The Revolution of Ivy

You don't stop loving someone just because they disappoint you.

The scars are just something that happened to me. They aren't me. Not anymore.

And I understand in a way I never have before that loving someone is always going to feel like flying - the unthinkable drop, the fear of falling, the heart-in-your-throat thrill. It is always going to be impossible until the moment that it's not and you're soaring on pure faith, your altitude completely dependant upon something you can't control.

I love you,” he says quietly. I want to take his words, the truth of them I can see on his face, and cup them in my hands like a glowing coal from the fire. Keep them with me warm and bright, a talisman.

I just want to be with you. Walk next to you, Ivy, wherever you're headed. That's all.

No one controls who we turn into but us.

And maybe that's love, too - feeling the other person's hurts like your own.

Your eyes are still sad," she tells me. "But your whole face lights up when you look at him.

I’ve grown accustomed to the stars above my head as I sleep, the ache in my muscles as we walk the land. The freedom that comes with defining your world instead of letting it define you.

You think I had a choice?” Bishop demands. “What choice? I’m not like your father or Callie, Ivy. I was never going to just let you go. I love you. There was never any choice.

I don't understand how the pain of losing him can be a pale shadow in comparison to the pain of finding him again.

Now I understand - how sleep allows you to forget, but your pain wakes with the dawn, worse because for a split second you don't remember what you've suffered.

That’s what love is, though, isn’t it? You don’t stop loving someone just because they disappoint you.

Strange how the sound of a single word can hurt more than a ruined shoulder, cut deeper than a bloody gash.

But recognizing the ridiculousness of an emotion and being able to master it are two very different things, I'm finding.

always believed in who I am even during the times I struggled to believe myself.

I want to see you naked. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I just...want.

Relax," the girl says. She holds out a hand but doesn't touch me. "We're not going to hurt you." "Yet," the man in the doorway says with a smirk.

For every trial there has been an answering blessing, for every loss, something gained. And I was right, too, that day in Westfall, because looking out over the rolling waves I know that this journey was worth every step. It has given us time to mend our broken places inside, make peace with the losses we’ve suffered, and forgive ourselves for the impossible choices we made. And now we’re here, the foam-tipped waves nibbling at our bare toes. A reminder that no matter what damage we do—to ourselves, to each other, to the world—life can still surprise us with its depth of possibility.

How did you even know where to look?” “I’m the president’s son, remember? I’d heard rumors about a group near the river, southeast of Westfall. I figured it was as good a place to start as any.” “Why?” I draw back. “Why would you do that?” “Remember what I told you once?” He pauses. His fingers graze the sensitive skin of my waist underneath my shirt. “About not giving up on you?

It would leave a little rotten spot, right here.” I push my fist into the soft space beneath my rib cage. “Something that would only get bigger and darker with time.

A tear slips down her face. I wish one would slip down mine.

I concentrate on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other and continue moving forward even as part of me is left behind, beyond a fence I cannot breach.

No one survives beyond the fence. At least that's what my father always told me when I was a child. But I'm not a little girl anymore, and I no longer believe in the words of my father. He told me the Lattimers were cruel and deserved to die. He told me my only choice was to kill the boy I loved. He has been wrong about so many things. And I'm determined that he's going to be wrong about my survival as well.

Now I understand—how sleep allows you to forget, but your pain wakes with the dawn, worse because for a split second you don’t remember what you’ve suffered.

Are most people this lucky? To find someone who really understands them? Someone who accepts all their strange and foreign ways of looking at and approaching the world without constantly trying to change them into someone more like themselves?

I think back to the girl I was when he first posed that question—scared, confused, falling in love with a boy I thought I could never have, unsure who I was underneath the facade my family forced upon me. I’m still scared sometimes, but I know who I am now. I’ve been birthed through pain and sacrifice, through joy and unconditional love. I am stronger than I once was, able to make difficult choices without flinching, but I am not hard. My hands are not clean. But my soul is light. I love deeper than I ever thought possible, know the lengths I will go to in order to protect those I care about. I can survive out here, but I can really live as well. I can kill a deer for our dinner and appreciate the beauty of a lone eagle soaring through a brilliant blue sky. I can hold off a stranger with my knife and share laughter with my friends around the warmth of a fire. I can live with the fear of losing Bishop and love him fiercely anyway. “This is who I want to be,” I say. “The girl I am right now.