“Then hopefully you can’t imagine me with a bowl cut and adolescent acne either.”
I snort a laugh. “Oh,for thatI can certainly try my best.”
He picks up and throws a trash bag of foam fingers at me. “Can I finish my story?”
I smile and nod as he continues, “The only coping mechanism I had was organizing the suitcase full of things I was allowed to bring with me. I would alphabetize my books, trading cards, organize and reorganize my clothes in this tiny little half wardrobe. Or pack everything neatly away in my suitcase and pretend I was going home for the weekend like the other kids. Then I found a book in the library about laundry and folding clothes and spenthoursfolding and refolding my school shirts until they were perfect.”
“Are you still like that now?” I ask, and then immediately cringe at all the times I made my desk messy deliberately when he’s around because I enjoyed the pained expression it brought to his face.
He wrings his hands between his legs, twisting the ring on his finger. “It’s definitely not as bad now. Oneof my teachers saw me obsessively counting in class and reported it to my parents. They made me see a child psychiatrist, which I guess... helped.”
“Did they ever ask youwhyyou were doing it?”
“I don’t think they cared that it was a coping mechanism.”
“So when did it stop being so intense?”
“When I started punching back.” He huffs as though it’s a joke but I don’t laugh. The furrow of my brow deepens.
“How long did that take?”
“Two years.” He sighs. “Until I broke someone’s nose and got kicked out. My mum brought me out to New York to stay with her there.”
“That’s how you got that scar,” I say, glancing at his hand, remembering how he glossed over it when I asked. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” I hurl the trash bag back at him and it crumples as he catches it midair.
He smiles that same smile he gave me in the cab. “Your treehouse story was just so cute, with your parents and the fairy picnics, it wasn’t the right time for a villain origin story.”
I smile back grudgingly.
“So, will you let me help you?”
“I guess with your expert knowledge we can get this done a lot faster.” My lips curve and I point to several piles of custom T-shirts, phone cases and cup holders. “These, these and these need to be in those boxes.”
He grunts as he squeezes down next to me and crosseshis legs, our knees just touching in the small room. We work in tandem, neatly arranging the packages like a military-powered pink and green Santa’s workshop as he explains his potential brand partnership lead with a cool hotel chain and how he thinks it could play out.
After a few minutes I freeze. “Shit, the tissue paper.”
“What tissue paper?”
“We have to top them off with Fate tissue paper.”
“Why?”
“You know”—I flap my arms—“for the grand reveal!”
He stares at me, trying to contain a smile. “The grand reveal?”
“If you can just see the gift, what’s the point? It’s all about the mystery and then the reveal. It’s about the slow build of intrigue, the tension!”
He laughs. “OK, you’ve sold it to me! No wonder you work in marketing.” I try my best to avoid blushing. “So where is the tissue paper?”
My neck cranes as I stare at the top of the silver industrial shelving unit. “In a box up there.”
He stands up, wiping his hands on his trousers to smooth them down. He assesses the shelf, towering over even his tall frame.
“Let’s hope it’s bolted to the wall,” he says, straining as he grabs the edges of the top shelf and pulls himself up. “Which box is it?”
“Ummm, a little brown square container?”
