Page 23 of For Flag's Sake
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” I tell myself. “It’s just dinner with Ivy. You’ve had dinner with Ivy a million times.” Nevermind that none of those million times have involved him trying towoome. “You can do this.” I have to do this. I said that I would, and so I am. Right now. Doing it.
I gulp, and my shoes jingle when I shake out the anxious energy, wiggling my entire body until the cluster in my stomach loosens enough for me to open the door without falling into a panic attack. I make it down the hallway and into the elevator without further incident until, quite suddenly, I’m in the lobby, face to face with my husband.
His sparkling green eyes alight on me, and his mouth stretches into a smile.
I frown.
He’s wearing his make-me-blush shirt, the no-good cad. The offending garment is loose, linen, and showswaymore of his chest than could ever possibly be appropriate in literally any circumstance. The brown complements his skin so well that it’s inspired me more than once to put him, in this shirt, on sketch paper and canvas alike. I’ve dedicated ages to documenting the pairing in different mediums—watercolor, acrylic, gouache. If I could mix the medium to makejustthe correct shade, I did, and I filled pages up with the soft brown against his pale complexion. It’s a shirt as scandalous as it is beautiful, and he’s paired it with my favorite green linen trousers that he so rarely wears. A double whammy, this outfit. My eyes follow the line of his trousers down to his shoes, and my breath leaves me in one loud, painfulwoosh.
His boots are a replica of mine, but more masculine. They’re worn in different places than mine are, but no less sentimental for it. His own charms dangle from them.
Iverson Swallow has not come to play, it seems.
As my cheeks lose their battle against a blooming blush, Ivy’s eyes soften. “We match,” he says.
I blink. “We… do?”
A quick glance down confirms that yes, indeed we do. I knew I was wearing this, an off-the-shoulder green dress hemmed with ivy vined embroidery. I looked at it not even five minutesago when I was considering the merits of changing. I don’t know how I could have possibly forgotten.
I glance back up at my husband, and it becomesveryclear how I could have forgotten what I’m wearing. I’m lucky I haven’t forgotten my own name.
Maybe I should redub the make-me-blush shirt as the make-me-lose-all-thoughts-and-intelligence-and-memory shirt. Goodness.
“We should take a picture together,” he declares. “To commemorate our first date as husband and wife.”
Still under the effects of Iverson’s exposed chest, I allow myself to be tucked into his side while Mary comes around the reception desk—where she and Etta have been openly gawking at us—and takes his offered phone.
My brain melts further as Ivy’s maplewood scent washes over me.
Goodness gracious, he hasnotcome to play.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, looking at me instead of the camera. “Like vanilla and paint.”
“Say cheese!” Mary calls.
I smile woodenly, keeping my face firmly forward. “Cheese,” I say.
Ivy dips his chin to rest his face against my hair. “Vanilla, paint, and beauty,” he whispers. “You smell like my favorite things and my best memories. Like my past, my present, and my future.”
“I smell like my studio and soap,” I tell him, stepping away as Mary lowers the phone. “Thank you, Mary, for the photo.”
She hands Iverson his phone and nods to me before scuttling to the employee side of the lobby counter to continue her observation of the scene with wide, curious eyes.
“Thank you, rosy Maple,” Ivy says, drawing my attention. He stands with his head bowed over his phone, smiling softly at the screen. “These are perfect.”
Curiosity overcomes me, and I re-enter the danger zone to peer at the digital us.
Huh.
We look… cuddly. His arm is around me, and tiny him is gazing at tiny me like she hung the moon in the sky, then speckled the stars around it, just for him. Tiny me looks like she regrets ever getting into space decoration.
“I’m going to frame this,” he declares. “And put it on the mini fridge in my office in one of those magnet frames you made me last Christmas.”
Oh. Perfect. We can live in perpetuity next to his string cheese and fizzy water.
“Are you ready to go?” I ask, turning my face from the photo.
“I am always ready to go anywhere with you,” he answers. “I brought the Porsche.”
