3. CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

Ivy

17 DAYS UNTIL RED CARPET EVENT

"Why would I order a rice sculpture? I didn't even know this is something that existed," I plead into the phone as I stare at a very detailed New York skyline sample sculpture that's outside of my office at Sparks Headquarters.

It's massive.

It's kind of blocking my door.

It's entirely made of rice.

It's mocking the lunch I skipped to accept the delivery.

The person on the phone finds my order, confirms it is supposed to be ice, and is trying to figure out what happened and how to get me a new sculpture to approve.

Colleagues snicker and cover their mouths when they see what I'm dealing with. I don't have the energy to hide my irritation and try to be positive since I'm rarely in the office and don't want to give anyone the wrong impression. The last of my patience and understanding just floated away the moment I realized another mistake had been made .

The last few days have been brutal. Wrong. Unpredictable. For someone who attempts to account for the expected, and any single thing that could go amiss, these days have been my nightmare.

In theory, the event is planned and we're getting to the end, but when it comes to execution, anything that could possibly come up has. Rice sculptures instead of ice sculptures, double invites being sent to some guests while others haven't received a single one, and the venue getting the time wrong for the event which led to a double booking.

A project that was once ahead of schedule yesterday is now drastically behind. I also am trying to build up the poor social media intern who just bursts into tears every time she sees me—per her explanation, she struggles with authority. She thrives on being perfect, giving me things before I ask for them, and knowing the answers. It's like she's a younger version of myself, but let's be real, I'm still an emotional human. I don't see that changing, ever, because no matter how much therapy I do or meds I take, I still cry about everything.

I'm afraid to move the cart it's set on, so I suck in my stomach and attempt to slink into my office. I drop my phone and try to catch it, which has me taking out the end of the sculpture. Rice is everywhere. My phone is drowning in rice.

The breath I sigh out in crippling defeat is hard to get back. My lungs are tight—there's no room for air. Pins, needles, and invisible knives dance on the top of my skin. The wave is expected but it's still somehow surprising. The anxiety and panic is hot. Unrelenting—like a bully you can't outrun.

I grab my phone from the smashed rice—cringing at that sensory experience—move the cart, and close my door. Grains of rice litter my floor and into the hallway.

As the door clicks, there's a light knock on the door .

"I need a minute," I scratch out, trying to keep it together.

"This is kind of an emergency." The small voice from Olivia, our very young social media intern, is barely audible.

She's young. She's standing in rice. She needs help. Your meltdown can wait.

I open the door, gathering myself as much as I can. "What's up?" I ask.

Looks like I'm not the only one having a meltdown—tears run down Olivia's face. Immediately, I put my hand on her shoulder and try to catch her eyes but she stares down at the phone in her hand.

"Olivia, it can't be that bad. Tell me what's wrong."

She snaps up, pressing her lips together, eyes wide going back and forth from me to the phone.

"You know how we spent an entire week filming, editing, loading, and getting social media posts ready for the entire duration of the lead up to the event? And we scheduled each post for a specific date and time, by channel?"

Of course I do. I'll never forget that week for as long as I live. The idea was good, in theory, but it was definitely an over commitment. But, Olivia and I worked together, far too many hours of overtime and take out Thai food, to get everything done.

"Yes," I answer, nervous for what's about to come next.

"Well, I don't know what happened, or how it happened, but all the posts just posted, to all channels. Every single piece of content in a single day." She shows me her phone, and I scroll the feed of our event account, which indeed has a flood of content.

Fuck me.

"We need to delete them but that means—"

"We'll lose all the edits," we say in tandem.

The freaking algorithm. All of the social media channels are at each other's throats, vying for everyone's attention and focus. If you don't edit your content, in that specific app for posting, it basically gets buried and no one will see it. Olivia and I decided we wouldn't use video or graphic design software, but that we'd edit each one in each app.

I put my head in my hands and then rub my temples. There's no amount of deep breathing or problem solving which will bring back the time and effort lost from this.

"There's nothing we can do besides delete it and redo the content for the next few days—get as far as you can with the rest of today. Can you do that?" I ask while my hand is on the door, eager to close it.

Olivia nods, pressing her phone to her chest.

I put on my fakest smile and nod my head up and down.

"Awesome. Let's meet tomorrow morning to figure out the rest," I say right before closing the door.

If there wasn't rice on the floor, I'd slide my back down the door and cry right here, but the thought of smashing rice into the carpet is too depressing, so I go to the side of my desk. I sit on the floor, lean back, and put my head in between my knees.

The tears are quick but the anxiety attack is quicker.

I didn't even realize my phone was dead. I plug it in, and as soon as it has enough juice, the notifications pour in: missed texts, calls, and a call from Holland .

I prop my phone up, using my laptop charging cord and a tape dispenser, and FaceTime Holland. Just when I think he's not going to pick up, his face fills the little screen. Simply seeing him lifts some of the heavy I went through today.

"Baby!" he says, his tone lifted and a smirk pulling at one side of his mouth.

"I'm sorry I missed your call earlier. Today's been… something." I finish typing out an email, click send, and shift my attention to my phone.

"Are you still at work?" Holland's face looks around, taking in the background which is obviously not my apartment.

"Yes, today was a disaster. I'm almost through my to-do list for the day and I'll be—"

He interrupts, "Did you eat? It's almost 9 PM."

Is it really? I knew it was late but didn't think it was that late.

My lack of answer gives me away.

"Ivy. You need to eat. You also need to go home. The work will be there tomorrow." The softness in his voice makes me ache for him, for my real home, his arms around me.

Naturally, I burst into tears. I launch into the long list of everything that went wrong today, leaving no detail spared. Holland listens to all of it, only interrupting to ask clarifying questions when the crying strangles my words.

When I'm done, Holland pauses, letting me wipe my eyes and try to gather myself.

"Wait a second, so a company sent you a rice sculpture, for a winter charity event? Rice, like the grain?" He laughs through the end of his question .

For the first time in a while, I let out an honest laugh. It's not one fueled by discomfort or sarcasm, but because something is funny.

"Yes! It makes no sense. You get it."

"I don't know about that, but I get you. I'm sorry today was hard. Tomorrow might be better… I'm betting there's going to be less rice, at least?" Holland shrugs his shoulders. He's sitting at the small table in the kitchen and seeing him in our space makes me feel better. "You're doing a good job, Ivy. Sparks is lucky to have you and this event is going to be amazing."

"I hope you're right." I dab the last of my tears.

"And don't ask yourself if you're giving enough. From here, it might be too much. Don't forget to take care of the woman I love so much." And if that wasn't sweet enough, Slate howls from somewhere. "Pretend Slate agrees and isn't being teased by a bird through the patio glassdoor." Holland laughs.

"I love you," I mutter as I slump back into the office chair, my stomach rumbling like my life is an ironic sitcom.

"Get out of the office, grab Thai food on your way home, and put Spider-Man on."

I put my elbows on my desk and set my head in my hands, grinning at Holland. I'm thinking back to when we first met and I asked if he was named after Tom Holland. Obviously he wasn't, considering he was born years before Tom Holland.

"I'm going to pack up and do just that. I'll text you when I'm home."

Holland waves and ends the call.

I stare at the blank screen, thinking about how much my life has changed since I've met him. When this opportunity was offered to me, I was nervous to take it. I wondered how I'd feel coming back to the city I left, the chaos and 24/7 vibes I once adored. Would I second-guess my decision to leave, moving to the Pacific Northwest, to the house tucked in the woods with the lodge owner?

The whole "city girl leaves her apartment for the man in the woods" line isn't lost on me. I know what it looks like from the outside, but, you know what? No one knows what that shift felt like—how I went from sprinting to a slow walk. My legs were about to give out from running, holding myself up through things I shouldn't have had to, and I needed a reset.

Holland, and the way he loves me, is the slow walk I didn't know I needed.

A smile, one I wasn't sure I'd find today, paints my lips as I pack my bag and leave the office.