Twice Shy

17 Twice Shy

Ilyaz leaves for a meeting on his father's behalf on the evening of 14th January, it's today. Ilyaz and I were still miraculously getting along. One morning after his shower, I draw a heart in the steamy bathroom mirror. He ducks back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and after he's left it again I find another heart he's drawn, interlocked in mine.

It's the world's smallest start.

Inside his lunchbox, I leave a note. I hope you have a good day! I'm thinking about you.

Reflecting on it, I die a bit because we haven't been genuinely sappy with each other in ages, so the barest of pleasantries is saccharine. We're in a sap drought. We've been complete idiots when it comes to understanding when a partner needs something they won't ask for.

When he comes home, he has a present for me: A Wampa hat; plaid earflap hat to match his behemoth one, because I've been wearing his so often that he thought I might like one of my own. It's soft as goose down, and it matches my wampa slippers. I give him a kiss on the cheek, and where my lips touch him the skin glows pink.

The next day, I find white roses from our garden neatly cut and bundled into a small bouquet. It has a note stuck to it: Good morning beautiful, I've left soup and pastries for you in the oven. Eat up, and good luck for today! I believe in you.

He called me beautiful! My heart lights up like a Christmas tree, and I twirl like a little girl. When I flip the note around, it has a stick man with scribbles on his cheeks. I laugh at the minuscule detail. Stick figure Ilyaz wears a big smile, and there are three wavy lines around the drawing and a caption; "My irresistible aura,"

The drawing has a heart on it's chest.

I've forgotten what it's like to feel this alive. Colors are brighter, bolder. Sounds are louder. I brainstorm ways to thank Ilyaz for his thoughtfulness and decide to have flowers sent to him at work. To my knowledge, no one has ever given Ilyaz flowers in his life. To him, they're impractical and he probably associates them with the crushing obligation he feels toward his mother, so I would like to change that. After I call up the local florist and none of her suggestions sound particularly inspiring, I ask if she can put together an arrangement made entirely out of myrtle. Myrtle is generally used as filler greenery in a bouquet, too plain to be the main event, but in the Nightjar— the video game Ilyaz loves—world collecting myrtle gives characters vitality points. I think the significance will make him smile.

Ilyaz's car rumbles up the drive shortly after six, which means he hasn't made any stops after work, and I run to greet him right as he's shutting his door. He turns and looks down at me, a grin instantly appearing on his face. His eyes are bright and flickering like firelight, and a swarm of butterflies threatens to fly up from my stomach and right out of my mouth. He's holding the myrtle bouquet.

"Hey, you," he nudges my arm with his elbow.

It's insane that they've scheduled the meeting for ten a.m. when he has to drive to get there. It's as dark as outer space and way too cold to be traveling. His engine and tires might blow up. On top of that, he's leaving right when I'm starting to come down with the stomach flu. There's a rising lump in my throat when I watch him tie his shoelaces, the leather bag I packed with a change of clothes and overnight essentials at his feet.

"I don't feel well," I mutter.

He turns his head, scanning me from top to bottom. "What's wrong?"

"Stomachache. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I'm all sweaty and uncomfortable." I'm also pacing.

For something to do, I unzip his bag and paw through his stuff. I dab some of his cologne on my wrists and rub them together, then bring the scent to my nose to inhale slowly. It settles my nausea a little. Then I raise my eyes to meet Nicholas's probing ones and my heart stutters. "What?"