Chapter Thirteen
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Iverson
Birch outdid himself. The basket is not only overflowing with food, but overflowing with specific foods, some of which I didn’t think he would know to give us.
There are the obvious maple bars and croquembouche, but alongside them are favorite sandwiches and snacks Maple and I have procured on nights without him—snacks that he’d only know we like if Maple told him, or if he dug through the trash to see our discarded wrappers.
Fruits dapple the spaces between Japanese style egg sandwiches and boxes of Cheez-its, and I’m reminded that maybe, sometimes, perhaps, I do like Birch.
In the sense that Maple loves him enough to share precious memories and moments with him, and he loves her enough to remember them and pull through when her husband asks for a romantic picnic.
I won’t be adding to his end-of-year bonus, but I might request one of his favorite meals to cook during next month’s menu creation meeting.
Once we’ve sat, and we’ve eaten, and we’ve appropriately oo-ed and ahh-ed at the work of George and Birch, I clear my throat to grab Maple’s attention.
Mouth full of sugary cream-filled pastry, she blinks at me. “Yeth?”
My lip twitches. I swipe my thumb across a dollop of cream on her chin and taste it myself under her wide-eyed gaze, then recall I have her wide-eyed gaze on me for a reason and reach into my pocket.
From the depths, I produce a neatly folded piece of paper, tied with a string the exact color of Maple’s eyes—gorgeous sapphire blue.
“What’s that?” my rosy Maple asks. Her cheeks shine pink, and her eyes keep straying toward my mouth.
“Did I get cream on my face?” I ask. It would just figure that in cleaning her up, I’d make a mess of myself.
“No!” she squeaks in a rush. “You’re fine. What’s that paper?”
I eye her suspiciously, particularly the bloom covering her skin. “It’s a list,” I say slowly. “Are you okay?” I wipe my face, just in case, but find no cream.
“I’m dandy,” she replies. “A list? What sort of list?”
Oh…kay. I suppose we’ll just pretend she’s not being mega weird, then. “It’s a list of things I love about you.”
She blinks, and her mega weird turns into mega confused. “You brought a list of things you love about me?”
“Yes,” I confirm. “As part of my wooing. You do remember I’m wooing you, right?”
“Right,” she says. “About that–”
“Wait,” I interrupt a touch desperately. I can’t let her rebuff me when I haven’t even played my full hand yet. “Let me read you my list before you say anything.”
She bites her lip, but nods, graciously allowing me the pleasure of laying my heart bare for her.
I straighten on my cushion and unfold the paper. My heart, preparing for perception, attempts to hide itself behind my stomach. Queasiness reigns as my stomach protests this intrusion into its sacred space. Only it is allowed to pitch a fit down there, thank you very much.
Maple’s hand covers my shaking grip on the paper, and her warmth seeps through to calm the tremors. “It’s only me,” she says. “It’s okay.”
I scoff. Only her. As if that is nothing much. As if that isn’t only everything.
Still, the words comfort me, and when she slides her hand to my wrist, then drops it to rest on my knee, I’m grateful for the support.
Bolstered, I begin my semi-prepared speech.
“The following is an incomplete list of the things I love about you, in no particular order. Number one, I love the way you see the world, as if every horizon is a thing of beauty and every new day an opportunity for goodness. I love when you find your groove and everything else falls away as you paint. I love how you wear your dresses like they’re an extension of your being, so casually pretty, and I love when you spin so they flow around you like water.
I love that you dirty a tablecloth with me and call it precious.
I love your intelligence, and the clever way you come at a problem.
I love that you have the integrity to try to pay me rent, even though I wish you’d stop.
I love your generous heart and your kindness for strangers I wouldn’t think to even acknowledge.
I love when Birch upsets you and you come to me to complain about him with me.
I love when we cuddle for movie nights, and I love when you sit with me when I work.
“Finally—for this list at least—I love that you love me, despite the harshness that I often give to the rest of the world. You’re the type of person to see beyond what others think to form your own opinions, then you act on those opinions without care for how it might seem from the outside.
I am well aware of the friendships you’ve missed out on due to your close proximity to me, and I am grateful for the immense love that you give to me despite that.
You’re special, Maple, and I see and feel your rarity so acutely.
I am grateful for you, and I appreciate you, and I love you so much.
It is my dearest wish to love you enough to make up for all you lose by loving me.
I hope that maybe I have already, but I promise you that I intend to spend the entirety of my life working toward fully accomplishing this goal.
As long as I live, know that someone loves you with every fiber of their being and every breath that they inhale.
You are my one, and my only, and my everything, and I love you with the fullness of my heart. ”
Tears line Maple’s eyelashes beneath shining blue pools as I finish giving her whatever specks of my heart might not have been handed over previously.
Her hand grips my knee with a ferocity that leans more toward pain than comfort, and her breath hitches.
“I…” she trails off with a gulp. “You love me so much,” she whispers. “So much.”
“I do,” I agree. I trap her hand in mine and pry it away from my flesh to lay a kiss on her palm. “I love you so much—I’m in love with you. And I always will be.”
She takes a wretched, shuddering breath. “I believe you,” she says. “And I love you, too. You know I love you, too.”
Elation roars in my chest, inviting my heart to come out of hiding. It does, sliding back into its home with a thunderous beat.
“But…” Maple mutters, causing the organ to freeze.
“Ivy, that doesn’t fix anything. I knew you loved me before.
You knew I loved you before. We’re Maple and Ivy, of course we love each other.
Love has never been the problem here. Maybe I didn’t know you were in love with me, but that doesn’t actually change anything, no matter how much we might wish that it does. ”
My hands convulse around hers. “I… don’t understand.”
She scoots closer and lays her free hand along my jaw, thumb caressing the space where a dimple occasionally pops out. It is not showing itself now.
“I know you don’t,” she says. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t force you to understand. I can help. I can tell you what question you need to find the answer to, but I can’t answer it for you, Ivy.”
“What’s the question?” I’ll answer anything for her. Anything. She has to know that.
“Why didn’t you ask me to marry you?” she asks.
I flinch.
I don’t have an answer for that.
I just… I just didn’t.
She’s asked the one question I can’t answer. She might as well have stabbed me in the chest.
“Why didn’t you?” she pushes. “Think about it, Ivy. Why didn’t you ask me?”
My head shakes. “I don’t… I don’t know.” My heart calls me a traitor and crawls back to my stomach’s domain. I want to crawl away with it. I want to curl up and hide.
“I love you,” I tell her, willing the words to be enough—to be what she needs. “I love you. I love you.”
“I know,” she says. “I know, but love isn’t all that a relationship needs.
It needs trust and respect, too, and it needs people who are willing to grow together.
People who can answer the hard questions that life is going to throw at them.
But before we can do that—before we can tackle a life together—we have to be able to grow alone.
We have to be able to answer the hard questions that are meant just for us.
We have to prove that we’re capable and willing so that when something comes up for us both, we don’t flounder, but instead approach it head on.
Do you see what I’m saying, Ivy? You need to be able to answer that question, so that later, I know that you’ll be able to answer harder ones. ”
A deeply unpleasant sensation bubbles beneath my skin, and my lungs struggle to fill themselves.
“But I love you,” I whisper, even though it’s not enough.
I turn into her hand, letting a tear slide from my cheek to her skin.
“I love you,” I speak against her, where the words might slip between the lines of her fate and take root—where they might make a difference.
She sighs, not exasperated or annoyed, but hopeless, and it shreds me apart. “Then you’ll figure this out,” she says, not an ounce of conviction in her tone. “With some self-reflection… or some time… or… something.”
My eyes squeeze shut, but I see her face anyway. Sad. She just seems so sad. Like this is a goodbye instead of a beginning. Like our fate rests on me, and she doesn’t trust that I’ll be able to bring it to fulfillment.
I force my eyes open—force myself to let her go, and take a breath, and take hold of the terror threatening to overwhelm me. It’s hard. It’s really flagging hard, but I do it. For Maple, I pull myself together, and I promise myself that I will take away her hopelessness.
Then, I promise her.
“I’ll figure it out,” I vow for the both of us. “I’ll do whatever I have to do, Maple. For you, I will always do whatever I have to do.” Even if it’s uncomfortable, or painful, or akin to shoving an ice pick through my eye. I’ll do it. For Maple.
I’ll dig through the terror and the discomfort until I find the center of my soul, held aloft in her hands, and I’ll take a magnifying glass to my thoughts and actions until I know exactly how to answer her question.
For Maple, I think, steeling myself against the part of me that wants to toss her over my shoulder and force her to just love me back, no questions asked. Maple doesn’t want force, nor empty platitudes. She wants honesty.
I just… have to figure out what that honesty really is.
My back straightens, and I wipe the salt from my eyes.
“For you,” I repeat. “I will always, always do anything for you, my wife.”