Almost Wasn't Enough

intro | ivy

Ivy

I've never been good at letting go, especially not when it comes to him.
It's been four years since college, two cities between us, and one hell of a secret we buried like it ain't still breathing under both our skin.

I'm now living in Houston, trying to make my dreams do more than survive. He's in Atlanta, doing what we always said he would—catching passes on Sundays, face on billboards, number in the lights. Micah Rhodes. WR1. Fan favorite. Country heartbreaker.

And mine. My best friend.

At least, he used to be.

We met at Prairie View.

"Before the Fire"

Back when he was just the young, cocky wide receiver with too many frat and football groupies to count  and I was just trying to pass my intro psych class.

People swear we were sneaking around from the start.

Like I came to that first party at Legends looking for him. Like he scoped me out on the yard and made it a mission.

But the truth is... we didn't even speak for the first three months of school.

I knew who he was, though. Everybody knew who Micah Rhodes was.

Wide receiver. Former track star. Four-star recruit. Gold chain always visible under his hoodie. A little too loud in the union. Had the kind of smile that made even the campus janitors blush when he said "Yes ma'am."

And I was just Ivy.

Pre-nursing. Delta legacy. Atlanta born.

Constantly trying to stay out of the drama that came with cliques and dorm gossip.

We met the way all stories like this start: randomly but exactly on time.

⸻

It was raining like the element gods had beef with us that day. I'd just left the student health center, trying to get across campus before my psych lab. My umbrella flipped inside out. My Crocs were soaked. And the strap on my backpack snapped.

I was standing under the awning near the fieldhouse, frustrated and over it, when he jogged up in all black Nike, hood up, a bag of ice wrapped around his hand.

He stopped when he saw me struggling with my backpack. "You good?"

I blinked. "Do I look good?"

He laughed. "Nah, you look like you got yo ass beat walking up that hill."

I rolled my eyes. "You Captain Obvious or somethin'?"

He grinned. "Nah. Captain of everything baby."

I scoffed. "Wow. So proud of you, Mr. PVAMU."

He tilted his head. "What's your name?"

I hesitated. "Ivy."

He smiled wider. "Like poison?"

"Like League."

He laughed again, big and boyish. "You smart and got jokes."

"I got places to be," I said, grabbing my bag again.

He stepped forward. "Here. Let me help."

He took the bag without waiting, holding it with his good hand.

"I'm Micah."

"I know."

He smirked. "You tryna be unimpressed, but I'm gon' grow on you."

He was right.
He did.

⸻

We started running into each other more and more—library, student union, late-night food runs. Somehow, he always ended up near me when he wasn't supposed to be.

He'd sit in the back of the library and "miraculously" help me with A&P flashcards. I helped him write his leadership paper after he tore his hamstring mid-season.

He said I was his good luck charm.
I told him he was my biggest distraction.

He called me "Lea" for Ivy League.
I called him "Kai."

What we built didn't start with sex. We never looked at one another in that way.

We still did acknowledge that he was man and I was a woman, grown and growing people. That never went unchallenged.

It didn't even start with romance. It started with late-night walks from the nursing building and inside jokes about professors who smelled like mothballs and beer. It started with ice packs and laughter, smart mouths and softer moments.

Somewhere between all of that... we became best friends.

And then one night, we kissed.

Just once.

But that was enough to make everything complicated.
..
He was cocky, fast-talking, with a smile that could melt through whatever walls I swore I had. I was the quiet one—head always in a book, heart tucked deep in my chest.

Until one late night after too many shots, when confessions got sloppy and clothes came off like they were never meant to be on.

Twice. That's all it took.

Two nights that rewrote the way I look at him, and the way he looked at me.

But then came Shayla.

Pretty, perfect Shayla with her soft voice and long curls.

She had the right timing.

I had the wrong heart.

Now, he's in love with her. Still calls me every other night though. Still says he misses me. Still says he dreams about the way I taste. Still says too much.

Not enough.

Always the wrong things.

"I can love y'all both," he told me once, voice low, crackling through the phone like a sin.

But love don't work like that. Not the kind I want. Not the kind I feel when I hear his name in the highlights and my body remembers every inch of his like a song that never stopped playing.

And the worst part? I still pick up when he calls.

Every damn time.