Page 12 of For Flag's Sake
I shiver. A determined Ivy is a thing to behold under normal circumstances. I’ve seen him on work calls before, self-assured resolve coating his bossly orders with steel. When he puts his mind to something, Iverson Swallow is an immovable force, a stone you can neither push nor pull. He stands steady against any wind or pummeling—or common sense, it seems, which would tell him that you can’t trulyfixsomething like our current situation. You can maybe stitch together the leftover pieces,wrap them up, and hope that when you unveil them again the scar won’t be too bad.
Is this a battle I’m going to win? No. And is it a battle I evenwantto win? Also no. I don’t want to cut Ivy off forever. I love him. I’minlove with him. Losing him would be like losing a vital piece of myself—a hand, or a heart, or a retinal cone.
I’m going to have to talk to him, because he is a rock, and because I am a sap, and because it would be hypocritical to be upset with him for not communicating just for me to commit the same crime.
I’m going tohaveto talk to him, because that is what you do when you love someone, even when they make you mad.
I can’t talk to him in person, though. I’ll fold quicker than a taco if I have to look at him in my current emotional state. He’s too…him.
“We can talk now,” I offer magnanimously, clearing my throat. “Via the phone, where you can’t use your whole…thingto convince me to forgive you.”
“My whole thing?”
I roll my eyes. As if he does not know he’s gorgeous. As if he does not use it to his advantage at every available opportunity, flaunting his beauty until my fingers itch for my sketchbook and my mind forgets all thoughts beyond capturing his wonder on a page. He might not know I’m in love with him, but there’s no missing that I’m enamored with his outer shell, and there’s definitely no missing how he takes advantage of that fact.
“Your whole thing,” I repeat firmly, squinting at my canvas. I pick up a darker blue and deepen what will eventually be a shadow at the bottom of the painting. “I’m not sure if I’d be susceptible to your good looks at the moment, but I’m unwilling to risk it. I’m still upset with you, and I’m not going to let you distract it away from me. Not this time.”
“I promise not to do my thing,” he vows. “I’ll wear a paper bag over my head if that will help.” He quiets—softens, pitching his voice just so to pull at my heartstrings. “I miss you, Maple. I want to see you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want to see you,” I tell him, shooing him away from my heartstrings. He has no business being that close to them right now. “You have a serious problem with boundaries lately.”
He hesitates for long enough that I’ve finished the shadow work on my canvas and am rinsing my brush out when he speaks. “What can I do to fix this?”
“Practice proper boundaries between friends,” I answer immediately. “And follow correct procedures when confessing love and asking for marriage.” I so badly want to addduhto the end, but I rein myself in. He’strying, I suppose, and I can, too. Probably.
“I don’t think we have ever had what most people would consider to be ‘proper boundaries between friends,’” he says slowly. “And…”
I wait, wet paintbrush held aloft while water trickles down its handle to drip softly against my hand. “And?”
His voice takes on a…tone. A tone I’ve never heard before that reaches through the phone line to tug at my nerve endings until my skin flushes fire. A tone I would have dreamt of had I known it was a possibility. A tone I like way too freaking much, highlighting that Iverson Swallow doesn’t need to be in person to do histhing. He can make do over the phone just fine.
“Rosy Maple,” he all but purrs, “are you upset because we’re married, or are you upset because I didn’t ask you first?”
I blink.
Well.
That’s just.
“Both!” I proclaim, half lying. A not insignificant portion of my body in and around my heart region calls me out for being a big fat liar. My brain, however, pats me on the back for the excellent use of common sense in the face of absurdity.
“It doesn’t seem like both,” Ivy notes in that same gruff, heated tone.
My stomach flips.
“Yeah, well, it is,” I assert.
He hums. Ominously.
My stomach flops.
“What?” I ask. “Stop that.”
“You know what I think?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think you aren’t upset about the marriage at all. I think you’re upset that you missed out on the before stuff—the courtship and proposal and general wooing. I think you want me to sweep you off your feet, and you just don’t want to admit it.”
My jaw drops, and I suddenly wish that I had opted for an in-person meeting instead. In person, I could have whacked him with my paintbrush for being such a cocky pest. “Do you have a parasite eating your brain?”
“Okay,” he says, stupidly smug. “Then tell me why youaremad, and this time do try to sound convincing.”
