Chapter One #2
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 them off, 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.”
“Wow,” I sigh. “This is exciting then! What’s it for? Personal? Or work?”
He shrugs, so casually the best person ever because—hello—he’s throwing a freaking ball. “A little of both. It’s a special day, so everyone’s invited. I’m having some of the people at work help me with it.”
My brows furrow. “A special day?”
“June 14th,” he repeats. “Also known as Flag Day, the most romantic day of the year.”
Oh. My. Gosh. “Oh my gosh!” I cackle. “That’s perfect!”
He doesn’t laugh with me this time, but his self-satisfied smirk is just as heartwarming. “I like to think it’s what Scarlet would want.”
Scarlet is the main character in our most recent book club read, Scarlet Touch by the famous author Rouge, and she would abso-flagging-lutely approve of this behavior.
The entire premise of the dark romance novel is based around Flag Day as the most romantic holiday of the year, and I’ve been looking forward to celebrating it this year in the same way as we often celebrate Valentine’s Day—with a hoard of fancy drinks, a cheesy romcom, and our combined body weight in junk food snacks.
A ball, though? I’ll take that over movie night any time. I’ll get to play princess! On Flag Day!
“It’ll be just like in the book,” I sigh dreamily. “Minus the wedding, but that’s okay. A ball doesn’t need a wedding to be amazing.”
Iverson does not reply, so I do what any sane woman would do when presented with a freaking ball (!!!). I start planning my outfit.
“I think I’ll wear blue,” I say. “A-line. Bell sleeves. Sheer. Silver stars woven into the fabric. Not Scarlet’s dress, but her sister’s.
” I grab a napkin, find a clear spot away from the grease, and start sketching using barbecue sauce and the end tine of my plastic fork.
“Like this,” I mutter. “Yes, swooping. Elegant. A twilight sky in a room full of people whose feet have never left the ground. Royalty to their peasant. Princess to their pleb.”
I present my sauce dress to Ivy, and he frowns at it.
I pout. “What?” I ask. “Why are you ruining my life? Can’t I have the dress I want?”
“You can have any dress you desire, always,” he replies. “Except for this time. This time, I would request that you wear white.”
Taken aback, I start. “White?”
He nods, pushing the napkin away from him with one sticky finger. “White.”
I… don’t know what to say. Iverson is often involved in my clothing decisions, as Iverson is often the one paying for such decisions.
He hates to see me spend my own money and rarely allows me if he can find a way to prevent it.
That said, he has never once requested I wear what he wants.
He lets me lead, and he answers my questions regarding fit and color only when I ask.
He does not make suggestions. He does not offer unsolicited opinions.
He supports whatever I decide completely, occasionally nudging me to order more, but not of what.
In other words, this is supremely out of character, and I have no idea what to think of it.
Even so… if Ivy wants me in white, then I’ll wear white. Not only because he’s most likely going to be paying for it, but because this is Ivy’s ball and book love, too. We read Scarlet Touch together. If Ivy has one want of me during the celebration of our beloved book, then I’ll give it to him.
“White,” I agree. “I can do white.” And I will. “Do you still like the stars?”
“Everything else is perfect,” he says softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that your vision was bad. I just… I’d like you to wear white, if it pleases you also.”
“Pleasing you pleases me,” I answer. “I’ll wear white. Instead of the twilight sky, I can be a shooting star for you. Make a wish, Ivy, and I’ll see that it comes true.”
At that, he melts, and my concern skyrockets.
“You are my wish, my rosy Maple,” he replies. “Always and forever. You know that.”
“An easy one to grant, then.” Because, as ever, I will be here. With him. Always and forever, Ivy and Maple, a friendship better than any other friendship could ever hope to be. A love for the ages, whatever form it takes.
“An easy one to make, too.”
With that, he takes his gentle, adoring gaze and slides it to his food, the moment passing in favor of adding a stain or two more to the fabric of our memories.
I turn to mine also, but my attention snags on the napkin.
On the design that I’ll wear in white, not blue, in order to make a wish come true.
I lift the soft paper carefully, then turn and press the dark sauce into the tablecloth, staining my own reminder of this moment there forever—the day when Ivy invited me to a ball and asked me to wear white.