Chapter Fifteen
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Maple
Cell phones are, without a doubt, the worst invention of this century or any other.
“I’m busy,” I grumble, valiantly ignoring the ping, ping, ping of the infernal device. “Doesn’t anyone care that I’m busy? Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than bother me?” Nevermind that I’m not actually that busy. I’m bothered enough to make up for it.
Ping, my phone taunts.
I mean, sure, I’m just lying here in bed, staring at the ceiling, but that is undoubtedly a worthwhile endeavor.
Before this, I was standing by the window, staring at a canvas.
Canvas staring being, of course, a widely accepted form of busyness.
What then, a lady might ask, is the difference between staring at one material versus another?
I can be disgusted with my lack of artistic abilities here just as surely as I can there.
“Flagging painting,” I mutter, rolling to my stomach. “Flagging ceiling. Flagging wedding.”
Ping.
“Flagging, flagging phone.”
I should probably look at it.
There could be an emergency.
In which case they should call emergency services, not Maple Valor, Girl Incapable of Painting a Scene Correctly.
There could be an emotional emergency…
Ugh.
Ugh.
“Flagging feelings,” I scorn. They’re what have me in this position in the first place.
No, what has me in this position is the painting that still doesn’t look right. Possibly because every time I look at it, I’m reminded of all the feelings ruining my life right now.
“Too many feelings, not enough thinkings,” I huff into a pristinely white pillow.
What if the emotional emergency is Iverson finding the glaringly obvious answer to my question?
I perk up. An answer to my question is an answer to my staring is an answer to my art problems.
I roll the bottom of my body off the bed and lurch to standing, then go in search of my phone. It should be…
Aha. Yes. Right where I left it—tucked between a recently acquired can of gold dust spray paint and a stack of dresses that desperately need laundered.
The first several notifications are sadly not the answer to my every problem. They’re just my annoying little brother being an annoying little brother, starting with a request for a two-player phone game match. I wrinkle my nose as I thumb through his messages.
Birch: Maple, come on.
Birch: I know you’re not doing anything.
Birch: Maaaaaaaaaple
Birch: Please, I’ve become addicted to this block game Malcolm sent me, and I need to play something else to break the addiction.
My mental health relies on this. On you.
You are my only hope. Do you want to have to check me into rehab after I go off the deep end from my block game bender?
No? Then lob a virtual ping pong ball at a cup.
Birch: Okay, well, you’re paying for my rehab bills. Remember, you could have prevented this!
I roll my eyes.
Maple: Somehow, I think you’ll survive a block game addiction. It’s not exactly lethal.
He replies immediately, and I’m painfully reminded of the very first rule in dealing with an annoying little brother: DO NOT ENGAGE.
Texts come in one after another, a deluge of insults interspersed with guilt tactics and simpering flattery.
It’s enough to make it impossible to check my other messages with all of his notifications coming in, so I text a rude emoji before throwing a virtual ball at a virtual cup to get him to shut up.
He does, thankfully, sending nothing more than his turn in the game.
I take my turn, then quickly scroll to my other messages, hoping he’ll give me a few seconds of time to, I don’t know, have a life outside of him.
My heart stutters when I see that one of my other messages is from Iverson.
In my haste to open it, I accidentally swipe out of the app entirely, and I have to take a deep breath to calm my trembling hands before I can get back into it. By the time I do, Birch has replied, so I appease his gaming needs speedily before carefully navigating to my message thread with Ivy.
Two new messages, sent ten minutes apart, the first coming in thirty minutes ago.
Neither of them are an answer to our relationship-healing question, but my face softens as I read them anyway.
Poison Ivy: Dearest wife, I come to you with the worst news. Meditation is a planet-wide scam, and I have wasted a full day’s attempt at self-reflection on the horrible hoax. (An alliteration for you, as a gift. You’re welcome, my rosy Maple.)
Poison Ivy: I won’t lie, I’m fairly discouraged by this setback, but my dedication has not wavered regardless.
I still love you. I am still willing to do anything for you, including but not limited to trying as many hoaxes as it takes to find the why that you desire.
That said… you wouldn’t happen to know what the average is on how long proper introspection takes, would you?
Or, perhaps, a tip? A trick? A magic spell?
I am NOT asking you to tell me the answer to your question.
I am simply asking if you might know how I could go about finding it myself in the quickest possible way.
If you do know a better way, please take pity on me, for I am just a sad little lovelorn husband, desperately wishing to be with his wife.
An assortment of pathetically adorable emojis end his message, and I can’t help but feel endeared to my suffering husband. He may not have an answer, but he is so clearly trying, and my heart warms at his efforts. Not that I doubted he would, but… Well, it’s nice to see all the same.
I take a moment to volley with Birch before I reply, thinking over what sort of meditation practices might actually work for Iverson.
He isn’t the sort to do well sitting in a quiet room with his thoughts, which I imagine is what he jumped to without being given a clear direction.
There are other options, though. People all over the world meditate in hundreds of different ways, if not thousands.
Which method might work for Iverson Todric Swallow…
I hum thoughtfully. Maybe he would benefit from the same sort of reflections that I occasionally take part in—journaling. I have dozens of journals filled throughout my life with thoughts both mundane and deep. It’s worth a try, at least.
I leave Birch with two cups left to get rid of and draft a reply to Ivy. I read it twice before sending, my thumbs barely cooperating from their nerves.
Rosy Maple: First, I want to say that I can see your effort, and I appreciate it.
I have never been loved so much or so well.
I want you to know that I feel it, and I am grateful, and I hope that you are aware of how very much I love you, too.
Second, I am sorry that your efforts so far have been fruitless.
Maybe try journaling? You know that it has always worked for me, so maybe it will work for you, too?
The message is marked as delivered when I realize that I sound like a weirdly formal version of myself, and I promptly want to die. Did I forget that contractions exist? What is wrong with me?
It’s marked as read before I can delete it and try again.
My stomach curdles.
Dots appear as Ivy types.
Birch gets his last two cups and sends a victorious “YOU SUCK, I’M THE BEST” message.
Ivy’s dots turn into a blue message on my screen.
Poison Ivy: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
And then:
Poison Ivy: Journaling.
Followed by what I would estimate to be five hundred saluting emojis.
I deflate.
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t need to be that worried,” I mutter. It’s just Ivy, after all. He can assuredly decode the heart of whatever I send him regardless of my contraction usage—or lack thereof. He knows me.
He just doesn’t know himself.
My phone pings, and my muscles retense.
Poison Ivy: And don’t think I’ve forgotten about our courtship while I tackle this side quest, no matter how main quest coded my introspection may be. Second date. What would you like it to be?
I blink.
Rosy Maple: You still want to go on dates?
Poison Ivy: Of course.
Poison Ivy: I’m not going without you for however long it takes me to find the answer we need.
Even if I don’t technically need to woo you, husbands take their wives on dates.
Especially the husbands who are on their honeymoon.
Honeymoon husbands (Again, you’re welcome for the alliteration.) go on loads of dates with their honeymoon wives.
Poison Ivy: So what’ll it be? Another dinner? Movies? Mini-golf? Rouge characters are always going mini-golfing these days.
My cheeks heat.
We are not going mini-golfing. We are especially not going mini-golfing after he brought up its relation to Rouge books.
I’ve read what those characters get up to surrounded by all those red flags, and I could hardly get through the chapter for all of its salaciousness.
I wouldn’t be able to make eye contact with Ivy the entire date.
Nope, nope, and some more nope.
Rosy Maple: The movies sound great! Definitely the movies! Monday? Monday movies! Another alliteration!
He sends me a wink face, a red flag, and a golf ball.
Rosy Maple: MOVIES
Poison Ivy: Fine, fine.
Poison Ivy: We’ll save mini-golf for our anniversary!
I throw my phone. I can’t help it. I can’t risk him somehow seeing my burning face through the pixels of our messages. Talk about mortifying.
“Mini-golf,” I whisper, a hushed guilty desire. “Gracious, he’s going to be the end of me.”
I rest the back of my hands against my face, hoping they’ll cool the warmed skin. Then, in a move I will never admit to for as long as I live, I pull a sketchbook from a basket, grab a pencil, and draw the tamest version of a mini-golf adventure my mind can conjure up.
I sketch it, cheeks burning.