I’d be worried about Jack seeing me in it, but I doubt he’ll come over, considering he hasn’t been here since he tried to let me down gently last week. He keeps saying he’s busying helping Simone when we invite him over for things. Which is probably true and fine.
It’s easier for me to get this crush under control if he isn’t hovering twenty-four-seven, anyway.
Tissue paper sits crumpled on the top, and I pluck it from the bag, ready to uncover whatever is inside.
“Before you go further, this one is from me—and only me. Your brother wasn’t involved. I feel you’ll get that in a second, but still—probably best to preface that your brother’s gift will come later.”
“Okay?” My greedy fingers twitch. Emy and I have many inside jokes. There’s no telling what’s meant for my eyes only, not Gus’s.
Reaching inside, I feel the glossy pages of a manual or book and slip it out of the bag.
It’s not a manual—it’s a magazine—binder clipped to a specific page.
Jack’s smolder threatens to burn off the page and set my heart on fire. I glance away, looking at his forearm resting on the penalty box. Images of him pinning me against a wall and resting that same arm above my head flash at lightning speed. No. Well, that won’t do.
“Really, Emy, you think this joke has gone on long enough?” I croak. She’s drawn little hearts around the picture and, in her infinite ability to make me uncomfortable, has scribbled, “I love Jack.” And “Mrs. Jack Parker” just about everywhere. I flash her a scowl that suggests she may want to consider running and hiding if she desires self-preservation.
“I’m going to wait to run away from you after you completely open your gift.”
“I can’t see anything else in here making up for this,” I grumble.
“I don’t think it’ll make it better, to be honest. I just want to buy myself time to hide the knives.”
Oh, well, that’s encouraging.
With extreme hesitation, I reach into the bag, scared whatever else lurks within the glittery paper walls might bite me.
A box sits inside, and I pull it out, furrowing my eyebrows as I try to decipher what it is. It looks like a rose, but I narrow in on the pink printed words on the box until my brain registers what they read, and my eyes widen to saucers rivaling Rapunzel’s inTangled.
“You got me a vibrator!” I say in a harsh whisper. “What the actual fudge, Emy. This is officially too far.”
“Read the sticky note,” she says with a quirk of her lips. She flips her poor excuse of a pancake and frowns at the mess of batter all over the stove that follows.
“What sticky note?”
“It was on the box? Maybe it’s still in the bag.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I roll my eyes.
Pausing her pancake massacre, Emy comes over, gently grasping my hands which are holding the box and shaking.
Being raised by several Catholic women in New England didn’t exactly set me up to feel comfortable around these devices, let alone receive one from a friend as a birthday gift.
Heat singes my cheeks.
“Okay, so listen,” Emy starts. “That magazine, I’ll admit, was a total joke. But I know you’d never buy something like this for yourself.” She taps the vibrator box. “And I truly believe that you deserve to give yourself this outlet. It’s good—healthy even, and I think it might help you with some things you’re dealing with.”
I swallow. After all the weird sensations that have built up inside me the past month, Emy’s probably not wrong. It’d be healthier to have a safe channel to get all of that out of my system instead of letting it grow. “You’re right. I wouldn’t even know where to shop for one of these, so this was actually—in a strange and very you way—a thoughtful gift. Thank you.”
Burnt batter tickles my nostrils. “Are you still cooking the pancakes?” I ask.
Emy groans and drops her head to the counter. “How does going out for pancakes sound?”
“Fine by me. Out has breakfast poutine, too.”
The shower in the bathroom stops, drawing my attention to the fact that it was running when I woke up. Gus had a meeting today—I thought early in the morning—since he told me he would do something with me tomorrow to make up for missing my birthday, but maybe I misunderstood him since he hasn’t left yet.
“I should go put this in my room before he gets out of the shower,” I say, swirling off the stool. I grab the gift bag, fold it, and put it back in its special spot in the closet hallway, where I’ll pull it in a few short weeks for Emy’s birthday gift.
