Page 75 of Light My Fire Three Times
Another buzz. I bite down a curse and shove the phone in the console. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Except it’s not out of mind. Not even close.
By the time I pull up to Ivy’s driveway, my jaw might as well have been wired shut. The porch light is glowing, warm and inviting, and I can hear the muffled chaos inside—the laughter, the shouting, the faint cry of one of the triplets demanding attention.
For a second, I sit there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the house and trying to remember why I always look forward to this.
Because it’s grounding. Because it reminds me of what matters. Because no matter how insane life gets, Ivy’s always here, holding it all together—a domestic superhero.
I kill the engine, step out into the crisp air, and grab the six-pack from the passenger seat. My peace offering. It won’t save me from Ivy’s side eye if I walk in late again, but at least it’s something.
As I head up the walkway, my phone buzzes one last time, almost as if it knows I’m about to abandon it for the night. I don’t check it. Can’t. If I look now, I’ll spiral, and the last thing I need is to walk in there with a storm cloud over my head.
So I shove the thought of Vanessa down, bury it under the promise of loud voices, clinking plates, and the smell of Ivy’s cooking.
The front door isn’t even locked. Typical Ivy. She still thinks this is the kind of town where you can leave the keys in your car and nobody’ll touch it.
I step inside, and the warmth hits me first. The heat from the oven, the wood stove going strong, and the smell… Wow, the smell. Whatever she’s cooking tonight is rich, savory, and precisely what my mood needs.
“About time,” Ivy calls from the kitchen, cutting through the noise loud as a general on the front lines. “You’re late.”
“Love you too, sis,” I shoot back, toeing off my boots by the door.
The house is pure chaos. Toys scattered across the floor, a stray sock on the stairs, and Mia sitting in the middle of it all with a plastic spoon in her mouth.
“Uncle Jesse!” Penny rockets toward me before I can even set the six-pack down. Kid's got the grip of a python.
“Hey, buddy.” I scoop her up for a second before setting her back down, mainly because I value my spine.
She takes off again, yelling something about showing me a dinosaur that apparently has superpowers.
“Hey, Jesse,” Mitchell calls out to me. “Settle an argument for me.”
I groan. “Already? I’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“That’s thirty seconds too long for you to avoid contributing,” Mitchell says, leaning back in his chair.
Timothy gestures between them with a breadstick. “We’re at a stalemate here, man. Need a tie breaker.”
I kick the door shut with my heel and sigh. “What is it this time? Who would win in a fight, Batman or Iron Man? Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“Worse,” Freddie pipes up from the corner, already grinning. “They’re arguing over whether lasagna counts as pasta.”
I stare at them for a second. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Mitchell crosses his arms. “I say it’s not. It’s layered. It’s its own category.”
“And I,” Timothy says with all the self-righteousness of a cat cleaning itself in public, “say pasta is pasta. You put noodles in it? Pasta.”
Freddie raises his beer. “Meanwhile, I’m just here for the show.”
I drag a hand down my face. “You guys need hobbies.”
Mitchell grins. “Come on, Jess. Make the call.”
I glance toward the kitchen, where Ivy’s voice cuts through the chaos. “If you bozos don’t start setting the table, I’m feeding this to the dog!”
“See?” I point toward the kitchen. “That’s my answer. Ask her before she buries you in lasagna.”
Timothy chuckles, sliding a plate stack into my hands. “Deflection noted. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re wrong.”
