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“What’s that?” I ask, my lips twitching.
“A birthday gift.”
I wipe the sticky off my fingers with a paper towel before picking it up.
“From Drew,” she adds.
I set it back down. “Really?”
Jenna nods. “He showed up here last night while you were stranded on the floor waiting for your toenails to dry,” she says. “I saw him lurking outside and shooed him off.”
“He was lurking?”
“There was definitely some lurking, yes.”
I hesitate, trying to convince myself I don’t care, but I do. “How was he?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose. “It kinda looked like someone beat the shit out of him. His shirt was ripped, and he was covered in dirt. He seemed... pretty upset, actually.”
My stomach lurches with concern. Maybe he and Seth got into it at the Delta Xi party.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He asked how you were.” She nods at the box. “Then he told me to give that to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told him you’d say, but...” she smiles, “he said that it was yours. He really wanted you to have it. Even if I took credit for it and said it was from me.”
I look at the box, my curiosity officially piqued. “Did you look?” I ask, though I already know. You can’t hand Jenna Abrams a velvet box and expect her to not check it out at least once.
“Yes, I did,” she says.
“And?”
“And... I think you should open it.”
I stare at it, letting my mind wander about what it could be. Velvet box typically means jewelry of some sort. It’s rectangular, so maybe not a ring, but maybe a necklace or a bracelet?—
“Oh, my god, just open it!” Jenna snaps at me. “For fuck’s sake, woman. I’ve been waiting all day.”
I pick it up with a smile and pop it open.
I gasp.
I was right. It is a necklace, but I wasn’t expecting something like this. It’s a bright necklace with a golden chain and a quarter-sized teardrop pendant made of solid orange topaz. I tilt the box and it sparkles like wild, golden irises. Like my eyes, as he would probably say.
“Fuck,” I say, nearly choking on the word.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Jenna says.
I set the open box down on the table, too afraid of dropping it. “What are the odds this thing is real?” I ask.
She chuckles. “What are the odds Mr. I Popped My Girlfriend’s Cherry on a Private Yacht bought her a necklace made of real gold and gemstones? Ten to one, honey.”
“Wow,” I say as I gaze at it. “That’s a good point.”
“A hundred to one.”
