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“Are you seriously going to name your cat Mackerel because she’s a mackerel tabby?” Soren doesn’t hide the smile in his voice.
“It’s a possibility!” Lavender defends, keeping her eyes on the road. Even when her phone buzzes with a text, she stays focused. “Hey can you check that for me?”
He reaches for it, swiping down to see if the text is what he’s expecting it to be. Perfect. He was hoping they’d be at the hotel already, but he didn’t plan on a delayed flight when he told Hera. “Hera’s asking if you heard about me getting engaged.” He sets her phone back in the cupholder, making sure she can still see it at a glance. “Not yet,” he preemptively corrects the automatic assumption, “but I’m going to propose soon.”
Lavender’s shocked silence feels like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He settles back into her distinctively Toyota passenger seat to watch her face, waiting for that moment when she sees the picture he’s been working on for the past six years. Everyone else thinks it’s been longer, and he lets them. There’s no need to explain. Not when the ‘IB school sweethearts’ narrative works in his favor.
When she finally speaks, her tone isn’t what he expected. “What?!” Still, she’s focused on the road, only glancing at her phone whenever a potential turn pops up.
Which gives Soren leeway to properly examine her, as rapid-fire questions pour from her mouth. There’s shock, obviously—but it’s stayed shock. It hasn’t turned into delight, or teasing about how long it took, or—
“And why haven’t I met them yet?!”
Strč mi lyžařskou hůl do zadku a nazvi mě loutkou. She doesn’t know it’s her. But that’s fucking stupid, they’ve been dating since St. Aubade’s. Which, to be fair, she knew he was doing it for non-romantic reasons. But he certainly hasn’t mentioned being interested in someone else since, and she’s turned down people who were interested—
And she would’ve just told them she wasn’t interested. Because she thinks telling people you’re in a relationship when you turn them down implies that you wouldn’t if you were single, and she needs to be as clear as possible in her communication. Which is fine, but also he’s clearly been investing relationship-efforts into her, beyond the sex he’s been looking forward to since he got on that fucking flight. But she knows he can fuck anyone if he wants to—
Wait, does she not know we’re still dating?
“And most importantly, do they make you laugh?!”
He interrupts before her next question can start. “Why’s that the most important?”
“Beeeecaauuuse,” she makes the turn smoothly, “if they don’t…” She pauses, as if the rest of the sentence needs time before it can come out.
He waits. It’ll come out eventually. She always finishes her sentences, even if it’s with an action.
“If they don’t,” she continues, pulling off the interstate, “then maybe youuuuu,” she pauses when Google pipes up, “should reconsider who you’re asking to marry you.” A beat as she makes the next turn. “Or at least let me teach them what they should know.”
“Reconsider?” He props his elbow on the door, leaning his head on his fist. “And who would you suggest?” He’s not fishing. Just… confirming nothing important needs to be changed. Definitely has nothing to do with the thought of years of his effort being potentially wasted making it difficult to keep his jaw unclenched. He tenses the back of his hand to release the tension, a trick Lavender taught him when she was showing him how conflict gets staged.
“Myself,” comes her quick answer, her eyes narrowing at the cop car ahead. She keeps the bird she flips it below her windows. “I mean, we already know we get along and communicate well, so if you’re just crossing an item off your bucket list then I’m clearly the superior choice.”
Soren hums, turning his head enough to watch the buildings they pass while keeping her profile in view. Eye contact with her is unnecessary, and he cultivated a habit of not looking at her as often as he does in most conversations. “Well, she does make me laugh.” Though her remembering an unneeded fact about him does that warm thing to his chest. “Has for a few years, actually.” The undoubtedly theatrical accusations building cause Lavender’s face to narrow. “It’s almost as if she’s trying to make up for not knowing me when we were kids.” Lavender’s brain should be at least remembering that conversation about what they were like as kids, maybe even the part where Soren admitted that he would’ve preferred having Lavender as a childhood friend over Hera. He continues before she can start up more questions. “And before you ask, yes, she knows how I am.” The memory paints his smile. “She even called me a manipulative cunt before we started dating. But,” he sighs, “it seems she thinks that’s all I am, so now I’m wondering if I should even bother.” Now he’s fishing. Even if he'll only admit it to himself.
“To be fair to her,” Lavender starts, pulling into the parking lot of Cork Dorks, “that is usually your starting point.” She pulls into a space, parking the car and setting the brake. “Developing an attachment was probably accidental.” She turns off the ignition, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t realize that’s what was happening at first.”
“Rude,” is a near-instictive response at this point as he unbuckles, “and I'll have you know that I’ve been intentionally dating her for years.” He gets out of the car before he can see her face. He knows what that flash of hurt looks like. It always makes his chest feel tight. “So you’re saying I’ve lost all my good qualities?”
She’s glaring at him as they approach the doors, the glass sliding apart for them. Anger’s always an easier emotion when she’s hurting. “No,” she asserts, her voice taking on a tight quality that has Soren adjusting his angle. “But I’m definitely losing respect for you the more I hear that you didn’t tell me,” she grabs one of the wooden carts, finishing her sentence with a clear “asshole.”
“I thought it was obvious.” The world’s weakest defense, but it’s a good pivot. His sigh is perfect; barely audible, like he’s giving in to instinct but trying to not make a sound. “Shows how well you know me, I guess.” He lets the barest tinge of disappointment color his voice. It’s not even faked. He’s using another trick she told him about, redirecting a genuine reaction into a line.
Lavender bites, of course. She can’t stand for any kind of misunderstanding. “I know you like how antique jewelry looks, but you’d never wear it.” She points the cart into the aisle directly in front of the door to the interior. “Too flashy, and you prefer your accessories to be practical. And you still wear that necklace your dad gave you, even though it doesn’t mean what you thought it did.” She picks up a four-pack of cans, Nosferatu looking out from the label. “And you prefer ice skating to snowboarding now, even though I’m pretty sure you haven’t touched a hockey stick in years.” I can skate with you, she puts the four-pack in the cart, even if you end up on your ass most of the time. He follows her into the next aisle, the store packed tighter than cigarettes. She’s taking her time going through the beers, probably looking for one to bring her dad tomorrow. You were only continuing to try to snowboard because you wanted to make me happy anyway. You still smile like a stupidní člověk when you tell me you need help getting your skates off.
She doesn’t continue until after she’s wrestled the cart into another aisle. “And you picked up smoking from your mom—” She goes past the next two side aisles. “Oh, I saw a few things to celebrate her month-iversary for quitting, but can you look over them and help pick out the one she’d like best?” She has to scooch the cart to turn around the display. “My grandma said the worst part about quitting was that she didn’t really have any support outside of her family? Since you kinda make friends with the people who take smoke breaks with you, and at the time she worked too much to attend the groups and stuff. So I think it’d be nice if I got her something.”
Soren’s saved from the impulse to take a knee this instant when he spots a familiar flat, green-glass bottle in an aisle ahead. He heads straight for it. She needs to think this is her idea. Otherwise, she’ll need time to adjust. He picks up the bottle, the yellow label a safe place to look while he does some quick math. Our flight to Switzerland is a red eye on the twenty-eighth. That’s tonight and two days here to convince her, and three days after that if I need it. Which he might, if he has to surprise her.
He puts the bottle in the cart when Lavender gets to him. “I stand corrected.” He picks up the ouzo nearby. He’s never liked it, but Lavender loves licorice so she probably will. “Maybe I should marry you instead.” He moves out of the aisle. “Since you clearly know me better than she does.” He can see the wine selection from here. A bottle makes a good prop for pretending he’s sorry about his flight time. And it’s tradition at this point, even if he’s paying for an extra hotel room for her sister’s family. “We’re still seeing those lights tomorrow, right?” He finds the reds first, immediately scanning them for what her parents would like. They’ve been drinking dryer reds than they used to.
“You definitely should,” she says, as confident as any joke she’s made. He has to dull the sharpness of his smile as he picks a bottle up, looking for the year. Gods, she’s made me soft. “And yeah, we’re still seeing the lights.” He puts the bottle back as she makes that confused-but-dealing-with-it face. “I’m actually kinda surprised everyone agreed to do it at night? Especially my sister, since she’s got her kids and all.”
At least I know they can all keep quiet. “We’ll celebrate at the hotel tonight, then.” His eyes land on a bottle he’s bought for them before. He grabs it, “and then do the whole down-on-one-knee thing for the public tomorrow.” He puts that in the cart too. It’s just far enough out of the Noble price range for it to not be in their house already, but not so expensive that they suspected him of buying into their graces when he first showed up. It was too dry back then, but they liked it enough to drink it. “Do you care what we toast with?” He moves to the whites. Lavender’s even pickier about these than her reds, but he found something from Austria a few months ago that she might like.
“Hot chocolate,” she follows him without hesitation, “but I will allow alcohol if it’s that Winter Jack stuff we passed by earlier. Or like, something minty, so it tastes good in the hot chocolate.” Of course. “Also, what are you gonna tell others? I need to be prepared if your ex or her family gets catty.”
That same smile he didn’t ask for creeps up. She still thinks we’re doing a bit. “Well,” he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, “I’ll probably tell them I finally realized something I should’ve done long ago.” He pulls out the box, holding it towards her. A beat, then he opens it with his thumb in a move that took him longer to perfect than he’d like to admit. Worth it though, for the second it gives him to look at her face. There it is. That moment when her brain stalls before rebooting with a vengeance. When she realizes how badly she read the situation, and that she’s gone too far to back down now.
He looks away, still holding the box so she can refamiliarize herself with his mother's ring as he tries to find that brut rosé. He didn’t have anything to distract her with when he asked her out, so she caught whatever flickers of emotion she’s always managed to unknot from his act. Sakra, I don’t see it. “I have an appointment to resize it when we get to Geneva for the New Year's Eve gala Hera's hosting,” he snaps the box shut, “but it should work as-is until then.” He heads back towards the whiskeys, ‘conveniently’ stopping next to her on the way. “Unless that was all a joke?” He doesn’t bother trying to paint the slight challenge in his voice as anything else. “Because that would be exceptionally hurtful, manželka.” Saying that out loud after years of going over this in his head settles something in his chest. Like a vice he didn’t know was there finally loosened.