But she agreed to wear white.For me.
I settle into my baby-blue chair at my heavy wooden desk, and I allow myself the fleeting pleasure of the smug, satisfied,gloatyemotions flooding my head and inflating it to twice its normal size.
Then I remember that after she wore white for me, she ran away and has since refused to see me, only speaking to me under duress.
Smugness exits swiftly, replaced by an increasingly familiar dread.
My eyes snag on my empty spreadsheet, and the dread flows from my chest to my extremities, leaving no nook, cranny, or blood vessel untouched.
I’ve got nothing.
I have not one single clue how to woo my wife, and it’s eating me alive.
I’ve alreadydoneall of the grand gestures I can think of, and all of the small gestures, too, for that matter. I’ve loved Maple Mae Valor for years, and I’ve spent every moment of every day making it clear to her that she is important and precious to me. I’ve given her gifts. I’ve given her time. I’ve done everything she’s ever asked of me and endeavored to do the things she hasn’t thought to ask yet. I’ve devoted myself to her fully, and completely, and endlessly, in every way that comes to mind.
In short, I’ve ruined my romantic endeavors by being too good at platonic love.
Doesn’t that just figure.
At a loss, I do what I always do when I have a problem I can’t quite figure out: I call Malcolm and dump it at his feet.
My fingers reach for my navy-blue desk phone and dial my brother up. After all, he’s partially the reason I’m in this mess. It’s not like he discouraged my Flag Day ball-wedding. He planned the thing. I put in some requests for the event, of course, but the logistics I left in the hands of a more than capable Malcolm Swallow, and he delivered a wedding that was so beyond perfection I can’t think of a word that could encompassthe fruits of his labor. It was exactly as I described to him—a dream come reality.
I’m grateful to him for the gift he delivered to me in my perfect wedding. I am also laying the blame for my current predicament squarely at his feet, as is the right of a little brother to do.
Malcolm is the best brother the world has to offer, obviously. In turn, I am the best little brother I can manage to be. I poke at him. I prod. I slide my peas onto his plate when I don’t want to eat them, not a care in the world that he doesn’t enjoy peas either. I take him Maple’s atrocious attempts at cooking once a quarter, watch him eat the possible poison with a smile on his face, then I eat take-out Chinese food right in front of him. I say to him, in an official business meeting about official business things, “Malice, I’m hosting a Flag Day ball at my home. It is a front for my wedding to Maple, which is information none but you and I may be privy to. I’ll handle catering and Maple. You’re in charge of everything else.”
Normally, I would never speak on non-business subjects during work. Work is work. You go, you do a good job, and then you come home to have your fun. I may not dress the most professionally by industry standards, but no one can doubt that my attitude is almost always infallibly above board. When it comes to being a general pest to Malcolm, though…
Well, what sort of brother would I be if I didn’t take every opportunity to attempt to get under his skin? Not that I’ve ever actuallygottenunder his skin before, but I believe it’s the act of trying more than succeeding that makes a little brother good at his designated role. At the very least, Mal believes me to be the best, and so that must mean it’s true. I am the best, and he is the best, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a moron.
While the phone rings, I tap my fingers on my desk and hope Malcolm’s not too busy to answer.
At Swallow Medical Group, my focus is on keeping employee retention up, turnover down, and morale somewhere in the middle. The first two are simple enough. The last one, not so much. People are fickle, and emotional, and driven by these things to such a degree that guaranteeing a decent level of morale on any given day is a full-time job.Myfull-time job. Unfortunately.
Malcolm’s job is to deal with people worldwide instead of building-wide, which keeps him even busier than I am on the daily.
I shudder at the very thought. An extrovert, I am not.
I’m shaking off the last vestiges of horror when Malcolm’s deep, melodic voice comes across the line. “Hello, brother dear,” he greets, a sardonic smile in his tone. “Are you calling to ask about safe words so soon?”
My nose scrunches. “Ew,” I reply.
Malcolm's tone remains light, if mildly acidic. “It’s a valid question, given your view on strangulation, isn’t it?”
“I need your help,” I confess. “Notthatkind of help. A different sort of help. Less vomit-inducing.”
“It seems I’ve found another reason to pity your poor wife,” he returns dryly.
My scowl is all jealousy. “If anyone should be pitied right now, it’s me. Maple did not appreciate the surprise wedding.”
“That’s crazy,” he replies. “Who could have possibly guessed.”
“I should be more clear. She loved the wedding. She called it beautiful and perfect. She does not appreciate the surprise aspect of the event, nor the marriage connected to it… supposedly.”
“Supposedly?”
“It’s up for some debate whether or not she minds being married to me,” I reply. “Specifically, she says that’s part of the problem, and I do not believe her.”
