Winners Don't Have Bad Days (Watty 2020 Winner, Romance)

21. #WinterRose, January 2018

Mike was the only person in Calgary who wanted the airport to be more crowded. Then he could hide among the other people instead of standing by himself with a flower in his hand.

But he kept the flower, kept standing his ground, responding to the smiles from the elderly white-hat volunteers with a lopsided grin. Yes, she is coming.

The photo-displays on the walls boasted grazing bison, Rocky Mountains, pumping jacks in the golden-yellow canola fields to present the rugged, energetic Alberta to the world.

It was hard to decide if these backdrops made a forlorn man in a cardigan holding a strange flower more out of place, or less so. After all, a man had to be self-confident to put himself out in public like that.

The baggage carousels to his left span round and round, carrying bags for those arriving from Kelowna, Montreal, and Fort McMurray. Every few minutes the frosted doors into the domestic arrivals terminal slid open, letting in the owners of the bags.

Daya's flight from Toronto had landed—he had checked it before driving out to the airport. Next time the doors open up, she'll be among the passengers. She will.

The doors opened up. 

Daya was not there. He inspected every figure—even the six-foot tall bearded men. No dice, no Daya.

The doors closed.

He squeezed the stem in his fist, happy that plastic roses didn't come with thorns.

Then the door opened up again, this time to admit the familiar figure, with a tote-bag over her shoulder, and earbud wires disappearing down her neck. 

She wore a fitted down vest over a long-sleeved tee, and a pair of yoga pants, all of it black. But the red hair-band was back with a vengeance. The bright scrunchies tied off the tip of her braid, bouncing just above her breast with every step, impossible to miss. 

Mike swallowed: not just the red band... the whole of Daya was impossible to miss, at least for him.

She had a spring in her step, glowing from the inside, the eyes so warm that when they stopped on him, Mike forgot about his chauffeuring duty. He forgot that he was standing in the airport with people milling around. All he could see was her.

Her joy infected him, causing a feverish blush to heat his cheeks and neck.

"Mike!" She hiked her tote up and opened up her arms, as if she wanted to give him a hug, but stopped short.

Oh. "This is for you," he said, extending the rose. Apparently he held it like a shield before, and that was what lost him his hug. "I am sorry it is artificial, but fresh flowers looked like Mongol cavalry galloped over them. It's the day after New Year, so I suppose you don't go shopping for fresh flowers on January the 2nd—"

"Thank you." She sniffed the blue silk petals instinctively. "Mmgh, vanilla?"

Then she did hug him, going on the tip-toe, her vest making a rustling noise against his sweater. He put his arm around her back, inhaling the spicy and flowery scent of her hair. No rose, artificial or otherwise could compete.

"Who knows," he replied softly while they disengaged from one another. "I... ah... I had to venture to that huge craft store, do you remember it? The one in the mall near VITAL. Everything smells like that there."

He tried to describe the odd experience to her.

The craft store met him with a scented-candle-like waft, and bins filled with children's Christmas crafts. It gave him an irrational urge to lie to women carrying yarn to the cash registers and the teens rummaging through the art supplies, that he was just helping his great-aunt to shop for gifts.

He navigated between the aisles of glittering beads, clay molds, baskets, tee-shirts for tie-dyeing and frames, to reach the jungles of artificial flowers. There, among bunches of flowers, garlands of flowers, individual flowers that looked just like real ones, and the ones that looked nothing like the real ones, he gritted his teeth and searched for his blue rose.

"It's pretty," she said after she had finished laughing.

Now she was holding the rose, and he shuffled from foot to foot, not knowing if he should say something. Why did he think that giving a girl a piece of plastic and silk was a good idea? Luckily, the carousel sprung back to life, and the loudspeaker announced that the luggage from Toronto was now unloading.

Hustling toward the carousel unlocked his ability to speak. "Ah, one thing about artificial, they come in every color of the rainbow. So, this one is blue, like the winter roses of Winterfell, for the Queen of Love and Beauty."

"Sweet." A luminous expression settled on her face.

He started smiling back, when a chilling thought occurred to him.

From a certain point of view, the winter rose in the Game of Thrones was creepy, because of the unfortunate way that romance had ended. Before you factored in the false accusation of rape. Sweat coated his back. Oh, gods.

He dared a glance at Daya. 

She wasn't furrowing her lovely brows or backing away from him slowly. 

His hands pulling the collar away from his neck, he rushed in to fix the damage. "Though now I think about it, Raeghar plus Leanna didn't end well, but that wasn't what I was thinking about. At all. In fact, I wasn't thinking... That's the problem with grimdark fantasy, everything acquires a sinister taint, even the lemon tarts had become a harbinger of doom—"

"Then we wouldn't worry about how it ended or the lemon pastries," Daya murmured, watching the circling bags. 

The blush must be an ugly scarlet by now, judging by how hot his face felt. How did he slip into talking about Game of Thrones? Was it the best he could do? Really? Of course, she stopped listening...

"Aha!" She darted between the carts loaded with luggage and came back clutching her duffel. Her smile seemed too radiant for the accomplishment. "I have a Christmas present for you as well, Mike, but you will need to come with me to get it. Let's go?"

Mike did not even have a chance to pipe in with an offer to carry her bag, when she sprinted away toward the exit. "Come on, or you'll be paying their draconian prices for parking!"

"We're fine, we're fine," he huffed, keeping up with her, then taking the lead to show her to the car.

They piled into the SantaFe, and Mike drove out of the airport parkade, throwing a triumphant glance at Daya when his ticket showed he was under the time limit.

She seemed to barely care about the parking by then, sitting on the edge of her seat, with a mysterious smile curving her lips.

"How was your trip?" he ventured.

"I'll tell you when to turn," she said after making an a-okay sign with her fingers in place of the response. She kept the rose in her lap with care that made his heart thump against his ribs. The gift he wanted the most was her snuggling to him on the couch to catch up.

"Ah, but wouldn't you want to go home first? You just flew across the country."

"Oh, I'm too excited for that." 

Well, excited was a good thing. Too bad it wasn't brought on by the thought of going home with him.

"I'd been thinking about it since we were opening the presents up with mom and dad."

They rode in companionable silence, until Daya exclaimed, "There, turn into the Canadian Tire."

Mike did as instructed, parking in front of the iconic warehouse with its upside down red triangle and green maple leaf logo, white walls and red lettering across the storefront.

"Canadian Tire?" he repeated like a dolt, but Daya had already climbed out of the SantaFe.