Page 97 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
Waiting is a posture your body forgets how to hold until you need it. I learn it again next to the railing, eyes trained on the mouth of the corridor where travelers spill out, blinking, adjusting to new air. Every group feels like it could be her for a millisecond: the girl in a denim jacket hugging her aunt, the grad student with headphones and a plant balanced on a suitcase, the teenage boy pushing a cart like it’s a chariot. And then I see her.
It’s not dramatic. She isn’t backlit by a halo of light or music. It’s one detail and then a cascade: the dark hair braided down the back of a faded hoodie, the set of her shoulders that says she learned how to carry a bag too heavy for her and made it look easy, the scuffed suitcase with stickers layered in a way that means they tell a story. One is a cracked sunflower. One is a cartoon whale. And one, bold white letters on a black background, reads: DELETE MY BROWSER HISTORY. The corners are worn, like it’s been there for years. I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile. Beside me, Jack notices too; his jaw shifts, the faintest twitch that says we’re talking about that later.
She has Jack’s mouth, but softer around the edges, and a look that is neither hard nor fragile, just… reserved. The kind of careful that comes from practice.
“Emma,” Jack says when she’s within reach, the word steady, unforced. “Hey.”
She stops. Fingers looped through the handle of her carry-on. The suitcase wheels tilt, kiss the tile, stop moving. Her eyes lift to his and we all stay inside that split second that feels like it might decide the shape of the next ten years.
“Hi,” she says. It’s simple. Her chin lifts a fraction. Then her gaze flicks to me, curious more than wary.
I step in just enough to be a person, not a concept. “Hi, Emma. I’m Ivy.” I keep my voice soft, ordinary. “It’s really good to meet you. I, uh… made you something.” I lift the bag and then pause. “Or, I brought something. No pressure.”
A notch of relief eases through her expression, like I chose the right door. She slides the suitcase handle down and takes the bag. “Thanks.” She peeks inside and her shoulders loosen a fraction. Her thumb touches the edge of the little palette. “Do you paint?”
“I do,” I say. “But you don’t have to. It’s just… paper. A place to put things.”
“I like drawing.” It slips out before she tightens again, like the truth beat her to the exit. She glances at Jack as if to measure what she’s just given.
“That’s good,” he says quietly, the way you answer a confidence with space. “You’ll have time for it. We’ll make sure.”
Santiago gestures. The floater peels off toward the luggage carousel. The driver appears with a cart as if conjured.
“We’ll head out this way,” Santiago murmurs, nodding toward a corridor that bypasses the knot of reunions and raised voices at the main exit.
Jack steps slightly to Emma’s outside shoulder without crowding. I take the other side, walking at her pace so she never has to adjust to mine.
“Do you want water?” I ask. “Gum? I have both. And a granola bar, but it’s a weird one. Jack says it tastes like cardboard.”
“It does,” Jack says, deadpan. A flicker of humor grazes Emma’s mouth.
“Water’s good,” she says. I pass it over without making it a ceremony.
The corridor opens to the curb. The second car idles two spots down. We pause just shy of the open door.
“I can ride in the back,” I tell her, not for Jack’s ears. “If you want the window.”
She studies my face like she’s looking for the seam between what I say and what I mean. “You can sit by the window,” she says, but softer than deflection. “I don’t get carsick.”
“Deal.” Jack registers the exchange with a microscopic nod that reads like gratitude.
We slide into the car, Emma first, then me, then Jack, and the city begins to spool back toward us. The door thunks shut on airport noise. Jack passes Emma another bottle of water but doesn’t pepper her with questions. She opens the journal, flips to the first page, and taps the pencil twice against it before looking out the window.
Jack’s hand finds mine on the seat between us. His thumb strokes the back of my hand once. It says a lot: thank you for not pushing, for showing up, for knowing when to speak and when to keep quiet.
Emma catches my reflection in the glass, then Jack’s. She looks away quickly, like she’s filing something for later. The skyline reveals itself in pieces. Outside, the city blurs intosomething softer as the sun lowers. Inside, none of us says what we’re really thinking. We head home.
48
JACK
Derek’s voice is finally gone. No more calls through lawyers, no more packages pushed through shell companies. Jail walls mean what they should now, silence. For the first time in months, I don’t wake expecting his shadow to find its way under the door. What waits for me instead is lighter, steadier. Mine.
The morning light spills through the windows, warm across the room like it’s in on the secret, that Emma’s here, and today feels different.
I’m up before the city decides to get loud. Habit, mostly. And the kind of nerves that mean something good is coming. I set the kettle on, line up mugs like a plan, pour orange juice into a tall glass that catches the light. Beyond the glass, the skyline is a pencil sketch warming into color.
A door down the hall opens. Soft step, softer pause. Ivy appears first, a loose sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, hair in a knot. Her eyes find mine and the tension between my shoulder blades lets go a notch.
