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Under his intense gaze.
“What’s it called?”
My heart thumps. “Well, I couldn’t find a name for this. But since it’s all shimmery and glamorous I thought The Purple Queen or something.”
Because you treat me like a queen.
His eyes flash as if he heard it. “And what’s that lipstick called?”
I touch it with my trembling fingers. “Uh, God of a Girl.”
He takes a moment to respond. “You aren’t the Purple Queen then.”
“I’m not?”
He shakes his head slowly. “You’re a goddess. A goddess in purple.”
A goddess in purple.
I like that. I love that.
I love him.
Why is he standing all the way over there? Why can’t I get close to him?
Why won’t he let me?
“You came,” I say.
His trance breaks.
As if my words have woken him up, and I hate that.
“I… Yeah.” He thrusts his hands down into his pockets. “I just got back from California.”
“How was it? Did you get everything done?”
“Almost. Still working on it.”
“You’ll get it done though,” I say, smiling and with all the confidence. “It’s you. Of course you will.”
He watches me for a few moments, my smile particularly. Followed by my eyes behind my glasses. Then, “I… have something for you.”
“For me?”
He fishes something out of his pocket, a simple narrow case, and offers it to me. “A graduation present.”
Despite the heavy melancholy, my heart leaps and floats in my chest as I take it. “A graduation present?”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, just a little something.”
I watch him in astonishment for a few seconds before jumping to open the case. “It’s a bracelet.”
It’s a twinkling row of diamonds seated on a blue velvet cushion.
I touch it with gentle fingers, my breath going haywire at the sweet, sweet gesture.
Looking up, I say, “I love it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. It’s perfect.”
Like you.
His eyes flash again as if he heard this too. Followed by a hard clench of his jaw. Then, “It’s just to say that I’m proud of you. I’m proud of everything you’ve done and all the things that you’ll do. Because you’ll do great things, Poe. In your future.”
My future.
The period of time in my life that won’t include him.
But I’ve decided over the last week that I’m still going to love him. I’m still going to pine for him and long for him. I’m still going to let my love for him grow and prosper and take root and blossom.
Because I don’t want him to live in a world where he’s not loved.
I’ll love him so he knows that he’s loved.
So maybe one day he’ll see that he doesn’t have to live his life this way, alone and unhappy.
And that’s why I decide to give him his gift.
My friends were right.
It is a big deal. I made it for him and it shows that I love him. Which means he should have it.
“I have something for you too,” I say, looking down and opening my satchel. I bring out the big white box. “It’s just something I made for you.”
When I look up, I find him staring at the box in a strange way.
In a helpless way even.
In a way that he doesn’t know what to do with it.
There’s a thick line bisecting his brows and his mouth is slightly parted.
He watches it and watches it like he’s expecting the box to do something. Either explode or burst into flames.
“Alaric?”
That jerks him awake again and he snaps his eyes up. “I… No one’s ever…”
I’m glad he takes it off my hands then, the box I mean.
Because my arm has started to tremble at his words.
At the meaning behind them.
That no one has given him a gift before this, before me.
That the man I love has never received a gift from anyone. No one has ever shown him this tiny bit of kindness that we show not only to good friends but to distant acquaintances. To strangers even. To new neighbors. To new classmates.
I’m not sure how I manage to contain myself, contain all these angry and miserable emotions, and say, “Well, it’s about time someone did, isn’t it?”
His gaze turns even more penetrating, even more compelling.
And I know I won’t be able to contain it all and so, in my most cheerful voice, I continue, “Although I don’t want you to get too excited. It’s a little unconventional. It’s a tweed jacket in your favorite color, brown, but —”
“Brown is not my favorite color.”
That gives me pause. “It’s not?”
“No.”
“But then why do you wear it all the time?”
He looks down at his brown jacket. “I… I don’t know. It’s just…” He shrugs. “Serious.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah. Intimidating.”
“Is that why you also wear tweed jackets?”
“Yeah.” Then, “That and a poor sense of fashion.”
“Your sense of fashion is amazing,” I defend him. “Because tweed jackets suit you. And let me tell you, that’s what they’re wearing in Milan.”
“In Milan.”
“Yes. All the time.”
