Oh, for flag’s sake.
“I’m mad,” I retort, answering him just as much as I am reminding myself. I shake off the tingles histhinghave left skittering over my skin and bring us both back to reality. “Because you didn’t give me achoice. You know, that thing autonomous humans are given? Free will? Options? The ability to decide what course of action they’re going to take?”
He hums a facsimile of understanding. “Right,” he drawls. “So you want me to woo you.”
I need a hard surface to bang my head against.
I need a hard surface to banghishead against.
At a loss, I stare at the hues of blue in front of me and consider my options. I could keep going as I am, trying to get across to my stubborn, bullheaded, single-minded friend that he is, shockingly,wrong.
Or I could remember that my friend is stubborn, bullheaded, single-minded, and nearly as spoiled rotten as I am. He isn’t accustomed to being told “no,” and I don’t think he could describe the sensation of being wrong if he tried.
Decisions, decisions…
With a defeated sigh, I make my choice, dangerous as it may be for my emotions—not to mention my psyche. “Whatever,” I huff. “Sure, Ivy, you can try to woo me, under the condition that I am allowed to sayno. This isn’t going to be a haranguing, and it’s not going to be a convincing or a negotiation, either. You can express your feelings, and I can decide on my own, in my own time, without pressure, how I feel about them. I want the option to saynoanytime I want.” Capitulating to this now doesn’t mean I have to let him run rampant over me. He already has my love, but only I get to choose if I’m going to act on that love. Not him, no matter how much “wooing” he plans to do. I want my own choice.
“You can have it,” he agrees readily. Then, in his purring lilt, “But you won’t need it.”
And just what does he thinkthatmeans?
He says a quick goodbye, citing his need to “create a war plan,” and the call ends before I can ask.
I shake excess anxious energy out of my hands, belatedly remembering I have a wet paintbrush in one of them, so paint-tinted water flies all over the space, landing on canvas, dress, tarp, palette, and everything in between. With a wince, and perhaps a little groaning, I lay the brush down and grab a sheet from the paper towels to dab the hydration off the painting before it ruins my base layer.
I will the action to be a symbolism of things to come. A mess has been made, and it will be cleaned up tidily and with minimal lasting effects. Nothing to worry about. “Warfare” is naught but a drop of water in an inconvenient place, and all I need is a bit of paper to mop it right up. Easy. And also peasy. Lemon squeezy. Piece of cake. Easy as pie. Nothing has ever been more simple, in fact.
Blots of blue peel away with every press of the paper towel, and, for the sake of my mental well-being at this current moment, I choose not to explore whatever symbolism the stolen layers might hold. Lemon, squeeze, cake, pie. I am on the path to everything in my life being okay again. I still have myno, regardless of whether or not Ivy believes I will use it. It’s there, a loaded gun with my finger on the trigger.
My frantic blotting smooths, becoming less erratically desperate and more confidently sure. The paint doesn’t smudge too much, and neither will I.
I cling to mynolike a lifeline in the water. It is both shield and weapon, protecting me from the terrors of this world—terrors like a man who believes himself in love and immune to silly things likesocietal expectationsandbasic common senseanddecency.
Perhaps I should spend the time Ivy is using to prepare himself refining my weapon. Instead of a pistol, it can be… I don’t know. A bigger gun, I guess. One of those huge ones that can shoot a million bullets a minute without even getting warm to the touch, and I can have a band across my body holding extra ammunition. A hoard ofnos, ready to be used.
Bolstered by this plan, I finish cleaning up the mess that I’ve made and get to work shoring up my defenses. If Ivy wants a war, he can have one.
But, armed with mynos, I do not intend to lose it.
Chapter Seven
?
Iverson
Preparing for war is a lot easier said than done.
I sit in my home office and stare at the blank spreadsheet on my computer screen. Anxiety spikes in my chest, soothed only by the knowledge that Maple loves me. This assurance is supported when I look around my office at all the shades of blue that surround me.
Maple likes blue. It’s her favorite color, whether she’ll admit it or not. She likes to say thatallcolors are her favorite, and she couldn’t possibly pick just one, and how could we pretend that a singular hue is more pleasing than the rest when they each contribute so much potential and beauty to the world? She speaks on the subject with much vehemence—almost enough to make me believe her.
Except.
She drafts blue ballgowns on napkins. She decorates my office in blue. She covers her bedroom, and her bathroom, and her studios in blue. Not one shade, but all of them, painting every surface and baselining every new venture. She even underpaints her artwork in blue, rather than the standard ochre most artists use. She gravitates toward the color in ways that are so obvious, but she doesn’t seem to see.
I see it, though. I seeher.
She loves blue.