She doesn’t know the half of it. “Thank you.”
I gesture for her to open the gift and she obliges, carefully pulling the end of the white ribbon. The bow disappears, and the ribbon slides to the floor as she tears the paper away.
My heart flutters and I shove my hands in my pockets so Quinn won’t see them shaking.
I’ve never been great at giving gifts—haven’t had much need—and it took me months of research to plan this out.
Hopefully she likes it.
It’ll be a real kick in the balls if she doesn’t.
Quinn opens the top flap of the brown cardboard box and her eyes go wide.
“Oh, wow.” A giddy smile breaks over her lips as she reaches inside. “I can’t believe you got me a MacBook Pro. Cooper, this is amazing.” She slides the laptop box onto her lap, handling it like it’s a precious treasure, before turning her gaze back to me. “Thank you.”
“According to the online chat boards, this is the best machine for an aspiring writer. Lots of memory and all the bells and whistles you’ll ever need for creating graphics and editing videos.”
She scrunches up her nose. “When did you find time to research laptops?”
“I made time.” No matter how busy life gets, I’ll always make time for Quinn. With all the changes in the last year, she’s been the one constant. The one to keep me grounded. The one I turn to when things get rough. The one who never loses faith in me. “Keep going.”
She looks around for a second, like she’s searching for another gift, and then she peeks inside the box.
“What’s this?” she asks, pulling out another package wrapped in bright red paper.
My palms begin to sweat. “Open it and find out.”
She tears off the paper and laughs when she finds an external hard drive and another box wrapped in red paper.
“I’m sensing a theme.”
“Every writer needs a backup hard drive to save their work.” That’s what it says online, anyway.
Quinn opens the next box, and she squeals with delight as a stack of colorful notebooks spill out. “They’re so pretty,” she says, hugging them to her chest. “I’m never going to write in them.”
I chuckle. “I believe that means you’re well on your way to being an author.”
Evidently that’s a thing writers do. Hoarding pretty notebooks they’ll never write in. Seems like a waste to me, but who am I to judge?
Quinn pulls out another red box. “Exactly how many boxes are nested in here?”
Too many. Watching her unwrap them one by one is torture.
I really didn’t think this through.
“My precious,” she whispers, opening a pack of limited-edition gel pens.
If I weren’t so damn nervous, I’d make a Gollum joke, but every second that ticks by is another thread frayed from my already taut nerves.
I exhale slowly as Quinn pulls out the next package, which is only 5x5, and tears into it.
“Oh, my God.” She pulls a stack of rainbow Post-it Notes from the box and sets them on the coffee table. “You know me too well.”
She removes the last gift-wrapped package, holding it in her palm as she studies it, completely oblivious to the tension that’s oozing from my pores like stale beer.
This is it.
Sweat beads along my hairline and my pulse quickens as she unties the white satin ribbon tied around the box.
