I protest this soundly. No, he cannot have his stupid bucket. It’smystupid bucket, and I need it to make my physical form feel as bad as my mental one.
“I’ll get you a new bucket,” Maple promises soothingly. “A bigger bucket. A better one, too. It’ll be blue and full of cherry chocolate nut truffle ice cream instead of whatever swill Birch made. Doesn’t that sound nice? Cherry chocolate nut truffle? Your favorite?”
That sounds exceedingly nice, which is how I know I cannot take this deal. I don’t deserve anything nice. I deserve to feel miserable.
However.
Maple desires me to give up my bucket, and I would rather perish than deny her anything within my power to give her. I’m already depriving her of so much right now. If she wants my bucket, she can have my bucket.
“Please don’t give it to Birch,” I request, carefully spinning on my barstool to allow her access to the massive plastic tub. I lose her hand in my hair in the process, and the loss of it burns so acutely in this moment that I wonder if I might not be literally on fire. Birch doesn’t reach for the extinguisher mounted on the wall next to the pantry, though, so I must not be. Wild, that.
“I won’t give your ice cream to Birch,” Maple promises, much to the man’s displeasure. “I’m just going to scoot it into the freezer, then we can go somewhere else to talk, okay?” She’s talking to me as if I’m a child. Or a time bomb. Same thing, really, and I’m not even sure she’s wrong for it. Salt still coats my cheeks, and when my bucket is taken away from me, I cling to my massive spoon , clutching the sticky metal to my chest.
When she returns, I am a very brave boy and meet her head on, staring forlornly at her sapphire blue eyes. “Can I take my spoon?” I ask.
Her lips purse in worry, but she nods, and I’m grateful for it.
I follow the swish of her toffee dress out of the kitchen, through an old servant’s passage, and down a hallway. Instead of going upstairs like I expect, she turns and leads me to the library—a massive, cozy room with more comfort than books. We sink into a lush blue sofa.
Maple shifts until her thigh presses along the full length of mine and wraps her arms around my middle, shoving into myspace like she hasn’t a care at all about the drying dairy on my shirt.
“Okay,” she says. “Now that we’re away from the brat, let’s talk about what’s got you so upset. Birch said you were attempting another reflection?”
“‘Attempting’ is correct,” I answer morosely, then wince. “I’m sorry, Maple. I really am. I’m no closer to finding an answer for my actions now than I was when I did them. I just…” My fingers convulse around my spoon in my lap, and she squeezes her arms around my waist in encouragement. “I just wanted to marry you,” I whisper. “I wanted it so bad. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, and so I did it. I married you. I don’t–I don’t knowwhyI did it that way. I know the reasons I told myself—that I’d surprise you. That you’d love it. That the Flag Day of it all would be romantic. And then the reality was exactly what I thought, for a minute, anyway, before you…” I trail off, unable to say it. Not now, when I’m feeling so raw.
“Before I left,” she finishes for me, softening the blow with a kiss on my chest.
“Yeah,” I croak. “That.”
She hums low in her throat. Then, gently, she asks, “Did you think I would have said no? From the beginning, when you first decided that you wanted to marry me?”
I make myself sit with her question, even as it tears through me. Did I think she’d say no? Did I think that if I got down on one knee with a ring and a question, her answer would be anything but yes?
“I don’t know.”
Quietly, she pushes, “Were you scared that I might?”
I flinch, trying to get away from the thought, but Maple holds me steady. Her head tilts up, and her warm breath glides against my neck as her onslaught continues, a soft and terrible pull on my soul. “Did you not ask because you were scared, Ivy? Did youthink I didn’t love you just as much as you do me? Did you think I’d reject you? Did you take away my choice because you were afraid my choice wouldn’t beyou?”
I drop my spoon and twist, clutching and falling until I cover her, and there’s nowhere for her to go. She lies beneath me without protest and runs her hands up my back and into my hair.
I shove my face into her neck. “You can’t reject me,” I proclaim desperately. “You can’t.”
Not unkindly, she replies, “And that’s the problem, Iverson. Ican’t. But wouldn’t it be so much better if Icould, and chose not to?”
“Please don’t,” I plead. “Please, please don’t.” I whisper the words again and again, a benediction laid over her skin like a prayer.
“Ask me, Ivy.”
“Please,” I repeat. “Please, please, please, please, please. Please, don’t.”
“Ask me,” she orders, twisting my hair in her fingers.
My tears wet her neck.
I can’t do it.
I won’t do it.