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

Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

IVY

I wake up to find my body curled around Ethan’s from behind, clinging to him like a spider monkey on its mama’s back.

Why does he smell so good? I take a deep breath, savoring his warmth. How long can I enjoy this before I’ll need to extricate myself without waking him? I bet he’s an early riser.

Dragging myself away from sleepy-time Ethan will feel like tearing myself away from the dessert table at a buffet. Longing and doubt begin swirling in my mind, and I haven’t even left him yet. I find myself once again questioning my methods, wondering whether ignoring my growing feelings for him is really the best way to move forward or if I’m just taking the scenic route to disaster.

Yet, amidst the uncertainty, there’s a blazing inferno between Ethan and me. He’s unveiled this tender, caring side that has me gravitating toward him faster than most women to a shoe sale. It’s like he has a secret decoder ring to my soul. In his eyes, I see recognition, understanding, acceptance—the kind of acceptance that slices through the barriers I’ve built around my heart. Besides Gran, and occasionally Opal, no one else has bothered to look beyond the facade I present to the world. But Ethan? He’s the MVP of breaking down my walls, even though he’s only a rookie.

Ember would have tried if I’d have allowed her, but I’ve perfected the art of the poker face with her, since she’s always had her own plate full of family drama.

So here I am, stuck between a rock and a hard place, trying to figure out if I should stick to my guns or throw caution to the wind and let Ethan sweep me off my feet.

Self-preservation ultimately wins this particular battle, if not the war. I slink out of bed, grabbing my phone and some fresh clothes before tiptoeing to the bathroom. I replace the bandage on my wound after checking to make sure the area doesn’t show signs of infection. After I’ve dressed, I find myself standing in the living room, staring at The Wall. I may not be jumping into Ethan’s open arms, but I can at least admit I have room for growth in the area of letting people in. So in the name of personal growth, I pick up one of Ethan’s pencils to scribble another message. It’s a bold move on my part, but I try not to overthink it after officially deciding to not be attracted to Ethan. I’m stubborn. I can will it into reality.

Surprisingly, Ethan still hasn’t risen from bed by the time I’m out the door. I wait in line at a drive-thru pharmacy to pick up my antibiotics, relieved that I still have enough time to grab a coffee before meeting Ember. I skipped making coffee at home because the thought of facing awkward small talk after waking up next to my previously sworn enemy makes me want to move to a new country. I can’t shake the memory of having my hand pressed against his rigid stomach. I may be tiny, but there’s no way he hadn’t noticed my big-spoon impression this morning, right?

My phone rings as I pull into a Starbucks, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I read the name on my screen .

“Hey, Mom!” I answer.

“Ivy, sweetheart, I’m so glad we reached you! How are you? How’s school going?”

I feel like I’ve been hearing these same polite, impersonal questions for the past twenty years. My reply hasn’t changed either. “It’s going great. Where are you guys now?”

“We’re about to drive to Kathmandu, then we fly to Hyderabad tomorrow. It’s so beautiful here—you won’t believe the views! And the people are incredible. I know I keep saying they’re so friendly, but they really have been treating us like family.”

“That’s great, Mom. Hang on a sec,”

I inch forward, covering the phone to give my coffee order. “Okay, I’m back. Is Dad still buying every souvenir he finds?”

She clicks her tongue mirthfully. “He’s out of control. We had to purchase a bigger luggage bag. Be prepared for your apartment to look like a travel shop,” she says with a laugh.

“Oh, I moved,” I tell her while mouthing a “thank you” to the attendant handing over my coffee. It feels wrong to know every intricate detail of my parents’ travels while they remain oblivious to the significant changes in my life. Although I can take some responsibility for this disconnect, it’s mostly a result of keeping our conversations superficial to avoid mentioning Ross. Mom becomes emotional whenever I broach the subject, so Dad swiftly changes the topic to his favorite true crime podcast. As a result, we stick to safe, surface-level topics, never delving deeper. This pattern isn’t new; I initiated it to sidestep being open about the dyslexia challenges I faced growing up.

When I was about ten years old, a neighbor, Miss Kathy, came over one evening to comfort Mom after a particularly explosive interaction with Ross. Miss Kathy had made me a sandwich while my parents had gone off to tend to Ross, getting the peanut butter-to-jelly ratio all wrong. I frowned as she slid the plate towards me, and she shook her head with a tsk. “I’m afraid they need you to be the good one, Ivy June, the kid they don’t have to stress about.”

I guess it stuck.

I switch the call over to speakerphone and Mom’s voice fills my car. “Oh! Why’d you move?”

They’re usually too busy for detailed questions, which works in my favor when I need to give a quick, drama-free recap: “Gran gave me her house; the old tenants moved out, so I’m fixing it up.”

“Well, sweetheart, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad you’re the one restoring it. Dad sends his love, too. We’ve gotta go, our transport just arrived. I love you, my Ju-ju Bean.”

“Love you, Mom, bye.”

With every phone call that passes where we continue to ignore Ross’s situation, I can’t shake the haunting realization that it could have easily been the other way around. I might have been the misunderstood child struggling under their scrutiny, battling unseen demons. I could have been the one who, instead of concealing everything, turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms or cried out for attention in misguided ways.

I might have been the one to lose their confidence. Ross only has my faith left. Sure—he’s acting like a big idiot—but even idiots need someone believing in them to earn redemption.

Being the pro that I am, I pack all those feelings into my trusty jar and focus on enjoying my coffee.