Page 29 of Not Your Valentine
Look at me, thinking about different types of hugs. This isn’t normal.
Then I recall that we’re at the kiss ’n ride, and suddenly, I’m thinking about turning my head so I can kiss his mouth. I want my kiss to express all the things I can’t say out loud, like how the streetlights shining through the windows cast shadows that make him look particularly handsome, and how I want to protect him from all the shit in the world.
I pull back before this can get out of hand. “Remember your food.”
“I will.” He gives me a long, lingering look before he gets out of the car, retrieves the leftovers from the trunk, and heads into the station.
I drive back to my apartment feeling slightly out of sorts. Feeling like I want to kiss someone and fight someone at the same time.
To be clear, I want to kiss someone very specific: Taylor.
And I want to fight, well, lots of people. I’m not picky.
At home, I put my extra food in the fridge and check my phone. I have a message from Shirley telling me that she liked my new boyfriend. Then I click on the group chat, but I don’t type anything, just stare at the screen. I don’t usually have the urge to talk about my feelings, but I do now—and I can’t say anything. Because they can’t know the truth about my relationship with Taylor. It would defeat the whole damn purpose.
My mind is still buzzing when I climb into bed half an hour later. I dream—as I have more than once in the past week—about fingers sliding into the holes…on bowling balls.
Yep, this fake relationship is definitely not what I expected.
Chapter 10
I’m sitting in traffic on Tuesday after work when I have a brainwave.
I should get Taylor flowers.
I might be inspired by something I saw online the other day: a post about how men like getting flowers, too. Now, a bunch of men replied that this wasn’t true, but some men do like flowers, and I suspect Taylor is one of those men. The only problem is that he isn’t home during the day to receive a delivery, but his roommate works from home.
A few minutes later, I come across a florist in a plaza, and I pull into the parking lot.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m getting flowers for my fake boyfriend.
But I’ve been feeling like our relationship is a bit lopsided. Even before we started fake dating, he was usually the one reaching out to me, providing suggestions for what we could do. I suspect Taylor’s friendships are often like that: he’s the one making the effort.
So, yeah. I can make some effort on his behalf. Why not?
The lady behind the counter asks what I want, and I refrain from saying, I don’t fucking know! I want flowers! Do I look like the kind of person who knows anything about flowers?
She thins her lips at my obvious lack of knowledge and hands me a booklet with lots of helpful pictures. As I flip through the booklet, I do a bit of research on my phone. I recall hearing that different flowers have different meanings, and I figure I can try to send him a message without actually having to say the words. At the very least, I should avoid inadvertently sending him the wrong message.
Alas, I doubt any flower means “you are a great fake boyfriend,” but I vaguely recall that yellow roses mean friendship, which seems appropriate. However, a little googling reveals that they might also represent jealousy and infidelity, so I decide that’s a bad idea. What’s with the multiple meanings?
Yellow carnations apparently mean disappointment, and the last thing I want to do is suggest I’m disappointed in him.
What about lilies? I’ve always hated the smell, but perhaps he feels differently. Still, I can’t bring myself to order them.
“Any questions?” the lady asks me.
“Uh, no. I’m fine,” I say, even though I feel a touch overwhelmed.
I return to roses. Red roses are definitely out—too romantic—but pink ones mean appreciation and happiness, and I can’t find any sign that they also mean the apocalypse is coming or similar. Okay, that’s good. Pink it is.
But then I look up and see some absolutely stunning roses in the shop. The cream-colored petals turn to pink at the tips. I decide I have to get those, perhaps with a little baby’s breath. A quick search reveals that multi-colored roses can mean joy, which works for me.
I place my order and sign a little card to accompany the bouquet.
When I’m in the lab the next day, my mind keeps straying to Taylor, to what his reaction will be when he sees the bouquet of flowers, to how, exactly, he’ll smile. I tell myself not to obsess over it, but I can’t help it.
I’m at home, in the middle of preparing dinner—I finally have to cook after having leftovers for the past few days—when my phone buzzes.
