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I pretend I don’t notice the hurt in Theo’s eyes. I tell myself Shane doesn’t flinch at my tone.
They’ve always made me feel cared for after a session. They’re good at that. But tonight, it’s a little too much. I feel fragile and brittle. If they so much as look at me the wrong way, I will shatter.
Instead of falling apart, I run away.
The presents start toarrive the next day. On the first day, it’s chocolate. Chocolate bars, hot chocolate, tiny marshmallows, and so much more. I get a text from Theo not long after the delivery guy drops it off.Good luck with the book deadline,it says.I’m rooting for you.
That same afternoon, someone knocks on my door. It’s Lewis, the security guard who usually staffs the front desk. He’s holding a couple of plastic bags, which he hands me. I take them, bewildered.
They’re tacos. Shane sends me an accompanying text.Don’t forget to eat,he writes.Take a break from your computer and have a taco or two.
What the hell are they doing?
The next day brings a silky emerald-green robe from Theo and gyros from Shane.I didn’t forget about dessert,he texts.I’m not stupid. I hope you like baklava.
I love baklava. Adore it. But again, what the hell? What are they trying to do? I want to write to them and ask, but I don’t.
Tuesday, it’s a scented candle and more chocolate.Don’t want you to run out,Theo says.
Wednesday, there’s a snowstorm outside, but I sit in front of my fireplace in my new robe and eat a steaming bowl of ramen, the latest delivery. My dessert fix is provided by a dozen boxes of Pocky. There’s the standard chocolate cream flavor but also strawberry, matcha, mango, chocolate banana, maple, and orange peel. The orange peel box has Japanese lettering, and I learn from the Internet that the flavor is only sold in Japan.
They’ve shipped me Pocky from Japan. I’ve been too much of a coward to text them back, but this gesture pushes me to take a leap.Thank you for the Pocky,I text.Stunningly imaginative, I know. Not like I’m a writer or anything.Why are you sending me presents?
Think of it as an Advent calendar,Theo replies.
An Advent calendar. I’d stared at the one at Taco Gus for a moment too long, Shane asked me about it, and now I’m getting presents.
We got a bit of a late start,he adds.
Is that why I’m getting more than one present a day?
Sure. But sometimes, Shane and I don’t always agree on what to get. When that happens, you get both, obviously.
Obviously.
Conflicting emotions are tearing me apart. I want to protect my heart, yet I don’t want to give them up. I’m scared of relationships; I wish I hadn’t sent them away.
I should tell them to stop. I should tell them I made my decision, and that’s all there is to it. But I don’t. I want to keep the door open. I want to be persuaded.
Thursday’s gift is a box from Tiffany.This is too much,I text them even before I open the distinctive blue box.
You don’t like it?Shane asks.
I haven’t opened it,I confess.
Maybe you should.
It’s a bracelet, the kind you hang charms from. I stare at the miniature typewriter charm, the coffee mug, the writing pad, the laptop, and the opened book, and I feel a lump rise in my throat. This isn’t something shiny and expensive and impersonal. This took effort.
All their gifts have.
The door cracks open a little wider. The ground on the other side of the precipice softens. The leap seems fractionally less terrifying.
Even so, I hesitate.
The presents keep coming.
On Christmas Eve,I walk into the playroom again, remembering that fateful day two years ago.
