There’s a loud smooch from over the phone line. “I hack because I love. Besides, you’re going to love it. I promise.”
It takes me several minutes to make it to the front door from the guest room at the back of the house that I use as a home gym. Tavey doesn’t comment on how long it takes.
She knows me well enough to know that it takes as long as it takes. Besides, for all I know, she has cameras planted throughout the house and is tracking my progress. Or maybe she has me tagged like wildlife. Who the fuck knows with Tavey.
I may be the reclusive hermit in the family, but she’s the weird one.
I find the package—not from Amazon like I thought it would be, but mailed from her home in Houston—and bring it inside. The box is big enough that it’s awkward to carry in one hand while I hold the phone in the other, but thankfully, it’s lighter than it looks.
When I step into range of the Ring security camera, Tavey gives a squeal of mock horror. “Put a shirt on before you go outside! You’ll give your neighbors a heart attack.”
“I was working out when you called.”
“Still!”
I give my Ring the finger.
On the end of the line, Tavey laughs again. “Very mature.”
“Stalker.”
“Hey, if I didn’t stalk you, I would never know what was going on in your life. Because you never call me.”
“Why would I need to call you? You call me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just open the present.”
In the living room, I switch the phone to speaker, set it and the package on the coffee table, and open the box.
“It’s full of socks,” I say wryly.
“Sox in box! From Dr. Seuss. Get it?”
“Yeah.” Like I said, Tavey’s the weird one.
There are socks with penguins. Socks with polka dots. Socks with sandwiches and graduation caps.
“There have to be like fifty pairs of socks in here,” I grumble, but I’m working hard to keep the smile out of my voice.
“You better count,” she says slyly.
“Let me guess, the socks are part of one of your elaborate puzzles.”
This is what Tavey does.
Professionally, she’s a cryptographer who does a little light hacking on the side for fun. Her hobby is harassing me with puzzles and weird games she devises.
I keep digging in the box. Eventually, the socks give way to boxer shorts—which are all just as ridiculous as the socks. At the bottom of the box are puzzle pieces. Loose. All red.
“Jesus H. Christ. Can’t you just text like a normal person?”
But even as I ask, I’m moving the socks and boxers to the sofa so I can dump the puzzle pieces onto the coffee table.
“Send a text?” she asks. “Like a boring person, you mean.”
I sit down on the sofa and start sorting out the edge pieces. Yeah, I’m still sweaty and gross. And I fucking hate the way sweat feels as it dries on my skin.
Tavey is the one person I would put off a shower for. If I tell her I’ll call her back in ten minutes, she might not pick up. In ten minutes she could be off focused on something else or off settling some international crisis. With her, you never know.
