Chapter Three

Perhaps even what he thought was direct and obvious was too subtle. It seemed that outrageous needed to become his style, after all. Amy loved romance: over-the-top, fluffy, flowery romance. Like some ridiculous scene out of a romance novel. Probably even kissing in the rain. Sheldon had learned this from five years of watching her, of learning about her. It constantly surprised him when she or her female cronies accused him of not listening to her. Didn't she know he was listening to every word she said? Watching her reactions to every word he said? Cataloging her responses, reflecting on them later, sorting them out, attempting to learn what made her smile or what made her frown. But, yet, so many things were still a great mystery to him as so many of her reactions could be contradictory for no apparent logical reason. Why, for example, was it that talking about video game controllers while kissing her was acceptable, but talking about The Flash between kisses was not?

Sheldon had gone so far as to walk over to Penny's apartment and ask her about it. That had been useless. The entirety of Penny's explanation, after a lot of superfluous words, had been "just because." She had admonished him that he was trying too hard to give Amy's thoughts and emotions an objective quantifier (obviously not Penny's words), whereas he should just accept that she was female and that females "like a little mystery."

And then, later, Leonard had come to him and asked that he please not discuss Amy with Penny anymore. It made Penny feel, according to Leonard, like she was stuck in the middle and having to choose sides. Choose sides? Were their sides? Wasn't Sheldon on Amy's side? Hadn't he always been on her side? Why did no one seem to know that?

Amy believed she deserved romance. And, at last, Sheldon was willing to admit she was right. His subtle hints, his failed mini-plans, were having no effect. Not one word had been said, not even a secret word slipped out by Penny or Bernadette by mistake, that indicated that Amy had noticed or discussed his gestures, even about his ad before the movie. What if she had chosen that exact moment to get more popcorn? A brief slight of hand was no longer enough, it seemed. He didn't want there to be any doubt that he was on her side. If she wanted over-the-top, he wanted to give her over-the-top, because he wanted to give her everything. But how?

"Oh, no, Amy loved it. While it lasted," Raj said.

Sheldon perked up and came back from the lonely mental land he had been inhabiting lately, and he looked across the cafeteria table at Raj.

"What?" he demanded. "What did Amy love?"

"Jesus, dude, you don't need to yell at me," Raj said.

"Really, Sheldon, if you want to zone out and be antisocial at lunch, that's fine. Actually, it's better than fine. I can digest in peace," Howard said. "But seriously, you can't do that and then scream to know what we're talking about."

"What did Amy love? While it lasted?" Sheldon demanded again, louder, ignoring Howard.

"Hey, calm down. We're not talking about you," Leonard said.

Sheldon opened his mouth and only a squeak came out. He honestly hadn't thought that. What if they had been talking about him? And Amy's love for him the past tense . . .

But Leonard knitted his brows together in that annoying way he had when he was worried about Sheldon. "Listen, buddy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Raj was just talking about that escape room we went to a few months ago. We all enjoyed the scavenger hunt, we had a good time, but it only lasted a few minutes. That's all, I promise." His friend took a breath. "Apparently there's a new one, and it's supposed to be more difficult. He's trying to talk us into going. Do you want to come with us? All you do is hole up in your room or your office and work now."

Sheldon shook his head and looked back down at his lunch, and he resumed work on his mashed-potatoes-particle-collider model. Amy would probably want to go, because she enjoyed scavenger hunts so much. She often talked about how much fun she and Howard had on that one scavenger hunt they had done together, singing Neil Diamond songs in the car.

Just like that, the electrons impacted in Sheldon's brain.

It came in the mail on Thursday. The honest-to-God-old-fashioned-who-really-uses-this-anymore snail mail. Right between the Bed, Bath & Beyond circular and the Signals catalogue. A cream envelope. The address handwritten with obvious care. There was a bonafide Harry Potter Forever stamp in the corner. The sticky kind one went and bought at the actual post office, not just ran through the postage machine at work or printed at home.

Amy sucked her breath in and sat on her loveseat in something like shock. She ran her finger over the glossy stamp. Hermione Granger. The smartest girl in the class. The bookworm. The planner, the prepared one. The problem solver. The know-it-all. Her favorite character.

She felt the axis of her world shifting again as she debated whether or not to open it. She knew, somehow, this was a pivotal moment, this letter. Whatever it contained, it was the quantum break, the moment her world could slid in two very different directions. Apparently, Sheldon had been right for years; everything really did come down to physics in the end. There had been far too many of those moments lately. There was the second she could have bit her tongue and not interrupted him during their last FaceTime. There was every time she texted him, her fingers longing to type I miss you at the end. There was the first Friday night after she told Sheldon she needed a break.

She hadn't sure she was still welcome or what the correct protocol would be, having never had a boyfriend to take a break from before; but Penny had preemptively texted her and told her to "be there or be square." And, more importantly - and coherently - not to worry, Penny would sit next to Sheldon.

Indeed, once Amy entered, her stomach clenching and her palms sweaty, Penny immediately moved from the island to sit by Sheldon, chatting breezily the whole way as though it were the most natural thing in the world, filling the awkward silence that Amy could feel lurking in the room. Amy sat gratefully in the brown wooden chair instead and returned Leonard's weak smile.

"Why are you sitting there?" Sheldon said sharply, swiveling his face to Penny's.

Her blonde friend used all her acting skills to pull off an almost believable surprised face. "This isn't your spot. And that wooden chair is uncomfortable. I don't know why I always get stuck with it. Why? Is this seat taken?"

That was it, another pivotal moment. Amy had sucked in her breath then, too, and she felt everyone in the room sit up a little straighter. She knew that if he said her name, if he told Penny it was Amy's spot, she would rush, she would run. Run back to her spot, run back to his side, run back into his life.

Finally, in the hush, Sheldon mumbled, shrugging softly, looking down at his food, "I guess if no one else wants to sit by me."

His blue eyes didn't even flick up, not even for a millisecond, to look at her. And she felt him sliding further away from her.

Back in the present, Amy bit her lip and took a deep breath. This was it. She was certain of that. This was the beginning of the end. Whatever that end might be. It could be the final conclusion of her foolish interruption, her foolish statement. It could be the final mockery of her stubbornness. There had been times - too much time in the past several weeks, hours of time she spent sobbing, days she spent hating herself - that she had longed to make things right. To correct her wrong.

But . . .

But what if she wasn't wrong? What if she was finally just being as strong as she should have been all along? Maybe in ten years she would look back and congratulate herself on making this difficult decision, in refusing to be Sheldon's doormat anymore. She would be proud that she had opened the envelope containing the Termination of the Relationship Agreement form and that she signed it.

But . . .

She loved him. She wished, as a scientific, articulate woman, that it was more complex and less emotional than that. She wished, ironically, that she could create some sort of flow chart or other diagram to explain, with perfect logic, why she wanted him back. That she realized she had been rash and foolish. That she had made a poor decision in an emotionally charged moment. That she regretted it. That she longed for his written word, a love letter, anything asking her to come back. Every single day. That it was called a break because it tore you apart, bone by bone.

Now or never.

She ran her finger under the flap and suddenly yelped. She pulled her finger away and thrust it into her mouth on sheer instinct. A paper cut. She looked down at the envelope, a tiny drop of crimson blood marring its perfect surface. That was it. Whatever it was, there was no turning back now. She had paid in blood.

Carefully, she finished lifting the flap. The envelope was lined in gold. The card inside was heavy, solid. Also cream. Also handwritten with obvious care. Not a Termination form. Not a form at all. A sound like a sob escaped Amy's throat, even though her eyes were dry.

Switzerland we come
A place of tepid water
HAL has approved

Then, underneath, also handwritten:

Dies Saturni. Decem ante meridiem.

The world slid again, but, for the first time, Amy felt like it was righting itself, that she was getting her equilibrium back. No, not a love letter. That would have been all wrong. But a haiku. Of course. Structured, ordered, ruled, precise. Just like him. A riddle. Of course. A mystery, more beneath the surface than mets the eye, depths that cannot be seen. Just like him. Latin. For her.

Amy murmured, "A neutral country . . . or place . . . that we both traveled to . . . there was tepid water . . . and sanctioned by . . . oh, that computer from 2001!"

She put her hand up to her forehead, her mind spinning, her heart thumping. This was really happening.

Sheldon would be there on Saturday at ten o'clock. The coffee shop where they met, the one neither of them had frequented before that day, matched by a computer algorithm.

To be continued . . .

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