagon. For maximum efficiency, a wagon is designed to be pulled, but when my brain defaults to pushing, I have to question whether I’m approaching tasks in the most logical and energy-efficient manner.

From the looks of the mess surrounding me, there most likely was a more efficient way to go about this. I begin my descent, but my shoe slides over a strip of paper on the first step.

I instinctively reach out when I slip, scraping my arm against the rusty hinge I left behind after removing a cupboard door last night.

Ouch.

Slowly this time, I make it to the floor without further injury and go directly to the bathroom where I keep the first aid kit. I’ve done this too many times lately.

I clean the scrape below my elbow and select a Mandalorian Band-Aid. My class is on a Star Wars trend, and they love it when I jump on the bandwagon for whatever they’re into.

I walk back into the kitchen and find Ethan there with his shirt back on— whomp-whomp. His back is turned to me and his hands rest on his hips as he surveys the mess I’ve created.

He peers over his shoulder when he hears me shuffling closer. Eyes with the gray of an impending storm sweep over my newest Band-Aid. His body pivots until he’s facing me, his gaze tethered to my arm the whole time.

He lifts a hand with a shake of his head, as if to ask ‘how. ’

I roll my eyes dramatically and stick my tongue out in response. But, come on, I hang out with eight-year-olds all day. Can you blame me if my comebacks are a bit on the childish side?

“Do you walk around with your eyes closed? How are you this accident prone?” he asks, his voice deep and filled with annoyance.

“Um, rude . My spatial awareness may need improving, but allow me to remind you about rule number three.” I step forward and poke him in the chest, my frown deepening at how un-squishy it feels. “Why are you here, anyway? I thought you left.”

He turns and saunters to a cabinet, opening and closing doors. “Where are your mugs?”

When he looks my way, I unfold an arm and point to one of the lower cupboards. He opens it to find the two mugs, two glasses, and two plates that occupy the space. I can’t bring myself to unpack everything, only to have to repack it all when I install new cabinets—which will hopefully be sooner than later.

Ethan picks a mug—the one with 2006 Mr. Darcy’s face on it—and a grin slowly takes over his face, like we’re sharing an inside joke. But I furrow my brow. No way he knows who that is.

He holds the mug under the sink and flicks the tap to fill it up, offering it to me like a proud cat that just dropped its prey onto my lap.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask.

“Feel it,” he says, nudging the mug closer.

I scrunch up my nose and curl a hand around the mug, then my eyes widen in surprise. “You fixed the water heater?”

“Of course I did.” He beams .

“You could have just asked me to stick my hand under the faucet. This was a weird approach.”

“Dang it, Ivy,” he groans, setting the cup down in the sink. “Can’t you just thank me? And seriously, I know I’m about to break another rule, but help me understand why you’re wearing shoes like that for a job like this?” He gestures over the mess I left on the counter. I may be overly defensive at times, but he isn’t putting a whole lot of effort into not being an a-hole, either.

“I’d think my reasons for wearing shoes with added height were pretty obvious.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t get it. Typical.

He’s unknowingly just placed the last straw on this camel’s back.

“I’m short , okay? You think I like not having access to the top shelves at the grocery store? Or having people talk to me like I’m a kid? Or not having the freedom to wear a pair of those fugly Crocs? Everyone keeps saying it’s like walking on air, but I’ll never know, because they’d make me look even more like a child.”

By the end of my rant, I find myself gasping for breath, realizing that perhaps the tightly sealed lid on the jar containing my feelings isn’t quite as secure as I once believed.

There are people with much harder struggles than ours, Ivy, My mother would always say. With a husband so hell-bent on philanthropy, I’m sure she got plenty of practice with stuffing her own feelings into a jar. It’s never good to focus too much on our own problems, was another phrase I regularly overheard.

As unhealthy as it is, keeping the lid on tight has just become a matter of survival.

Ethan’s eyes move around the room like he’s seeing things from my perspective for the first time. “ Look, I’m sorry. I can’t say I get it, but I can see that it must be hard for you.” He looks away while one hand clenches over the knuckles of the other.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I groan when I pull it out and read Ross’s messages.

Ross

I’m so close to getting your money

I just need $1000 and I’ll be set

I’ll add it to what I owe you. Promise

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s my brother. He’s…” A heavy sigh escapes from my chest. “I dunno what he is…” I look up, mirroring the frown on Ethan’s face. “Anyway, it’s just not what I need right now.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Why is this man so intent on helping me? He does it with such reluctance but then his actions occasionally do the opposite.

“You’re already helping me, Ethan. And I am grateful.”

His mouth lifts with the smallest hint of a smile, but his eyes soften, telling me how much he likes the acknowledgement and begging me to continue letting down my guard. But I’ve already revealed too much.

He must see a change in my expression because he purses his lips, regarding me like I’m a ticking bomb. “I’ll get started on the ceiling board,” he offers after a while.

“I’m heading out soon.” I reply, unsure how to get the bits of vulnerability I let escape back where they belong. “Oh, the money came through from the lawyer. Can you…” I want to say give me your receipts, but it’ll take me forever to figure them out. “Can you send me a CashApp request for the amount I owe you?”

“Sure,” he says, his features softening while he holds my gaze. It’s a look that says he understands, and it causes a rush of warmth inside me.

“You’ll lock up if I’m not back when you leave?”

He pauses to frown. “How long are you planning on being out?”

“How long are you planning on being here ?”

“Fine. Yes, I’ll lock up while you galavant,” he grumbles, that frown turning into a scowl.

“Thank you.”

As I walk into the living room, a pang of guilt hits me. I consider going back to apologize, but then my eyes land on the list on the wall and the note Ethan left me last night.

I grab one of his weird pencils, a crazy, scary idea forming in my head. Despite Ethan’s grumpy demeanor—directed at me alone, it seems—the fact is, he’s still going out of his way to help me. Maybe it’s time for me to grab onto that olive branch and make this situation more pleasant for both of us.

Except the thought of accepting Ethan’s olive branch makes me want to hurl.

Just do it, Ivy. It’s the right thing. Who cares what he thinks, anyway?