“Oh, you know, because it’s a cynical corporate ploy and commercial schmaltz. A symbol of rank consumerism. Did I tell you Esther holds an anti-Valentine’s party every year?”
I try not to laugh. “But I thought Esther had her very own library of Hugh Grant DVDs.”
“She’s not anti-love, just its commercialization.”
“Because those high-budget films are resolutely not-for-profit.”
“She would say she chose to buy them—”
“All thirty of them.”
“—whereas Valentine’s is thrust upon her. Us. The world.”
“So what do you do at these parties, then—burn roses? Flush chocolates down the loo?”
Callie stops to untangle Murphy’s lead from around his front leg. “Not exactly. But they are intense. They’re very... immersive.”
“What—you sit in a circle and chant about how much you hate Valentine’s?”
She straightens up, face zipped closed. It’s impossible to know where she falls on this one. “Well, you have to hold a view, at least. And there’s always a theme. Last year was zombies.”
“She having one this year?”
“Yep. The theme is heavy metal through the ages.”
“Wow.” I rub my chin, attempt nonchalance. “So who would you go as? If you went to the party, I mean.”
Her mouth wriggles, like she’s wrestling a smile. “Not sure. I haven’t said if I’ll go yet.”
•••
She doesn’t, in the end. Instead she calls dibs on the evening two weeks in advance. Asks me to meet her at the café, eight o’clock on Valentine’s night.
It’s a first for me. Fully buying into Valentine’s. If you’d asked me in the past, I’d have sided firmly with Esther on swerving the thing altogether. The idea of celebrating love has never been straightforward for me.
But then I met Callie.
I arrive fifteen minutes early, with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers. (I saybunch. It turns out no one wants to look too try-hard on Valentine’s Day; all the normal flowers had sold out by the time I made it to the shop. So I’ve ended up with a bouquet the size of a small planet, containing fifteen different types of flower and sprouting exotic greenery like it has its own microclimate. But I could hardly turn up empty-handed, so there you go.)
All the blinds are down at the café. But light is flickering inside, inviting as a woodland cottage.
She laughs when she opens the door. “I can’t see your face.”
“Yeah. Just so you know, I fully realize flowers this ridiculous should be a deal-breaker.”
She peers around the bouquet. “That depends on who’s carrying them.”
“A disorganized idiot. Sorry. I left it too late. Sling them in the bin ifyou want. It’s quite an experience, walking down the street with them on Valentine’s. There was heckling.”
“You might be the only person I’ve ever known who’d apologize for bringing me flowers.”
“Hey, they warrant it.”
“No, I love them.”
“Well, there are enough here to start your own botanic garden, I suppose.” I set the bouquet on the counter. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
Her hair is a dark twist on top of her head. She’s shimmering in a sleeveless metallic top, the fabric fluid as smelted gold.
