His was not as expertly wrapped. The paper was slightly uneven, the ribbon tied with the kind of aggressive focus that suggested he had refused help and regretted it halfway through.
Regan looked at the wrapping and pressed her lips together.
Edge pointed at her. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You thought something.”
“I think many things.”
He ignored her and handed me the box.
His fingers brushed mine.
For a second, neither of us let go.
Then he did.
“Open it,” he said, voice low.
I stared at the box in my lap.
Something inside me already knew.
Maybe because of his face. Maybe because of Tarak’s gift. Maybe because birthdays, real birthdays, were apparently ambushes disguised as love.
I opened it slowly.
Inside was a ring.
Silver, old, and beautiful.
Turquoise sat in the center, blue-green and full of tiny dark veins like desert rivers seen from the sky. The band was worn smooth in places, not damaged, just loved. Touched. Lived with. The kind of ring that had known someone’s hand for years.
I looked up at Edge.
“It was your mother’s favorite,” he said.
My mouth trembled.
“We held on to these things for you,” he continued. “Tarak and me. Didn’t always know what to do with them. Didn’t always know if we had the right. But they were hers, and that means they were always supposed to be yours.”
I swallowed hard.
Edge’s voice roughened.
“Don’t be ashamed to wear them. You hear me?”
I nodded, but that wasn’t good enough for him.
“Say it.”
“I hear you.”
“They mean something,” he said. “Not all bad. Not all pain. A part of her will always be with you, but that doesn’t mean it owns you. You get to decide what it means now.”
That was when the tears came.
