“The only downfall is that cell phone service is tricky out in the wilderness,” Ethan admits.
“We’ll be leaving after I finish my afternoon shift at the gym tomorrow,” Claire reminds me. “Who will help you pick up your car from the shop?"
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll text Z or something.”
“Want to borrow mine?” she offers.
“Nope, too fancy. Last time I drove it, I scraped the hubs on the curb.”
“Ugh, I pretty much do that every time I try to parallel park,” she laughs. “I want one of those parking push buttons where the car just does the job itself. You sure you’ll be fine here?”
“Yes. Go, enjoy, relax,” I respond. “Quit worrying.” The first meeting with Ethan’s son could be the making or breaking point of the relationship. For Claire’s sake, I hope the weekend runs smoothly and without any awkward moments. I think she actually enjoys dating one person—even if it is from the Entice database.
“Ready to eat?” Claire asks, disappearing into the kitchen after Ethan and I agree that we are indeed hungry.
Three minutes later, she sashays back into the living room holding a tray with three bowls of soup and sliced bread in a pile. I move the mysterious cardboard box to the floor so Claire can place the tray onto the coffee table. We all grab at the food and watch trash TV.
Whenever Claire’s snoring becomes louder than the volume on the TV, I leave Ethan to take care of her and go upstairs with my package in hand. It is light, and the professional label is one from San Antonio, Texas. Nothing from the print gives away what it could be or who it could be from.
I place the box on the bed and dig through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for a small pair of scissors. I cut through the packing tape with ease. I keep the packing peanuts inside and pull out the elegantly wrapped box. The gold paper is thick and embossed with swirls and circles. Shiny reflective gold ribbon is wrapped around both sides of the box, making a pile of random threads at the top—all curled to perfection. The gift looks professionally wrapped and too artistic to tear apart with nimble human fingers. I weigh the shirt-sized box with both hands. Shockingly it is a mere eight ounces or less; the outer packing box actually seems heavier.
A little gold envelope is taped to the top with my name printed on it in black calligraphy ink. Not a single splatter or misprint. I pluck the card out—careful not to damage the wrapping.
I hope you find this a suitable alternative to my once promise. I am eager to find out from my own personal experimentation with you. A manual should be enclosed. Dream easy, sweetheart. This should assist. -GH
I stare at the professionally typed words. What promise? Graham sent me something with a return address from Texas. Why? I sit with my beautifully wrapped package for a good five minutes before making any sort of movement. Should I even open it? I am furious with him. I need to remember that. Maybe to send my point home, I should bring the gift to the meeting on Friday and make him take it back. Whatever it is, I don’t want it. I slip out of bed and use my nighttime routine as a great coping mechanism and a distraction.
I scrub and wash my face. I brush and floss. Then I give myself a pedicure, complete with deep red nail polish on my toes. Nothing is left to do. I have exhausted all of my possible distractions.
I stare at the bed and find the golden treasure waiting in the same place I left it.
Don’t be a coward. Open it!
I walk hesitantly to the bed. I sit on the edge and plop the box on my lap. Deep down, whatever it is, I know that I am going to like it. Graham picked it out just for me. Part of me is sad that I am going to have to refuse it, just to prove a point.
I tear a piece from the side of the box, removing the perfectly angled paper that wraps underneath. I continue until all of the paper is off and all I am looking at is a plain white box. I slide the lid off and push back the tissue paper over the edges. What are these?
Rings? Like jewelry?
Inside a delicate velvet-lined display case, I find six silver rings behind the plastic protective shield. I open the case and pluck one of the rings from the little individual compartments. I place the pretty grape-embellished ring on my right pointer finger.
Wait. It doesn’t fit. Crap.
I try the other fingers, but the band doesn’t get past my first knuckle. Why would he send me something that doesn’t even fit? I try the others—which are all different in decorative style—and find that none of them fit. My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Graham: Surely by now you have opened your gift. You must be “busy.” ;)
Angie: None of them fit…
I scold myself for sending the message before announcing that I have decided I am not accepting the gift. I wait less than a minute for his response.
Graham: One size fits all…did you break your fingers today?
Um… What the hell does that even mean? And what type of ring fits all? I play with the arrangement of rings again, looking for an adjustment mechanism on the bottom of the silver loop and finding nothing. I run my fingers over the silicone, feather, and metal designs that adorn each of the six rings. Am I putting them on wrong? Maybe my intuition is broken… My phone buzzes again.
Graham: Want me to come over and show you how to use them, kitten?
Graham: Nothing would please me more. :P