Page 2 of For Flag's Sake
Oh.
“I’ll tuck the tablecloth over me,” I assure him. “It’ll be fine.” And if it’s not… Well, who cares? I had a different favorite dress last month, and a different one the month before that. This one will inevitably end up in the back of my closet like all that came before it until I decide enough is enough and take it to the closest Goodwill drop off, never to be seen again. A barbecue sauce stain only slightly changes its fate. Not to mention, I’ll be lucky if it doesn’t already have a paint stain somewhere. A smock only covers so much.
Iverson frowns, but doesn’t push. He sits in the seat nearest to me, shuffling it sideways until we’ll probably be knocking elbows as we eat. Satisfied with our proximity, he digs into the bag to pull out two white styrofoam food containers dripping with brown sticky sauce. A complimentary pack of wet wipes follows, as well as a useless stack of regular napkins, most of which are already covered in grease.
He sets my container in front of me, and I wiggle as he opens the lid, slowly revealing a mound of barbecue goodness that hasmy mouth watering. Rib tips stacked on sausages stacked on fries with a metric ton of barbecue sauce spread on top. A single piece of bread resides in the corner, doing its darn best to soak up all the grease and failing miserably.
“There’s mac and cheese, too,” Iverson mumbles, producing a carton of creamy, cheesy noodles from the bag. I squeal, just a little, and his lips tip up at the corner.
“You are every good thing in my life,” I inform him. “Thank you so much, Ivy. I’m beyond excited.” My shoulders dance happily as I grab my plastic fork and dig in. Iverson soon follows, and we take turns eating from our own food and our communal mac and cheese. Satisfied groans break the silence with each new bite.
“This is amazing.” I rave around a spoonful of macaroni. “So worth torturing Birch over.”
Iverson concurs. “Your brother is a pest, you know.”
I think of Birch, of my interactions with him now as we both live in Ivy’s house, him completing his chefly destiny as a Valor. These days my hang outs with Birch consist mostly of me sitting at the kitchen island doing watercolors in my sketch book while he flits about the kitchen complaining about the job he loves and the boss he less than loves. I wouldn’t exactly call it pest behavior, all things considered, but… Well, if Ivy thinking my brother is a pest means I get to eat delicious take out, then who am I to lead him to better perception?
Channeling thoughts of Birch as a pre-teen boy swatting me away from him with spatulas and wooden spoons instead of current Birch, who drags me to the kitchen if I stay away for too long just because he misses me, I shove a bite of fries in my mouth and nod. “He’s the worst,” I agree, the words muffled by potato and sauce. “Totally annoying.”
Iverson’s eyes crinkle, and he passes me one of the less greasy napkins. I accept it gracefully, dabbing at trails of sauce as they dribble down my chin.
“This morning he put olives on the pizzas he made for us for his nights off,” Ivy says. “All of them,and he filled one of the industrial freezers in the kitchen with them. Just stacks and stacks of pizzas absolutely covered in tiny black tripophobia-inducing circles, and when I asked him to take themoff, he said I was, and I quote, ‘ruining the flavor profile’, and he ‘refuses on the basis of principle and also morals.’”
“Dumb of him,” I agree. “On the basis of money and also cash, specifically the amounts you pay him. He earns too much to still have principles and morals. Doesn’t he know that money corrupts? What’s wrong with him?”
“What’s wrong with him is that he’s a pest,” Iverson grumbles, “who decided to toe the wrong side of annoyance today.”
“Out of curiosity, did the olive discussion happen to take place in full view of any security camera?”
He makes my day when he answers in the affirmative.
I squirm, so joy. “Movie hang!” I declare. “Can you play hooky?”
Iverson regards me with affection, dimple flashing as he smiles lovingly while delaying my gratification. “It will have to wait until tonight,” he says. “Maybe we can invite Birch so he can see where, exactly, he went wrong. A learning opportunity.”
I snort. “An opportunity for you to interrupt my movie to lecture him about every move he made, you mean.”
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t enjoy it?” he asks. An eyebrow rises on his forehead to meet a dangling piece of dark, soft hair. “I could get my pointer stick out for the presentation. Really dig into the lesson.”
That does sound tempting…
“We’ll do a rewatch,” I decide. “And you can have your lesson then.” I smile, satisfied with my incredible problem-solving skills.
Iverson chuckles, and my heart pitter patters at the sound of his deep, gentle mirth filling our little corner of his massive sitting room. With me, he laughs often enough, but I know that his life in general is not filled with mirth, so I savor every moment of levity I’m able to provide. My Ivy should have days full of smiles and laughter and joy, but if I can only give him fleeting seconds, then I’ll give him as many of those as I can, and my heart will stumble over the swell of love his happiness inspires.
When his chuckles die out, I ask about the rest of his day, hoping the worst of things was olive pizza. With Ivy’s job, though, my hope is not much likely to be fulfilled.
When their parents retired, Iverson and his brother, Malcolm, inherited the family business—the family business being a multi-billion dollar company in the medical field. They do… something to do with machines… or insurance… or pharmaceuticals… or… something. I have no idea. I know that Ivy focuses on in-house stuff, and Malcolm does the shmoozing out and about, and I know that they help people. Really, truly, genuinely help people.
“I talked to Malcolm about a ball today,” he says, digging back into his mess of food. “For June 14th.”
“A ball?” I ask, toes a-wigglin’. “Like for a princess?”
His eyes crinkle and slide toward me. “Exactly like that, yes.”
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Oh my gosh! “When’s the last time we had a ball?” I ask. “Not since we were kids, right? And your parents were doing that vow renewal?”
He hums. “Been about since then, yeah.”
