Page 58 of Soft Tissue Damage
I risk taking a glance over my shoulder and see that no one’s followed us. No one’s looking at me accusingly or calling 911. I take a steadying breath. Maybe no one saw what I did.
I wipe my sweaty hands on the seat of my jeans, take a firm grip on the stroller, and walk swiftly but calmly toward home.
As my heart rate begins to slow, I picture Leon’s face as he and Angie return to his car to find that the front window has been smashed. They’ll look around for the culprit, but they won’t see anyone.
My lips twitch, and I slap my hand over my mouth, but the bubble of laughter rises up my throat and bursts from my lips anyway.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and text my friend Justine.
Elena: I just did something really stupid and crazy and so not like me. I can’t stop laughing. I think I’m hysterical.
Justine: Girl, what did you do!! Actually, don’t tell me now. Tell me over cocktails tomorrow night.
I frown at my phone, unsure what she means.
Elena: What are you talking about?
Justine: Hello?? It’s your birthday tomorrow.
My mouth falls open. I’d completely forgotten that tomorrow I turn twenty-one.
14
Elena
When I come downstairs with Rosie in the morning, sitting in the center of the kitchen island is a pretty white box done up with a lustrous red satin ribbon. There’s no name tag or card with it indicating who it’s for, but my heart rate picks up as it occurs to me that it might be for me.
As I buckle Rosie into her high chair, I pretend it’s not there. Presumptions are dangerous and so is hoping for nice things. Presumptions can get your feelings hurt and humiliate you as well.
I prepare Rosie’s breakfast and pour myself some coffee. The pot is hot and half full, which means that Cullan must be up already.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
I whirl around and see Cullan leaning in the doorway, holding a mug of coffee. He takes a sip, gazing at me over the rim of his cup. He’s wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off his inked biceps. Today is Saturday, so he’s probably not working.
Is he talking about the present sitting on the kitchen island? No, he’ll be talking about something to do with my job. The fridge. The washing machine. The dishwasher. I am not someone who receives beautifully wrapped gifts on her birthday.
“Good morning, Mr. Grant. Open what?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Really, Elena?” He shoots me an exasperated look, but he’s smiling as he moves past me, picks up the gift box, and places it into my hands. “Happy birthday.”
My thumbs caress the satin ribbon. The box feels magical. It doesn’t matter what’s in it. It’s what it represents, that someone thought about me long enough to choose something they thought I would like. Stalling for time so I can savor this moment as long as possible, I ask him, “How did you know it’s my birthday?”
He’s standing very close to me. “The form you filled out for my accountant. He mentioned it.”
When I accepted the nanny job, I filled out some paperwork and emailed it to someone at Cullan’s company. That was kind of the accountant to mention a frivolous thing like my birthday to him.
“Elena,” he says softly. “Open it.”
I grasp the ribbon and tug, and it falls away. I open the box, revealing a plush red velvet interior. Sitting on the velvet is a silver pendant and matching earrings.
I cry out and touch the jewelry. “They’re so beautiful.” A panicked thought seizes me. They must be expensive. A gift like this can only be followed by sour expressions and dark looks. Comments about how grasping, lazy, and ungrateful I am.
I thrust the box toward him. “I can’t accept these.”
He frowns and doesn’t reach for the box. “But you said they’re beautiful. Are they not your style? There’s a gift receipt in the box and you can exchange them if you like.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I wouldn’t dream of exchanging them. But I just can’t accept them.”
