Chapter Nineteen
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Iverson
An hour and a half after my foray into cardio torture, I can say definitively that it is not the route for me, and I should have listened to Malcolm when he told me as much ten minutes in. Stubbornly, I did not. Stubbornly, I now suffer the consequences.
“I’m dying,” I heave, holding on to a cramp stabbing my ribcage. “I’m dying, and I’m not even a better man for it.”
Malcolm presses his lips tightly together and hums noncommittally while I hobble beside him toward the hotel lobby.
We had met at my home gym this morning and swiftly discovered we needed an alternate location.
It turns out that when a man avoids cardio like the plague, his gym doesn’t have any equipment for the torture.
Malcolm said he knew somewhere to go, but it was across town, and I happened to know from my post-runaway-bride research that Maple’s hotel had exactly what we needed.
So we rolled out, tortured ourselves, and confirmed that running is horrible and useless.
When we reach the lobby, Malcolm turns to me, reaches up to ruffle my sweat-dripping hair, thinks better of it, and delicately pats my shoulder.
I wrinkle my nose at his pristinely coiffed hair before something behind him catches my eye.
Maple is here.
I straighten to my full, horribly strained height. “Goodbye,” I say, pushing past my brother. “Thank you for being here. I’ll see you later.”
He mutters a sardonic farewell behind me, and I toss a wave over my shoulder as I beeline for my wife.
She stands beneath a ray of awful fluorescent light, clutching a sketchbook in her hand as she glares at an easel.
Her dress, a flowing purple that brings forth visions of flower fields and armored knights, swirls around her legs as she shifts to say something to the workers at the counter to her side.
“Mr. Swallow,” the older of the two behind the counter calls out, alerting the room to my presence, “I trust the gym was to your satisfaction?”
“It’s a horrible place, and I will be quite happy to never set foot in it again,” I reply, jerking to a stop next to Maple. “I recommend getting rid of the treadmills.”
“We’ll take that under consideration,” Etta says wryly.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask lowly, narrowing my eyes.
“Of course not,” she replies, blinking innocently.
I frown.
“Some husbands would greet their wife before picking fights with her friends,” Maple notes, tapping her nails against the hard surface of her sketchbook. “I don’t suppose you could be one such husband?”
“I don’t suppose so,” I agree, turning my most Maple-melting smile on her. “Since when are the hotel people your friends? I thought I was your friend.”
Maple averts her eyes to avoid the melting. “You are my friend,” she says. “But I’m branching out. Etta and Mary are nice, and I like them. Please don’t scare them off.”
Etta or Mary snorts, while the other Etta or Mary bites her lip nervously. “We’re not going anywhere,” Etta or Mary says defiantly, rolling her eyes. “Least of all because of some man.”
“You really consider us friends?” the other Etta or Mary asks as her eyes well with big, fat, dramatic tears. “Truly?”
Now my eyes roll. “Yes, yes, it’s very touching.
Maple is generous with her love. Unfortunately.
You’ll do well to remember that the lion’s share is mine, a fact that I’d like to capitalize on now.
” I turn toward what appears to be Maple’s latest project, drawing her attention away from her newer, lesser friends.
“What are you working on, my very best friend in the entire world just as I am yours?”
I realize what I’m looking at before she can answer, and suddenly Etta or Mary’s eyes are not the only wet ones in this room. “Oh,” I say. “That’s our wedding.”
Maple sighs. “No. That’s supposed to be our wedding. Something is wrong with it.”
I don’t see anything wrong with it. She’s captured the hazy, dreamy memory with an accuracy that I wouldn’t believe possible if I weren’t looking right at the evidence.
The cloudy floor, the shining star lights, the floating candles—they’re all there, surrounding blurred tables and shadowy figures that pale on the fringes of the vision.
In the center of the painting stands a husband and wife, staring at each other with love and adoration.
He wears a tuxedo. She wears a gown of starlight.
Her hair flows down her back, a dark wave of night sky in the twilight of the room.
Tucked behind his ear is a flag in a startling shade of red, but even that can’t detract from the perfection of the scene.
It’s true to life with a slash of artistic expression, and I am amazed at her talent anew.
“I want this,” I declare. “I want a hundred of this. I want enough to put one in every room of our home, and in every room that I ever have to spend any portion of my life in. My goodness, Maple, you’ve captured it beautifully. I love it. I love you. Goodness, goodness, I love it, and I love you.”
She huffs, unimpressed. “Maybe when it’s finished, I’ll let you have it. But not until it’s done.” Her eyes slide away from the work to prod at me. “How did your reflection go?”
I wince and shake my head. “I am not reflected. I am only pain.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Same.” Her eyes drag back to the painting, and she sighs. “What is wrong with this thing?” she mutters.
Having been unable to figure out what’s wrong with me, I understand her frustration acutely in this moment, and I’m moved to seriously consider what might be the issue with her painting. From her perspective, anyway, because from mine, it is the eighth wonder of the world.
I tilt my head and consider the canvas with a more critical eye.
My nose scrunches.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Etta or Mary says from the counter. I glare at her with my patented why are you speaking during this meeting, you insipid underling glare. If it works during corporate borefests, it can surely work now.
Etta or Mary wilts.
I turn back to the painting, and my attention draws immediately to the pop of red.
It doesn’t feel right to me, but I can’t pinpoint why.
I’m hesitant to bring it up if it’s a purposeful choice, and of course it is.
One doesn’t accidentally throw a glob of fire engine red at a golden-dusted blue masterpiece.
I cannot find anything else off in the painting. The proportions are correct. The lighting is consistent. The couple looks just like us. The foreground isn’t distracting, and the background balances well. It’s just the flag that mars the soft glimmer of the image.
Ugh.
I’m going to have to mention the flag.
I mention the flag.
Her nose wrinkles. “It’s not the flag.”
Ah. Right. Well. Then it’s not the flag, I suppose.
“Maybe…” I think fast, straying from the physical of what’s in front of us to the emotional of what’s behind it.
“Maybe it feels wrong because it’s a story still being told?
” I offer. “And I know you said it’s not the flag, but maybe you’re waiting for the moment when red turns to gold—for the moment when a wedding becomes a marriage. ”
Her brows furrow. “You’re suggesting time as a solution?”
I shrug. “Maybe? Time, trust, love. The things that come as the story gets told. The things that the beginning can’t offer.
It’s like with me, trying to find the answer to your question—trying to turn my red flag gold.
Part of it is the effort, but clearly that’s not all that my story needs.
The time that passes and the things that happen in that passing time benefit me.
The love you give me as you patiently wait.
The trust you exhibit by letting me try.
These are all things that are necessary, but don’t satisfy our desire for instant gratification.
Maybe your painting needs the same things that I need, and in the meantime, you have to trust that it will bring joy in the end. ”
She frowns up at me. “I hate that answer.”
I smile ruefully. “Becuase it means you can’t finish your painting yet?”
“Obviously,” she puffs. “How inconvenient.”
I sigh and kiss her temple, careful not to drip sweat on her pretty dress or her pretty skin.
“I’ll try to experience life-changing introspection very quickly for you, my rosy Maple, so that we can get past the beginning.
You’ll be able to finish your painting soon, and then I’ll hang it in our house so that it may herald you home.
” I link my pinky with hers, scraping my nail against the cover of her sketchbook as I squeeze between it and her skin to claim the digit.
“I have the perfect spot in mind for it. The copies can go all over, but this? The original? I’ll hang it over our bed so that we can fall asleep under the stars of our love for the rest of our post-beginning lives. ”
Her cheeks bloom at the mention of our bed, and I soften like putty.
She’s so… Maple. Rosy, rosy Maple. My rosy Maple.
Bashful and blushing and talented and patient and more beautiful than all the paintings in the world.
She brings color to my life. She highlights the good and softens the dark.
She is every stroke of joy I have ever known, and every speck of love I have ever wished for.
I love her more than I will ever know how to show her.
I love her enough to meditate, and journal, and run. Maybe even all at once, if I have to. I love her enough to figure out the answer to this question.
I love her enough to mix red with yellow, and brown, and white, until all that’s left is a pure, shining gold.