#my shayla...

Bob had planned the perfect Valentine’s Day, racked every inch of his brain to find the perfect activity, the perfect time. He’d meticulously hidden his plans from you, deflecting perfectly every time you asked him what was going on and whether you could help. He’d also gone to pains to make sure you didn’t plan anything. He could see you trying, looking up couple’s activities near your home, needling him for information about his plans for Valentine’s Day (as if he’d be anywhere but with you). He shut you down every time. Closed your laptop with all your tabs, shot you the best approximation of menacing glares when he caught you scrolling through date options on your phone.  It was a full-time job stopping you from slipping into organising mode. In the end he’d dangled your offer to help him with a Valentine’s Day video over your head, only letting you help under the condition that you didn’t lift a single finger towards planning your actual Valentine’s Day activity.

Bob had done everything to ensure Valentine’s Day was going to be perfect from start to finish. He’d arranged a flower delivery in the morning, and he was going to make you breakfast in bed before taking you out for a private glass blowing class — something you’d always wanted to do but just hadn’t had the time. Everything’s booked, and Bob can’t wait to see the way you react when you guys finally get to go out. He’s excited. It’s your first Valentine’s Day as an official couple and he needes to show you how much you mean to him. He can’t have anything go wrong.

So it’s just his luck that everything goes wrong.

He burns your breakfast. Not just a light charring, but bad enough that instead of being woken up by the delicious aroma of French toast and a warm hand on your shoulder, you’re dragged out of your sleep by the incessant beeping of the smoke alarm and the acrid smell of smoke pouring in from the kitchen. He’s not sure how it happened because everything had been fine.

Everything had been so fine he thought he might even be able to multitask, but the moment he started trying to wash dishes, and feed Angie too, it’s like the task at hand slipped his mind.  He doesn’t even know he let it get this bad, how he didn’t smell the smoke before it began to seep into everything, but he didn’t and now here you were, blinking the sleep out of your eyes as you helped him open the windows and doors to air the house out.

“I’m so sorry. I just wanted to make you breakfast,” he mopes from his perch on a stool at the counter as he watches you make a fresh batch of French toast.

“I know. I appreciate it,” you smile as you plate Bob’s food for him and slide him a plate. You pull up a stool next to him and carve off a piece so you can feed it to him. He lets you feed him, and his stomach flips as you smile at him, leaning your head on your hand while you watch him chew.

“I’m really sorry,” he apologises again as he chews. You wave him off.

“Bob. It’s fine, I promise you. Besides you make me breakfast everyday now,” you smile.

He knows you’re not mad. But he wishes he hadn’t fucked up first thing in the morning. It gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach.

It only gets worse as he watches the snow outside fall in a violent flurry that forces the two of you to finally shut the doors and windows as the wind grows more violent and a deep cold barges its way into the house. He checks his watch. The flowers are supposed to arrive soon, but between the snow and the fact that all he can hear is the howling of the wind outside, he already knows he’s going to be disappointed.

Sure enough, his phone pings with an email —incredibly apologetic — from the florist. Their drivers can’t risk driving in this snow. The delivery won’t come today. If Bob chooses, he can be refunded. He tries not to let the disappointment show in his face, but Bob’s not good at pretending and soon you’re looking at him with concern woven into your features. 

Your hand squeezes his knee gently, but he startles anyway.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s minor, it doesn’t matter,” he says as he slides off the stool and picks up the plate so he can go wash it. You don’t respond, don’t push him for an answer, but he feels you press your cheek to his back as you wrap your arms around his waist while he washes the dishes.

“Looks like today might be a cosy day in,” you say into his sweater, burying your nose into the fibres.  Bob can’t help the irritated sigh that he lets slip, and he regrets it the moment he feels your arms loosen slightly. He almost reaches for your hand to bring you back in, but he remembers his hands have dishwater on them and so he holds them mid-air, unsure.  

It’s the wrong thing to do, because you peel yourself off him, mumble something about taking a shower and leave him alone in the kitchen with nothing but the wind howling outside and a softly mewing Angie to keep him company.

Great. Not only was his perfect Valentine’s Day down the drain completely; he’d made you sad. Or mad. Or both. He drags himself to the living room as he listens for the sound of the shower turning off and the creak of the bathroom door as you exit.

He needed to think.

He should’ve thought of a plan B, something the two of you could do at home, but there’d been no warnings about heavy snowfall. He presses the heel of his palm into the space between his eyes as he desperately tries to catch his breath and just think, dammit. There had to be something in the house the two of you could do together.

He wasn’t going to try cooking again, and simply watching a movie was out of the question. Somewhere deep in his stomach a pit opens, hollow and never-ending as he realises the snow is not letting up. There’d be no glass blowing for the two of you, and ordering food was out of the question. He startles slightly when he feels Angie brush up against his ankles, big eyes looking up at him as she tilts her head. 

He scoops her up, and she purrs, seemingly unperturbed by the dark cloud hanging over his head, just happy to be warm.

When you come back downstairs, you’re warm and clean and dressed in snoopy pyjamas. You press yourself into Bob, your head on his chest as the two of you half-watch a family game show on the TV.

Bob hadn’t realised it, but a part of him had hoped against all hope that the snow would settle down and somehow the two of you would at least be able to attend the glass blowing class. But as the snow and wind cover the outside world in a sheet of white, and his phone pings once again he knows all hope is lost. It’s a frantically apologetic message from the instructor for the course, with offers to reschedule for some time in the Spring when she’s got a free slot. 

“Fuck,” Bob let’s slip softly, and you look at him again, that concern woven onto your face. It makes him feel stupid.

Valentine’s Day and he hadn’t managed to do a single special thing for you besides almost burn your kitchen down and half upset you afterwards.

“Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me,” you ask him softly, a soothing hand on his back.

“I fucked up Valentine’s Day,” he complains, eyes focused on anything but you.

“You didn’t. It’s the weather. You can’t control the weather,” you shrug as you try to get in his line of sight. He sighs again, a sharp exasperated sound as he pushes stray strands of hair out of his face.

“I did though. I should have checked the weather and had a backup. It’s our first Valentine’s Day together and I completely fucked it,” he reiterates, voice teetering on the edge of panic.

“Bob, it’s fine. We’ll reschedule. We can still have a good Valentine’s Day, just a little different to what you had planned.”

Bob sighs again and this time he hears you huff.

“Okay, what is your problem? I’m trying to make you feel better and it’s like you don’t want to feel better,” you ask him.

Bob almost sighs in relief at the harsh edge of your voice. He could deal with anger, with the confirmation that he had fucked up and you were upset at him. It confused him when he messed up and you didn’t flinch, just adjusted and met him with compassion.

“That’s just it. The trying to make me feel better. I fucked up so tell me I fucked up.”  His voice rises at the end, and Angie looks up at him, head tilted in what seems to be confusion.

You mull your words over for a little bit before you speak.

“You’re already beating yourself up for it why would I add to that? It’s not gonna make the snow stop, it’s not gonna unfuck whatever your plans were, it’s just going to make us mad at each other.”

There’s a veneer of confusion over your words and Bob hates himself for making you feel this way, but how does he explain that every time you meet him halfway he feels like an asshole. Every time you refuse to get mad at him for something he thinks you should be mad at there’s a part of his brain that believes you keep a running tally; that one day when you’ve had enough you’ll serve him the list of his inadequacies as an explanation for why it would no longer work. It’s a part of his brain that seems to grow louder with every fuck-up, and Bob tries his best to silence it, but it’s working less and less these days.

“Maybe you should get mad at me,” he emphasises, “I ruined your Valentine’s Day,” he complains.

“We’re talking in circles right now. I’m telling you it’s fine. We can reschedule for another day when it’s not snowing like crazy.”

“I didn’t want to do it another day. It was supposed to be today. Valentine’s Day. It was supposed to be a perfect day,” he complains.

You deflate, and now Bob feels worse.

You stand up shrugging.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bob. I can’t get mad at you because I’m not mad at you. I don’t want to fight, so I’ll just leave you alone. You can come get me when you’re ready to hang out,” you say as you walk away from the couch, and then it’s just Bob and Angie, Angie watching your retreating figure while Bob stares at the ceiling and listens to your footsteps.

Bob is left with nothing but the sound of the wind rattling outside, the space you’ve left next to drawing him in like a black hole. He knows you’re right —that there’s no point in getting mad at him, feeding the already vicious ball of self-hatred that was growing much larger than he should have let it.

He checks the time on his phone. Not even 2pm yet. There’s a small ray of hope that flickers through the blanket of defeat. He still had time to think of something to do. He’s cautious enough not to try think of something himself, opting to use a lifeline instead: Yelena.

Trusty, reliable, tight-lipped Yelena who answers on the first ring with a severe case of sex hair and only a mildly acidic glare.

“Why are you interrupting my Valentine’s Day festivities?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re the only person who I thought might be able to help,” he apologises. He makes a mental note to send Yelena and Ava a big bouquet of apology flowers. Maybe buy them a giftcard too.

Yelena’s sigh comes through the speakers of his phone, long and heavy.

“What happened?”

Bob recounts the whole day, almost choking on the embarrassment of the disagreement you two had. To his surprise Yelena just fixes him with a disbelieving stare before she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Why didn’t you just watch a movie or something?”

“I didn’t want this to be just like any other day. I wanted it to be special,” he half whispers.

“Well, you’re lucky you called me for advice. I think there’s leftover polymer clay in one of the drawers near her desk in the basement. You use that, propose a cute little crafternoon, easy peasy.”

Bob could kick himself for how easy that solution was, and he’s barely finished tumbling over his ‘thank you’s when Yelena just raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re going to do it now, yes? You’re not going to disappear into your head for another hour?”

There’s a snort on the other end of the line and Bob mumbles a pitiful affirmation before Yelena makes him promise not to call until tomorrow and hangs up.

As promised, there are unopened packets of polymer clay in the colourful craft drawers under your desk. He takes the time to grab two stray figurines sitting on your desk, then etch out the neatest ‘I’M SORRY’, before arranging all the crafting supplies on the coffee table in the living room and leaning the apology against the figurines. He drags his feet up the stairs and then knocks on your door, softly at first and then a little bit harder. He’s halfway to his third attempt when your door swings open.

His apology is immediate; a long, drawn-out explanation that tumbles out of him while you wait patiently for him to finish.

“So you’re ready to hang out now?” you ask, even as you take a step towards him. His heart lifts as he nods.

“Okay. What are we doing?”

“How’d you know we’re doing something?” he asks, perplexed. Had you somehow heard his call with Yelena?

“I know you. There’s no way you came out here without an apology activity lined up,” you point out, hands on your hip.

“Polymer clay,” he mumbles, as he watches your face light up.

“We had polymer clay? Where?”

“Downstairs. You didn’t know?”

“Bob, I cycle through hobbies like crazy. I probably have a stamp collection down there too. Oh my god it’s been ages since I used polymer  clay, this is gonna be so fun,” you beam, half skipping down the steps.

Bob refuses to overthink how easy this was, chooses instead to remember that he asked Yelena for help for a reason.

“Awww. You’re so cute,” you smile as you turn the note over in your hand. “I’m not mad at you or anything. I was a tiny bit annoyed that you wanted me to be mad at you though,” you explain as you settle onto the floor. You keep going before Bob can apologise; “But I get it. Kinda. And I appreciate the backup date,” you smile.

There’s still a slightly awkward tension as the two of you search through references pictures on your phones, making sure to hide them from each other. You play some music from your phone, soft indie music spilling over into the space to fill the gaps as the two of you get to work, focus solely on the clay crafts in front of you.

Bob can take this silence, because at least you’re sitting with him. At least he knew you weren’t secretly sulking in your room in an attempt not to upset him.

Any lingering suspicion he has that you might still be a little mad at him disappears completely when you wrap your arms around him once he’s done putting the clay figurines in the oven.

“I think yours is cuter than mine,” you pout as you lean up to give him a soft peck on the lips. “You didn’t tell me you were good with crafts,” you complain.

“I tend to pick hand stuff up quite quickly.”

He lets his eyes flutter shut as you press another kiss to his lips, longer than the first. You put his hands on your waist.

“Yeah, I’ve gathered as much,” you snort.

“Low-hanging fruit,” he chuckles, even as his hands slide under your top. “How long do we have before we need to take it out of the oven,” he mumbles.

“Fifteen minutes? I put the oven on a timer,” you say, already smiling at the way his hands move along your body.

“You want me to show you some more hand stuff? I’ve got some making up to do,” he presses into your jaw.

“Do you even have to ask?”