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Timofey grabs my shoulders and steers me down the center of the garage towards one of the tile-wrapped cement pillars.
I’m about to ask if he carved our names into the concrete like it was a tree, when we turn the corner of the pillar—and I lose the ability to speak.
Parked behind the pillar is a champagne-colored motorcycle with shimmery handles and the prettiest caramel leather seat I’ve ever seen in my life. Everything about it is chic and well-designed. I have no idea how much motorcycles cost, but there is no way this one was sitting in a lot somewhere. It was specifically designed this way.
But for who? That is the question.
“Well?” Timofey prods.
“Well, what?”
“Do I need to draw a map for you? This is the surprise.”
Lower your expectations.That’s what he said. So that is what I’m going to try to do.
“Someone is letting me borrow it?”
He screws up his face, confused and a little disappointed. “Someone is letting youownit.”
“But I can’t afford that.” Actually, that isn’t entirely true now that I’m Benjamin’s nanny. Timofey has come through in a real way in that department. He’s paying me five times what I ever could have made as a social worker.
He pulls his hand through his hair, sending the dark strands twisting up in every direction. The early morning light shimmers through the back of the parking garage, creating a golden halo around his head.
Timofey moves in front of me and places his hands gently on my shoulders. “This,” he says, pointing aggressively up and down the length of the motorcycle, “is for you. It is a gift. You do not need to pay for it. You just need to accept it.”
I blink at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“That’s because it’s a gift, not a joke.”
The information starts to click into place. I peek around him at the bike and then back up to him, my brow creased. “That is for me? Like… forever?”
“Yes, it’s yours, Piper. Forever.” He gives me a small smile. “Do you like it?”
I open my mouth to respond…and burst into tears.
93
PIPER
It’s not as if I’ve never been given a nice gift before.
I got a jewelry box from Gram when I was eight that I still keep old love letters and jewelry in.
Ashley and Noelle pitched in and bought me tickets to a Broadway show a few years ago. They were nosebleeds and the play was so bad they canceled it after a month, but it was still fun.
And my father knew how to absolutely love-bomb me. After he manipulated me into giving him money or screamed at me for being “useless” and “a disappointment,” he would inevitably show up with flowers and gifts.
Once, he took me out for dinner. I found out later he paid for it with his new boss’s credit card. When his boss disputed the seventy-five dollar charge and fired him, Dad showed up at my door.
“It’s your fault I got fired,” he said. “You guilted me into paying for your food. You made me feel pathetic for not being able to afford it, even though the only reason I can’t afford it is because your mother got pregnant with you.”
Every gift would finally show up after I was forced into helping him again and again and again. Just when I’d consider cutting ties and setting boundaries, there he’d come with a smile and a nice gesture. Then I’d live to regret ever accepting them, which usually didn’t take very long.
But this…
“I can’t accept this,” I say for the fifth time, my shoulders still shaking. “It’s too much.”
“I’ll show you my bank account if you think this is too much. It’s nothing, Piper.”
