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“You need to toss that package.”
“Without even looking inside?”
“Without even looking inside,” I say, heading out.
Rich jackass, rich jackass, rich jackass, I tell myself, all the way to Carly’s school. But it doesn’t sink in. I need to get deprogrammed off Henry. There needs to be a service like that. I need to be strapped to a chair, and every time I see a picture of Henry I get shocked or doused with cold water.
But that just makes me think of that thing Henry said—If I wanted to wear my hair in a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a dominatrix to make it happen.
I smile.
I go to the makers space and of course everyone is asking where Henry is. Apparently he showed up looking for me. A few people have questions on the commission work. I give them April’s number. April has instructions that I’m on vacation. She’ll alert me to anything important.
It’s on the third day that I turn officially pathetic. We were together for more than two weeks straight and I miss seeing his face. I miss the careful way he explained every last thing about his company. His dorky mnemonic devices for memorizing everyone’s names. I miss the way we got to be finishing each other’s sentences.
I won’t see him. Can’t.
Then comes the phase of jonesing so much for him that I start making jonesing bargains. I tell myself if I don’t open the package, I might go online and look for new pictures of him, and that would be even worse. Right?
So it’s entirely preventative.
Must. Open. Package!
I go find Carly. “You can open it.”
She frowns. “You asked me to throw it away.”
“Go get it.”
She furrows her brows. “I’m sure the trash man’s hauled it off by now.”
“Yeah. Go get it.”
Carly springs up and goes behind her little curtain. She comes back and sets it on the kitchenette table between us, practically rubbing her hands.
I slide it over to her. “You do it.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She starts opening it, carefully. She was never a rip-open-the-present type. “A box,” she teases, turning the box that was inside. “A really, really nice box of tag board. I wonder why he got you a box.”
“Stop it! Stop screwing around.”
She pulls up the lid, peers in. Her grin dissolves. She looks…stunned. Or is it a look of horror? For once I can’t read my little sister’s expression.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh my god.” And then, as if that wasn’t clear enough, “Oh. My. God!”
“What?”
“Wait. Close your eyes,” she commands.
I sigh and comply.
“Now open them.” I open my eyes.
My heart skips a beat.
There on the table between us stands a tiny, beautifully carved balsawood griffin. It’s a perfect replica of Brave Protector Friend, the griffin that guards our favorite building. Our adopted friend and champion.
