That’s when it happened.
We didn’t touch. It wasn’t about that.
When she decided—without saying it—that I was something she could step toward.
The way she looked at me when she realized she wasn’t as guarded with me as she had to be around everyone else.
People think those decisions are loud.
They’re not. They’re quiet. Internal. Almost invisible.
But they’re permanent.
She won’t remember it like that, I’m sure.
She’ll say it was nothing.
A blur. A party. A random night.
That’s fine.
Memory isn’t about accuracy.
It’s about ownership.
And that night was mine.
CHAPTER 10
IVY
A few days later
Avoice comes over the loudspeaker, breaking through my true crime podcast to announce we’re beginning our descent.
I glance over the passenger next to me and out the window, my stomach flipping at the sight of Ravelle coming into view below me like a tiny city built for ants.
Even from this distance, the city fills me with an anticipatory spark, a twinge of possibility that just about anything could happen. It’s one of those places that takes on a life of its own, a promise of magic that goes beyond a typical place.
From up here, you can read it like a map of human want. The waterfront catches the light first—all champagne and white linen, old money pretending the rest of the city doesn't exist. Further in, a dense tangle of markets and commerce, the city's beating heart.
And—tucked between that and the dark forest that spiders out to the city’s darkest edges, like something the city keepsbehind its back—a neighborhood that doesn't appear on any tourist map. Locals call it the Anything Goes—when they call it anything at all.
They won't tell you what happens there. They'll just tilt their chin in its direction and let you fill in the blanks. From up here, it's the one part of Ravelle that doesn't glitter—or maybe it glitters even more, just in a different way.
The podcast hosts suddenly crack up laughing, breaking me out of my reverie.
The plane lands, and when I disembark I follow the signs to the baggage claim.
After a few minutes of waiting around, the red light flashes and there’s a loud beep before luggage starts its trip around the carousel. Passenger after passenger grabs their suitcases, until I’m the last person standing there.
The carousel stops.
Mine never comes.
I wait anyway.
Long enough that it starts to feel stupid.