Page 32 of Something Tattered
My aunt turned to me and smiled. "In case you haven't guessed, we were taking that lovely horse toyourbirthday party."
"What birthday party?"
"Why, the one at T.J.'s, of course."
She knew about that? How, I had no idea. But Ididknow that none of my friends would've invited her. They knew better.
I gave a bitter laugh. "Sure you were."
"We were," she insisted. "I thought it would make the perfect centerpiece. We all know how you love horses."
I didn't love horses. They scared the snot out of me. Aunt Vivian might've known that if our relationship didn't consist mostly of her stopping by to pilfer my stuff.
I pointed toward the open trunk. "And what about the tablecloth?"
"Why, it's for the table, of course." She gave a little laugh. "Your birthdayisa special occasion, is it not?"
I didn't bother hiding my disbelief. "Right." Like I'd let anyone spread out my grandma's best tablecloth over some bar in a booth, where who-knows-what could happen to it.
Still, I justhadto ask. "And the sword?"
My aunt's gaze shifted to the trunk. "The sword? Well, yes, you see, that's for…" She hesitated, as if unsure what to say next.
Next to her, my uncle suggested, "Cutting the cake?"
My aunt shot him an irritated look, but said nothing.
Again, I looked at the sword, nestled in the folds of the tablecloth. Knowing my aunt, the tablecloth was just padding, something to protect the ancient artifact.
For some reason, that just made everything worse. To me, the tablecloth was priceless. But to them, it was convenient packing material.
As for the sword itself, it was a genuine collector's item. If the notches on its blade were any indicator, it had seen more than its share of action. And yet, I was reasonably certain that none of that action involved cutting baked goods.
I looked back to my relatives. "Forget the party," I told them. "I'm not even going." I reached into the trunk of their car and pulled out the sword with one hand and the tablecloth with the other.
Holding both of them in a death grip, I circled the vehicle, checking for more contraband. I saw nothing else, probably because we'd caught them in the act.
When I finished circling the car, I looked to my aunt and uncle, and felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. The horse was gone.
No. Scratch that. Now,Joelwas holding the horse, while my uncle sweated alone.
God, what a spectacle.
And for some reason, watching Joel holding that stupid horse, I felt my eyes grow misty, and my bottom lip start to quiver. But it wasn't with sadness. It was with gratitude.
How messed up was that?
Chapter 15
Together, Joel and I watched from the front steps as the Mercedes sped down the long driveway and disappeared from sight.
Good riddance.
Until next time, anyway.
With a weary sigh, I turned to Joel, only to feel myself pause. He was still holding onto that horse. He looked ridiculous. And dangerous. And, boyish in a way that warmed my heart.
In words that felt woefully inadequate, I said, "Thanks for that."
