Page 23 of Love, Morgan

A hierarchy of how frequently I’d spoken to them, the power dynamics between us, and the topics of our discussions was easy to create, but even ranking the people I knew didn’t help me figure out whether that meant I had friends. Nor did it indicate whether I could reach out to ask what the hell to do when my vacation neighbor yelled in my face, might be a fan, and was so pretty I kind of wanted to cry.

Plus, I wasn’t sure it was even safe to be on my phone. What if she showed up again to yell at me for not relaxing enough?

Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Ugh.Why was this so hard?

Why was I so ridiculous?

I flopped onto my bed, exhausted and wired, and so completely lost. This break had been an adventure, for sure, but it wasn’t nearly the type of adventure I’d been planning for.

And that’s when it hit me—Thalia. We weren’t friends, per se, but she’d been friendly, she’d sought me out to chat over breakfast, and she’d sat with me and eaten some of my fruit. Sure, it was her job to be nice to the guests, but she was someone who I could have a conversation with, and she already kind of knew about the situation.

I jumped up from the bed, heading to the mirror to ensure I looked presentable—I might feel awful, and be realizing I needed to figure out how to make actual friends, but at least I could look okay while doing it.

Deciding I was about as good as I was going to get, I grabbed my stuff and headed to the door.

A vacation was new and different for me, and I could try making a friend. That was new, different, and something my dad had made me promise I was going to at least try, so there was that.

Or, at least, I thought that was it until I yanked my front door open and found myself face-to-face with Ms. Franklin again.

She’d left. I knew she had. I’d watched her go. I’d stared at the spot she’d been in long after she’d gone. But now, she was back. On my doorstep.

She looked up at me with wild eyes, obviously not having factored in the possibility of getting caught doing… whatever it was she was doing.

“Hello,” I said, not sure where I’d found my voice—or the wherewithal to attempt a conventional conversation opener with her.

“Hi,” she replied. She hadn’t blinked in over thirty seconds.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed she’d added more clothing to her outfit than earlier. I worked very hard to try not to be disappointed by that. She looked great, but she’d looked great earlier too.

She looked great and she still wasn’t saying anything.

She did blink though, so at least there was that.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. If she was a fan, that meant she watched my videos. I wondered if this shy, nervous, awkward version of me was a letdown in comparison.

When I met fans after shows and such, I usually kept The Pretty Gift persona on. They wanted the person from the stage and the videos, so that was who they got. Plus, it was easier for me. I separated that from who I actually was and everything was fine.

The woman currently staring at me, however, was getting exactly that—me. Simply by virtue of continuing to surprise me, she was getting the real me. Besides, after our previous interactions, would there be any point putting on the façade and pretending I was anything other than this in real life? She did keep coming back, so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

Maybe I’d misunderstood earlier and she wasn’t actually a fan. I had no idea how she could possibly know I was working if she wasn’t, but it had to be a possibility.

She cleared her throat, pulling her hands back from behind her. She’d hidden them there when I’d opened the door. “Yeah. I, uh…” She cleared her throat and shook her head, speaking more confidently when she continued. “I got you this. To apologize for this morning. And last night. And yesterday.”

She handed me an incredibly slim package.

I took it automatically, my fingertips brushing against soft, handmade paper with little flowers pressed into it. It was beautiful.

“I, uh, followed one of your instruction videos for wrapping, so hopefully I did okay.” She looked away, a blush coloring her soft cheeks.

So shewasa fan then…

I got the feeling she didn’t blush much. Something about it felt special. Something about the way she couldn’t meet my eye, and she’d gotten me something, and spent time wrapping it felt special.

Something aboutherfelt special.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, running my fingers over it. She really had done a wonderful job on the wrapping—crisp, confident folds, minimal tape, clean edges.Beautiful.

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