Page 77 of Light My Fire Three Times
I drop into my usual spot at the end of the table, force my shoulders to relax, and try to act normal. Try to focus on the smell of garlic bread instead of the storm brewing in my head.
The plates make their rounds, kids chatter, and for a second, it’s almost the peace I came here for. Then Ivy looks at me, and there’s nothing casual about her expression.
“Hey,” she says, leaning her elbows on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
I brace myself. “Shoot.”
“It’s about Olivia.”
The name hits me like a punch. My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What about her?”
Ivy tilts her head, studying me, trying to read what’s under my skin. “She’s been… quiet lately. Different. I know something’s going on, and she won’t tell me. But I heard she’s been spending time with Karl.”
My stomach tightens as I think about that damn kiss I witnessed. I’ve been trying hard not to think about that.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She waves it off. “I just… Karl’s your friend. Do you know anything? Is this… a thing?”
I glance down at my plate, suddenly fascinated by the marinara. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?” Ivy is calm, but I can hear the edge creeping in. “I’m just trying to make sure she’s okay, Jess. Olivia’s not great at picking the right guy, and if Karl’s gonna screw with her?—”
“He’s not.” The words come out sharper than I mean, a blade hitting the table. Ivy blinks, and the whole room feels too quiet for a second.
Mitchell, bless his soul, breaks the tension with a laugh. “Whoa. Somebody’s protective tonight.”
“Shut up, Mitch,” I snap before I can stop myself. “I just… don’t think he would.”
Ivy’s still looking at me, and I can feel the question in her eyes, the one I can’t let her ask. I shove a bite of food in my mouth, hoping it’ll keep me from saying something stupid.
“Well, Jesse, you have to admit, Karl isn’t exactly known for commitment.”
“Look,” I say after I swallow, trying for neutral. “Far as I know, they’re friends. That’s it. She’s staying at his place while the house gets fixed, and that’s it.”
Ivy doesn’t look convinced. “Hmm, I don’t think so. Iknowthere’s more, and I also know he hasn’t been treating her right.”
My fork stops dead on the plate.Hasn’t been treating her right?
“What do you mean by that?” The question comes out fast, too sharp.
Ivy narrows her eyes. “Just… things she’s said. It doesn’t seem like he’s serious about her, and I’m worried he’s playing her.”
My jaw tightens. “What has she said?”
Before she can answer, there’s a loud crash from the kitchen. Glass shattering. Then the unmistakable sound of Ivy’s beloved jam jar hitting the floor.
“Pickle!” Ivy shoots up, chair screeching back as she bolts toward the kitchen.
The rest of the table explodes into chaos. Mitchell jumps up, yelling something about saving the food, Timothy’s laughing so hard he’s practically choking, and Penny’s screaming, “But I loved that jar!”
I’m left gripping my fork, pulse hammering, while my one chance to get more out of Ivy disappears into a storm of barking and crashing.
I shove back from the table and follow, because what else can I do? The kitchen is a war zone. Spilled lasagna, broken glass, a guilty-looking Frenchie licking up jam like it’s his last meal. Ivy crouched down, muttering darkly as she grabbed for Pickle’s collar.
“Need a hand?” I ask, even though what I need is for everyone to leave so Ivy can finish what she was about to say.
“Unless your hand can rewind time and put my kitchen back together, nope,” she snaps, wrangling the dog toward the mudroom.
