“Anna is crazy about you,” I hiss into his ear, “stop fucking around!”
He pulls away, brows shooting up comically high. “Nah-uh.” He shakes his head blankly. “We’re just really good fr—”
No.
That’s it. I’ve had enough of this shit.
I pull him back in for another, much firmer hug. “Sheis. I mean it, bud. For the love of God,kiss the girl.”
I leave the housing department with a half-empty box under my arm, a messenger bag on my shoulder, and a content smile on my face. The last thing I hear before the door swings shut on this strange, unexpectedly good, unexpectedly necessary chapter of my life is Blake’s raspy voice.
“Anna. May I see you in the small breakout room, please?”
The garage is dimly lit. A halogen light blinks rudely above us, making me feel more disoriented by being awake at this hour.
“Sorry to get you out of bed this early,” I say, “but you know what Con’s like, he’s up with the sun.”
“Don’t mention it,” says Tank, waving me off. He appears to have rolled out of bed exactly as jovial as he is at any other time of day. “I’m happy to help.”
We wrestle Connor’s birthday present into the elevator and carry it into the apartment as quietly as we can. Once inside, we talk to each other in silent hand gestures usually used by baseball players. I’m pretty sure neither of us has a clue what the other is saying.
It’s one hell of a mission, and by the end of it, Tank and I are out of breath, but Connor’s gift is wrapped. It stands in the middle of the living room with a big gold bow on it. There’s some bunching in the wrapping on the sides, a couple of tears we had to patch up with Scotch tape, and the paper is mismatched because the first roll ran out.
“Looks good,” whispers Tank, stepping back and admiring our work.
It looks like it was wrapped by a kindergartner.
I’m a little disappointed. I’ve been planning this gift for months, and I was hoping for a more polished final product.
“D’you think Con will like it?” I ask.
“Are you kidding me? He’ll love it. He’d love anything you gave him, Lennon, but this”—Tank motions to the massive monument to mediocrity standing in the living room as though it’s a work of art—“this is going to knock his socks off.”
It makes me feel a bit better.
When he leaves, Tank pulls me into a bear hug that lifts me off my feet. “He’s lucky to have you, bud. I’m so glad he’s with someone who puts this much effort into making him happy. He deserves that.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“Okay, now keep your eyes closed and don’t peek.” I’m behind Connor, shuffling down the hall with my hands over his eyes. He’s smiling so hard that his smile lines tickle my palms.
“Whoa!” he yells when I let him open his eyes.
There’s an innocent sense of wonder about him this morning that’s making me so happy I could burst.
He paces around the gift thoughtfully, as though he’s trying to work out the best plan of attack.
“I’m not sure where to start,” he says, making big eyes. “I don’t want to mess up the wrapping.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Rip it, birthday boy.”
He looks at me as he bunches the first handful and tears a massive gash in the paper, then he looks down and his face changes. Childish wonder to love so deep and eternal that I feel it in the back of my throat.
He tears the paper again and again until a caramel-colored surface is exposed. A smooth, high-gloss finish. Uniform geometric patterns, repeated. Timber and mother-of-pearl.
His jaw drops and his eyes start sparkling like crazy. “My table! You got me my table.”
“How could I not?” I place my hand over my heart and tap twice. “That thing has your name written all over it.”
