He knows. He knows what month is coming up. He knows what day is in that particular month. He knows what anniversary occurs right before that day. He knows it all too well.
There’s been a heart pillow (that’s somehow also shaped like lips, which he has puzzled about for a long enough time to be thoroughly embarrassed) on his bed for a month already. There are red hearts drawn on the calendar in his kitchen. And she had shown up at his apartment only the night before, new glittery red nails raking through his hair until he found himself smiling.
Sitting at his desk, he notices a long silky black hair stuck to his sleeve. Removing it, he thinks, what the hell, and starts to plan something to do for her. Otherwise, she’ll be hurt, and then he’ll get frustrated, and no one will have a good time. Well, no one will have a good time until he finally apologizes and ends up on his back while she does these amazing things to him that make him blush, which is made much much worse when she notices and exclaims, “Ryan! You’re blushing!!!”
He decides on dinner at a nice restaurant. Because dinner makes it looks like he cares, but not like he’s about to propose. Well, as long as he doesn’t order champagne or some fancy dessert that looks like a ring would hide easily in it. Maybe not a restaurant, after all.
Maybe he’ll make her dinner at her place. But he can’t cook, and he knows for certain that no one wants food poisoning on an anniversary (he can’t forget that part) slash Valentines Day “celebration”. Restaurant it is. But nowhere too nice. And he’ll give her flowers to counteract the crappy restaurant. Roses. No, carnations. He looks up a florist online, checks prices. One rose. Red? Pink? Okay, two roses. He’s been promoted, he can get two roses. Hell, he can even splurge for a ribbon.
He calls a florist one day after work, asking if he can have two roses, one red and one pink, and do they have any ribbon with glitter in it, please? After he hangs up the phone, he has to drink a beer and play Grand Theft Auto for an hour to counteract what he just did.
After successfully avoiding the subject for the week leading up to that day (the big day), he finally tells her, the afternoon before, to expect him around 7 for a surprise. He’s walking her out to her car in the parking lot when he mentions it, and she squeals little puffs of air and throws her arms around his neck. Which, yes, is goddamn cute. So he catches her and gives her a kiss, a good long one, before opening her car door and holding her purse while she gets in. Just to give her something on what’s technically their anniversary.
He spends half of his afternoon looking for the tie, the stupid pink and red striped tie she gave him for Christmas. He knows it will make her happy. Finally finding it, he ties it in front of the mirror, remembering how she pressed herself against him when she gave it to him, tying it just a little too tight and pulling him down into her. He’s suddenly glad he got two roses, and smiles to himself as he walks out the door.
Pausing in front of her door, he knocks, expecting her to throw it open and attack him before his knuckles have time to make contact, like she usually does. Nothing. He knocks again. When she doesn’t answer, he checks the time and can feel something like worry in the pit of his stomach. She has never let him knock twice (excepting the time she refused to answer and then proceeded to yell at him through the door for fifteen minutes). Fumbling for his cell phone, he calls her and can hear the distant ring beyond the door. She’s not yelling at him this time. Stopping short of calling her name, he pulls out the key she gave him months ago and, for the first time, uses it to open the door.
Somehow, her apartment doesn’t feel right, feel like her. Calling out her name tentatively, he tosses the roses on her kitchen counter and walks back to the bedroom. When he sees her, he can hear himself breathe a sigh of relief.
She’s curled up in the center of her bed, hair falling in front of her face. Touching her shoulder, she sort of groans and looks up at him, mumbling.
“Ryan….I don’t feel good…”
Pale. She looks pale. That’s it. How is it possible for her to look pale? Her hair looks darker, somehow, and as he presses a hand to her forehead, damp with sweat, he can almost hear a sizzle, she’s so hot. He doesn’t know what to do.
Loosening his tie, he tries to remember what his Mom would do; that’s what he thinks of when he feels helpless, like now. Walking into the bathroom, he runs some cold water in the tub and tries to pull her out of bed. He’s always surprised with how small she is, and manages to carry her into the bathroom, pulling off her clothes before settling her in the cool water, holding her hand as she gasps when the water hits her for the first time.
She’s silent. She doesn’t speak the whole time he lets her soak, feeling her forehead again and dousing her head with a cup of cold water when he thinks she’s gotten even hotter (and then feeling horrible when he remembers that his Mom never did that, what the hell was he thinking), she remains still and hushed as he dries her off and pulls some stuff off of her floor to dress her in. She’s absolutely quiet and he can’t believe he’s always wished for this, because it just isn’t right.
Checking her once more, he runs down to the corner convenience store, already knowing she only has Diet Coke and Bugles in her kitchen. Buying some juice and generic Tylenol, he lets himself back in, props her up and makes her drink; take the pills, anything, to fix her.
When she falls asleep, he paces the living room, pulling at his hair and wondering what to do next. Remembering the roses, he looks for something to put them in, and can only find the shot glasses he gave her for Christmas. Shot glasses. He gave her shot glasses. At least they had pink hearts on them.
Pulling off the ribbon (25 cents extra for the glitter, no joke) he uses a pair of scissors shaped like a cat to hack off the bottom half (actually pretty much all) of the flowers, placing them in a shot’s worth of water in the glass. He tries to tie the stupid ribbon around the glass, but it keeps slipping and he’s swearing under his breath, so he ties it in a knot and figures that she’s sick, anyway.
Setting it on her nightstand, he feels her forehead again and thinks it might be a little cooler. As he sits next to her, she finally opens her eyes.
“Ryan.” Her voice sounds low, and he feels a little guilty because he finds it hot.
“Sorry I dumped water on your head.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. Do you feel better?”
“I guess.”
“You still have a pretty bad fever.”
“Oh my god, Ryan…I must look horrible!” She blinks, and it’s like he’s watching her struggle to be…her again.
“Nah, you look fine.” He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away.
“No, I bet I look disgusting.” Suddenly she coughs, and he hands her the glass of orange juice, helping her get a drink, before he talks again. He can feel the familiar frustration forming, bubbling to the surface when he speaks again.
“Kelly! You look fine. You’re just sick.” He looks at her subdued face, forehead covered in sweat, eyes huge, and he thinks he might have just RSVP’d for his penthouse suite in hell.
“Sorry, Ryan.” She closes her eyes.
“It’s okay…maybe you just should get some sleep.” He leans forward and kisses her forehead, and her voice is low again when she protests.
“No…I don’t want you to get sick too.” She squints up at him, pale and sweaty and…he kisses her. He kisses her properly and moves her aside so he can lie next to her, settling his arm around her and pulling her close, skin hot and smooth.
“Just sleep.”
He can tell when her fever breaks during the night, because she’s suddenly covered in sweat and she starts to snore like she usually does.
In the morning, she turns to him.
“Ryan…you’re still here.”
He stretches, pulling his arm from around her and trying to shake out the pins and needles.
“Yeah. How are you feeling?”
She pauses for a moment before answering.
“Better. Oh no! I missed the surprise!”
“We can do it some other time.”
She smiles.
“Ryan, you are the best boyfriend ever! Now move; I’m going to go shower off the gross.”
“Good.”
She laughs, shoving him and then groaning.
“Ohhhh, I don’t feel as better as I thought.”
“Want me to go get breakfast while you take a shower?”
“Pancakes?”
“Sure.”
“I love you, Ryan!”
He smiles.
“I know. Now, go get in the shower. I’ll be back in awhile.”
As he gets dressed (hiding his tie under one of her piles of clothes), he looks over the nightstand and sees his knotted rose shot glass thing. Sighing, he sits and concentrates, tying a respectable bow and placing it in the center so she’ll be sure to see it.
Because she does amazing things to him, sometimes.
