Her eyes light up again, barely contained.
“Your presents.”
I groan immediately. “Absolutely not.”
She laughs. “Absolutely yes.”
She stands up abruptly, unable to stay seated any longer.
“You’re going to love them,” she says, already halfway out of the kitchen.
“I don’t need anything,” I call after her.
“Maybe you don’t need them,” she calls back. “But you’ll want them.”
I rub a hand over my face.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
Talia comes back in carrying a large wrapped package that’s awkwardly shaped, almost as tall as her torso. The paper is blue with little silver stars, but the corners are taped a little unevenly, like she got impatient and just decided it was good enough.
She sets it down in front of me with a dramatic flourish.
“Ta-da.”
I stare at it.
Then at her.
“What is that,” I ask, cautious, like it might explode.
She tilts her head innocently. “Open it.”
I exhale and start peeling the tape, but in truth I already know what it is.
The paper gives way, crinkling loudly in the quiet kitchen. Under it is brown shipping paper, then bubble wrap, then finally a corner of a frame.
I pause.
My throat tightens.
Talia hovers near the table, barely containing herself. “Keep going.”
I slide the last of the wrapping away.
And there it is.
A painting.
Her painting.
Framed and finished.
She must have worked on it for hours to have it ready today, because it’s absolutely flawless.
I swallow and run my thumb along the edge of the frame.
“Talia,” I say, and my voice comes out rough.
