Brayden’s not home yet. I drove to the game, and he told me that I shouldn’t wait for him because he wanted to do some post-game work in the batting cage. For some reason, he turned on his location pin. It’s been at the ballpark for most of the evening and switched to the route home about fifteen minutes ago.
I realize I don’t have a pair of scissors. I go down to the kitchen and root around in various drawers until I find a pair in a junk drawer along with a bunch of cat toys I don’t remember buying. Baby hasopinionsabout what she’s willing to play with.
I grab the scissors, taking them back upstairs, just as I can hear the rumble of the garage door open. Brayden must be home.
It takes me a while to get the box open—I slide the blade of the scissors along one seam and then the other, only to discover a hidden second layer of tape. I wonder who sent this—the package is addressed only to me, and unlike half the things Brayden’s family sends, it’s not addressed toMrs. Brayden Forsyth, as if I’m so much his property I don’t even get my own first name.
Finally, I pry the lid open and pull back the cardboard to find two smaller packages. And no card. I undo the smaller of the two parcels. It’s a…keychain? A painting from an artist I don’t recognize, though the back of the keychain says it’s by Paul Klee. There’s a Post-it note attached.So you can start filling your house with beautiful things.
What Asher said to me when we were both standing in this room. I should throw the keychain away. The painting is…Prettyis the wrong word. It’s colors and lines and abstract shapes I can’t really make sense of. Something about it reminds me of the swirling black of Asher’s tattoo and the roughness of his skin underneath.
I set the keychain to the side and take out the other package. This one is a plain brown box. More tape. I slide the edge of the scissors against it just as Brayden opens the door to the next room. I can hear him moving around, turning on the TV—I can’t tell if he actually watches anything or just likes the noise. Some kind of intro music is playing, a horse whinnying and the sound of spurs.Is he watching Stable of Love?
I could get up and ask, but not before I find out what Asher sent me. Jewelry? A metal file like they do in old movies about prison escapes?
I open the box slowly, clam-shelling it like whatever’s in there might jump out. I catch a glimpse of the packaging. Pink box. Gold lettering. Anillustrativepicture on the front. Then slam the box shut.
Did he send me what I think he sent me?My face goes hot. Brayden’s still moving around in the other room. Usually, he feels a million miles away, but right now he seems close, like hecan hear me freaking out through the wall separating our rooms. I get up and try the door handle—still locked. Check my door to the hallway—still closed. For a moment, I think about closing the curtains as if people on the street will be able to look in and see the box.
Heart racing, I open the box again. This one has a note too, folded on the top. I pull it out, unfold it. Read only the first line, then immediately refold the note.
For your collection.
My vibrator collection.
Because that’s what’s in the box. A vibrator—not just a vibrator. A slim vibrator with a magnet on one side so it can be attached to my underwear and worn inpublic.
I’m not even thinking about it. Or I am in a way I shouldn’t be. Wearing that out to dinner or to a bar while someone else—Asher—works the controls. Because it comes with a remote. Anapp.
I slam the lid of the box shut again. This time, it’s loud enough that Brayden calls from the other room. “Everything okay, Sav?”
“Yes!” My voice comes out thready. Panicky.He’s gonna know I’m lying.
There’s a rattle at the door, like Brayden is testing the knob before realizing it’s locked.
Slowly, I get up. Go to the door. Crack it open. Brayden’s already changed out of his ballpark clothes in a loose set of sweatpants and no shirt.
He looks different than he did a few weeks ago in a way I can’t place. Has he been eating more? Sometimes, I’ll find things written on the list on the fridge.Can you get more of that good dip stuff?Like he doesn’t know what hummus is actually called.
“Hey,” I say, “good game.” Because he went two-for-three with a walk.
“You were watching?” He asks it as if he’s surprised.
“In between reading about transcriptome analysis.”
He laughs. “That sounds much more interesting.”
“Oh, definitely.”
He studies me, the same searching look he did that first night we met. Whatever he sees makes him shake his head slightly. “What was in that package?” he asks.
I almost say,what package?as if it’s not sitting on the desk in my room, its contents practically screaming at me. My heart starts accelerating as I scramble for a lie. “Wedding gift. Another set of pie plates.” Because we’d gotten about a dozen of those.
“Huh,” Brayden says, as if he doesn’t quite believe me. “There was a note on the box that said it had batteries.”
Right. Right, there was. “Must have reused the box.”
Brayden shrugs, and before he can question it any further, I say, “Anyway, just wanted to say good night.”
