The first thing that hits you about Boston in spring is the sll, not unpleasant, just distinctly urban coastal, like salt air wrestling with concrete and history.
Saudi Arabia ca and went like a fever dream. Ivy won, Blair got second. The jet lag and emotional whiplash from Bahrain caught up with hard, leaving alternating between unconsciousness and Ivy’s arms for most of that race weekend. When I wasn’t passed out in our trailer, I was tangled up with my fiancée, discovering a gentleness in her I’d never experienced before. The woman who terrorized competitors on track handled with such tender care it made my heart ache. I barely left our sanctuary except to watch her drive, content to exist in our private bubble.
Now we’re standing outside my mom’s apartnt building in Boston, the place I called ho whenever I wasn’t being dragged to racetracks during the second half of my childhood. The brick facade looks smaller than I rember, windows reflecting the late afternoon sun. My stomach twists itself into complicated knots as I stare up at the familiar structure.
Despite what I said a few weeks ago, Ivy said I’d regret not having my Mother at the wedding, so here we are.
“I wouldn’t peg you for a Boston guy,” Ivy says, squeezing my hand as she studies the building with curious purple eyes.
“That’s fair,” I reply, shifting my weight nervously.
The engagent ring feels suddenly heavier on my finger. We’re in Boston with a mission, to get married before Miami’s Grand Prix next week. The plan seed perfect when we hatched it, a quick ceremony in Arica before heading to the race. But now, standing outside my childhood ho with Ivy about to et my Mother, I’m questioning every life choice that led here.
Ivy glances at her watch for the third ti in five minutes. “Your mom sure is taking her ti to get ready.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s just... difficult in general.”
Difficult is putting it mildly. Mom’s never been one for punctuality unless it benefits her directly. I rember all those mornings waiting for her to drive to school, making chronically late while lissa sohow always managed to catch her bus on ti.
My mind drifts to our dinner plans tonight. We’re eting at Giacomo’s, that tiny North End restaurant with the perpetual line stretching down Hanover Street. The plan is simple but terrifying, tell Mom about the engagent before she discovers it online or, god forbid, at the actual ceremony tomorrow. At least the shock might be contained in a public setting where she can’t completely lose it.
“At least lissa’s already in town,” I say, trying to focus on positives. “She flew in early just for us.”
Ivy smiles, that genuine one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I still can’t believe she’s taking ti away from Indy prep to see us get married.”
“ neither,” I admit. “But she seed excited on the phone.”
The venue Ivy’s mysterious assistant booked is so converted industrial space in Cambridge. I’ve never actually t this assistant, just heard Ivy ntion her na, Cecilia, in passing. The woman’s efficiency borders on supernatural, securing us not only the venue but a justice of the peace on less than a week’s notice.
“My parents’ flight lands at Logan in a few hours,” Ivy says, scrolling through her phone. “They’re staying at the Four Seasons downtown.”
The ntion of parents makes my stomach twist again. “I tried calling my dad again this morning. Still no answer.”
Ivy’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t really. “lissa says the last she heard, he’s just... partying. Living his best post-divorce life.”
A small, bitter laugh escapes . “Which is kind of hilarious considering how conservative he was when raising us. No sleepovers, no dating until sixteen.” I shake my head. “Now he’s apparently having won half his age do body shots off him.”
Ivy raises an eyebrow. “People contain multitudes, I guess.”
“Or they’re just hypocrites,” I mutter.
The apartnt building’s glass doors suddenly swing open with a chanical whoosh, and there she is, my Mother, Kendal Woods, striding toward us with the purposeful gait of soone perpetually late for sothing more important.
My throat constricts instantly. Just the sight of her triggers that familiar tightening in my chest, the automatic response honed through years of disappointnt and criticism. She looks exactly as I rember, impeccably tailored pantsuit, not a hair out of place in her sleek brown bob, sharp eyes already assessing and finding fault.
Ivy’s fingers intertwine with mine, her grip tightening protectively as she senses the change in my posture. The subtle support steadies enough to find my voice.
“Hey, Mom,” I manage, the words coming out smaller than intended.
Mom’s eyes dart between us, lingering on our intertwined fingers with thinly veiled distaste. Instead of greeting , she addresses Ivy directly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.
“Miss Hunt, what an unexpected pleasure.” She extends a manicured hand. “I must say, I’m rather surprised to see my son has managed to capture the attention of soone of your... caliber.”
Ivy takes her hand with practiced grace, but I feel her fingers tighten around mine.
“I hope you realize what you’re getting yourself into,” Mom continues, her smile not reaching her eyes. “To think my Nicholas could sohow captivate a three-ti world champion, it’s quite remarkable. He’s always been rather challenging to deal with. Problematic, even.”
The words slam into like a physical blow. Heat rushes to my face as sha and anger battle for dominance. Twenty-one years old, engaged to be married, and she still manages to make feel like an inadequate child within seconds of seeing .
“Actually, Ms. Woods,” Ivy replies smoothly, her accent crisper than usual, “your son is the most genuine person I’ve ever t. Quite refreshing in my world of fake smiles and hidden agendas.”
Mom’s smile freezes, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How charming. Well, shall we?”
As she turns to lead the way, Ivy leans close to my ear. “I could actually murder her and make it look like an accident,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
Despite everything, I have to stifle a laugh. “That’s my mom you’re threatening to kill.”
“I know exactly who she is,” Ivy replies, her voice hardening as she watches Mom hail a taxi with imperious efficiency. “And I already hate her.”
The taxi ride to the North End is excruciating. Mom dominates the conversation, peppering Ivy with questions about her career while completely ignoring my existence. Every now and then, she slips in a casual barb about my childhood failures or current shortcomings, each one presented as an endearing anecdote.
The taxi drops us at Hanover Street, and I feel like I’m walking to my execution. Mom strides ahead while Ivy and I follow, fingers still interlocked like we’re each other’s lifeline.
Giacomo’s hasn’t changed a bit, cramped tables, delicious aromas, and that perpetual line of tourists willing to wait hours for authentic Italian. Mom bypasses the queue with practiced entitlent, na-dropping soone I’ve never heard of to the host who imdiately ushers us to a table.
“Why are there four place settings?” Mom asks, eyeing the extra chair with suspicion as we’re seated.
Before I can answer, a familiar voice calls out behind us. “Sorry I’m late!”
lissa appears, weaving between tables with the grace she shows on track. Her practical brown bob is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a team Andretti jacket despite the warm spring evening.
Mom’s face transforms instantly, morphing from mild annoyance to sothing venomous. “You had your sister take ti away from Indianapolis to watch you get married to a woman who’s clearly too good for you?” she hisses at , not bothering to lower her voice.
I shrink in my seat, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy washing over . Beside , Ivy’s body has gone rigid, her knuckles white around her water glass. The murderous look in her purple eyes makes genuinely concerned she might vault across the table at my Mother.
“Mom, please,” lissa says, sliding into the empty seat. “Let’s just have a nice dinner.”
“Nice dinner?” Mom scoffs, reaching for her wine glass despite it being empty. “My daughter’s career is hanging by a thread, and she’s wasting precious practice ti on... this.”
lissa shoots an apologetic look before turning to Mom. “My career is fine. Actually, I think you should know why I really wanted to be here tonight.”
Mom’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
lissa takes a deep breath, her green eyes eting mine briefly before she continues. “Mom’s upset because she got kicked out of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway a few days ago for being drunk during my practice session.”
“For having ONE DRINK!” Mom interjects, slamming her palm on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump.
“Five drinks before noon,” lissa corrects calmly. “And then you scread at my engineer about tire pressures.”
“AND YOU FIRED TOO!” Mom’s voice rises to a pitch that turns heads at nearby tables.
lissa straightens her shoulders, sothing steely entering her expression. “I think it’s ti I stopped letting my Mother manage my career. Don’t you?”
I glance between my sister and Mother, a bizarre sense of pride swelling in my chest. The restaurant fades into background noise as I watch this unfold, lissa finally standing up to our Mother after all these years.
lissa and I lock eyes across the table, and twenty-one years of complicated history passes between us in that mont. Growing up, she was never what you’d call kind to . She was the golden child, the racing prodigy, and I was just... there. The forgotten son who couldn’t drive worth a damn. She’d mock my attempts at gaming, call weak when I’d cry after Mom’s brutal tirades. But sowhere beneath that rivalry, there was always sothing else.
When I left ho at eighteen to move in with Blair, lissa took it harder than anyone. I think that’s when she realized what she’d lost, her biggest cheerleader, the kid who’d sit for hours watching her practice laps, who’d defend her strategies to Mom even when I didn’t understand them myself. The buffer that absorbed Mom’s worst moods so they wouldn’t hit her full force.
The years since have transford us. We’ve built sothing better, though it’s still fragile, maintained mostly through distance and carefully tid phone calls.
“Congratulations,” I say to lissa, my voice surprisingly steady. “I know what a tough shadow Mom’s been to step out from under. That couldn’t have been easy.”
Mom scoffs, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Of course you’d support this betrayal. You’ve always undermined my authority.”
Ivy’s jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle twitching beneath her skin. Her smile is the most restrained I’ve ever witnessed, lips pressed into a thin line that barely qualifies as an expression of pleasure. When she speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, each word precisely asured.
“Please don’t speak to him that way,” she says, her voice dangerously soft.
Mom cuts her off with a dismissive wave. “Did you know Nick wanted to go to college when he graduated his online high school?” She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that slices through the restaurant chatter.
I sigh, sinking lower in my chair as the familiar humiliation washes over . Every family dinner, every holiday, the sa stories dragged out like trophies of my inadequacy.
“I don’t understand,” Ivy says, genuine confusion flickering across her face.
Mom takes a sip of water, eyeing Ivy over the rim of her glass. “Why would I waste money for Nick to go find a wife? He sucks at cooking anyway.” She chuckles as if she’s delivered the punchline to a hilarious joke.
The table falls silent. Even the ambient restaurant noise seems to dim, as if the universe itself is holding its breath. lissa’s eyes widen, darting between Mom and Ivy with growing alarm.
“I’m sorry,” Ivy says after a mont, her accent thickening with barely contained rage. “I think I misheard you. You denied your son an education because... cooking?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “n go to college to find wives, everyone knows that. What was the point of sending him? It’s not like he was going to be an engineer or doctor.”
I don’t even see Ivy move. One mont she’s sitting beside , rage simring beneath her controlled expression, and the next she’s airborne, a purple blur launching across our table. Wine glasses topple, plates clatter to the floor, and suddenly my fiancée has my Mother by her expensive silk collar, yanking her halfway across the scattered remains of our bread basket.
“You worthless excuse for a parent!” Ivy roars, her first punch connecting with Mom’s jaw with a sickening crack.
The restaurant erupts in chaos. Patrons gasp and scream as Ivy rains down blow after rciless blow, her championship-trained muscles flexing with each impact. Mom’s head snaps back and forth like a ragdoll, her perfectly coiffed hair now a disheveled ss, blood trickling from her split lip.
“Ivy, no! There’s people here.” I cry out, my hands flying to my head in horror, fingers clutching my hair as I watch the violent spectacle unfold. My legs won’t move, body frozen between the instinct to intervene and the paralyzing shock of seeing my fiancée beating my Mother senseless.
The most disturbing part isn’t the violence, it’s lissa’s reaction. My sister is laughing. Not nervous giggles or shocked gasps, but full-throated, delighted laughter as she watches our Mother being pumled. I honestly would probably be laughing too if this place wasn’t so crowded.
“Oh my god,” lissa wheezes between fits of laughter, making no move to stop the assault. “Soone’s finally doing it!”
Waiters and custors scatter around us, soone shouting about calling the police while others record the scene on their phones. I remain frozen, watching as Ivy’s fist connects with Mom’s cheekbone, the sickening sound of flesh eting flesh punctuated by my Mother’s pained groans.
lissa leans toward , her eyes bright with a manic glee I’ve never seen before. “She really likes you,” she whispers conspiratorially as Mom’s groans grow weaker. “She doesn’t do this to you, though, right?”
“God, no!” I sputter, horrified by the implication.
“Based. Ivy fucking rules then.”
The fight:
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