Sometimes, Ian thinks, understanding women is a field of science on its own.
Understanding love is just as fascinating...and frustrating.
So, standing before the display, he debates what to get for her, wondering if he'll even have the courage to send them to her.
As he thinks on this, a girl runs into him, almost dropping the vase she's carrying. He steadies the arrangement for her, and then realizes who the young lady is.
"Susan! What are you doing with all of those?"
She shrugs absently, setting the vase on the marbled counter. "Nothing important, really. I just thought I'd spruce up my room a bit." She smiles, and then pauses for a moment, realizing that she's just run into her teacher while buying flowers. She gives him a sly grin.
"And just why do you happen to be here?"
He doesn't end up giving her a solid answer, only stammering like an idiot. Susan makes him hush quickly, for fear he might end up hurting himself—or something of the likes.
"It's okay," she says quickly, laughing. "I think I can help on this."
He doesn't object, and lets the girl look through the selection of flowers, watching as she thinks hard on the matter.
"These are for Miss Wright, if I'm correct?" she asks, and Ian remains silent until she turns around to give him a sweet smile.
"Yes," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I wasn't sure if I could manage to pick any out, let alone pull myself together and send them."
"That's okay," she nods. "We all get nervous around things like this. What type of flower were you thinking of?"
To him, half of these look the same to him, though the sweet smell filling the shop is almost intoxicating.
"I hadn't really planned that far ahead," Ian tells her, and she giggles again, terribly amused. Susan pauses and rolls up her sleeves, ready to get to work on a proper arrangement.
"Well," she states, "Roses are so typical, so we won't do that. But, I think I've got an idea."
Susan doesn't end up taking much time deciding on the bouquet, and soon she's pushing a vase of lilies and lilacs into his arms, tied with a lavender-colored ribbon.
He'll give her credit—it looks beautiful.
The card attached doesn't say much, as Susan tells him that there's no need to write a sloppy confession out.
"Instead," she insisted, "just sign your name. She'll come to see you after last period, and you can romanticize all you want. If you write it all out, she'll probably ignore the message."
So he leaves the arrangement in the school's office, to have someone send it during the day, crossing his fingers and hoping that—for once—something will go right.
"Miss Wright, there's an item in the office for you," one of the young assistants tells her, standing in the doorway of the classroom with a handful of other passes in her hands.
Barbara turns from the blackboard, looking mildly confused. "There is?"
"I can go and bring it back," the secretary offers. "That is, if I'm not interrupting."
"That's fine, go ahead," she tells the girl, who rushes away almost instantly.
And from the smile on the receptionist's face, she has a feeling that something's up.
When the secretary comes back, a vase of flowers cradled in her arms, Barbara is more than slightly surprised.
"Who are these from?" she asks, taking the arrangement and setting it on her desk, reading the note attached. The girl leaves with a knowing grin, and when Barbara flushes slightly, a few boys in the class whistle lowly, the girls beginning to chat amongst themselves.
She shakes it off and resumes the lesson, absently thinking of the attached message:
For Barbara; Love, Ian
As soon as the final bell at the end of the day rings, her students up and out the door, she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads down the hall to his classroom. He doesn't look up at first, and she walks up to his desk. He stands when he notices that she's right there, and she smiles gently.
"I just wanted to thank you for the flowers," Barbara tells him sweetly. "It was...rather nice."
She's not sure what else to say, but she's already starting to blush. Quickly, she kisses him, and leaves before he can say a word. He sits back in the chair at his desk, a stupid smile plastered on his face.
Success.
And it's just then that he notices the folded-up note on the corner of the desk, with a message scrawled in Susan's messy-but-orderly handwriting:
I told you it would work.