He adds a winky face to the end of his text.
It’s only fair that I’m cooler, as you have better dress sense.
Says who?
Says me. It’s why you’re my go-to guy when I need advice on what to wear. It’s like having a personal shopper in my pocket. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to buy and wear some of the clothes you’ve designed.
I doubt it. You’re a bit big. They’ve got me designing kids’ clothes.
Damn. Yeah, you’re right. They don’t make them in my size. I don’t even have a handy niece or nephew to buy for. I’m an only child.
Me too.
Your parents didn’t want to adopt more?
No. They told me it was because I completed their family.
I’m sure you did. The consultant is back. Chat later?
I’ll be here.
* * *
HARU - FOUR MONTHS LATER
“Happy birthday,” Margaret, the receptionist, says.
I look up from the design I’m working on and blink at her, confused. “Huh?”
“Unless this is for someone else?” She’s holding a white box with a ribbon around it and a birthday card stuck to the front. “Is there another Haru working in the office that I don’t know about?”
“No,” Hayley, my co-worker sitting on the desk beside mine, says. “You didn’t tell anyone it was your birthday.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. I rub the back of my neck. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I would have brought cakes in,” Hayley says.
“We do like to make a fuss of everyone on their birthday. You must have noticed that by now. You have been working here for five months,” Margaret says.
“Yeah, I’d noticed.”
She puts the box on my desk. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
Both women stare at me, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Uh, yes. Yes, I am.”
I carefully remove the card. It’s got a printed message inside, which reads ‘Happy birthday, love Kyle’.
I can’t help but smile. Kyle sent me a birthday present. It’s so sweet, but that’s Kyle through and through. In the months we’ve been talking, he’s shown time and time again that he’s a kind, sweet, thoughtful, and considerate friend. I try to be the same in return. I was there for Kyle through his dad’s surgery, as I’d promised. I love talking to Kyle. We’re still texting daily, often several times. Every text message he sends makes me smile.
“Who’s it from?” Margaret asks.
“He’s blushing, so it’s not from his parents,” Hayley says.
I put the card on my desk, undo the ribbon, and lift the lid off the box, revealing a mini cactus. It’s the kind that looks like a few spiky cucumbers sticking out of the pot.
“It’s—cute.” Hayley sounds a little disappointed. “You still haven’t told us who it’s from.”
