Thanks for tuning in as I post chapters of my new novel When Ivy Met Adam: A second chance, forced proximity, sexy, queer love-triangle romance. Your feedback is everything. Please post comments here or email me. I love hearing what you think.

Prologue (old) Prologue (new) Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapters 8&9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 (old) Chapter 15 (new) Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapters 22&23 Chapter 26*

*No chapters are missing. They just got renumbered! 🤓

Chapter 27- Ivy

A few days later, I sit at my desk in my Los Angeles law office, surrounded by towering stacks of papers and legal briefs. (Nope, not any neater even though I’m a grown-up professional now. Sigh.) I’m sorting through them, deciding what to pack, what to pass on to my associates, what to shred. It’s time for a new chapter in my life. My new job is with a nonprofit organization dedicated to securing the full civil rights of the LGBTQIA+ community through legal action, education, and public policy initiatives. And the best part? The office is located nearly 3,000 miles away in South Florida.

As I stare out the window, the sun is baking the city. I’m elated and anxious, heartsick and hopeful, happy and miserable, all rolled into one. I’m eager to dive into this new chapter of my life and make a real difference for the LGBTQIA+ community. Especially in a Don’t Say Gay state where this work is most important. Of course, I’m sad to leave my mentees here—we’ve already said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch. (The good news is that they’re each on solid ground right now. I’m not sure I could leave if any of them were in crisis mode.)

Getting up from my chair, I make a meaningless lap around my office. I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. I’ve lost something? Forgotten something? The only thing missing, I know, is Adam. But I remind myself that this move is what’s best for me—putting an entire continent between me and our shared past. 

I’m going to further my career. And for the humidity (you know I cannot resist a tropical clime!). And because this is vital work at a pivotal time. Those are all very high priorities. But I’m also going to give time and distance a chance to help me forgive Adam for hurting me. (I’m not sure how I think time and distance will convince me to trust him. Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking?) 

Packing my apartment later this evening, I find a box of things from college. Lots of photos of the two of us. 

Adam believes if he can love me hard enough—if he pours into me all of his confidence in me, his love for me, his hope for our future together—that I’ll somehow “get it” and be okay. What he doesn’t understand is that he cannot do this for me. Oh, wait. I guess that means I have to understand that no one can do this for me. All my life, I’ve waited for my mom to wake up one day and love me unconditionally. Or for Instagram to stop judging me for liking both men and women. Or for Iris’s words to sink in—“you are enough, Ivy. You don’t need anything from anyone to be happy.” 

Flipping through the photos in the box, I feel all the things. Some make me smile. One of the two of us making funny faces in a selfie. A strip of photos from a photobooth at the beach one spring break. Some make me want to cry. One of our feet, side by side in the sand, makes me remember all our drives out to Warren Dunes. A selfie of us kissing I didn’t even remember I had.

I pull out all the photos of us that are the most Adam-like. Photos of just our hands. Photos of Adam in a suit. I sift out the photos where Adam looks anything less than the man he would become. The photo of him in a ballgown headed to a formal—that goes in the to-be-destroyed pile. A photo of him in a bikini, trash pile. But a photo on the same trip of him in shorts and t-shirt with his strong arms wrapped around me—that’s a keeper. 

After I sort through all the photos I want to preserve, I place them lovingly in the cigar box where I was storing them. Then I place the images that could hurt Adam in the bathroom sink and burn them. Carefully I gather up the ashes, put them in an envelope, and put the envelope in the cigar box too. I write a note. Then, before I can change my mind, I take the box to the UPS store to ship it to Adam. 

That done, I go back to packing. I’m not crying, you’re crying. Shut up.