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 ofwhatever I send him regardless of my contraction usage—or lack thereof. He knows me.
He just doesn’t knowhimself.
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, cheeksburning.
Chapter Sixteen
?
Iverson
The stationery store on Fifth Street is four stories tall, a football field long, and blessedly open on Sundays.
“Should I get the baby blue or the robin’s blue?” I ask Malcolm, my official Emotional Support Person for all things self-reflection. “Or the cerulean…”
I hold all three of the faux leather journals in my hands, comparing. Soft, bright, and in between. They remind me of Maple, which reminds me of my love for her, which reminds me ofwhyI’m going through all of this in the first place. When on my meditation journey, I lacked the visual reminders of her that I prefer to keep around my person at all times.Thisjourney will not include that oversight. She will be there, in front of me, beneath my pen for the fullness of the time I spend on this journaling endeavor. Blue journal. Blue pens. Blue stickers. Blue, blue, blue, like her eyes and her environments.
Butwhichblue?
