Page 190 of The Pansy Paradox
“My birthday?”
“It’s the sixteenth, isn’t it?” Adele tilts her head in thought, although she most definitely knows the day I was born.
But is today the sixteenth? My mind scrambles, tumbling through all the events of this past week. Yes, it is. It’s my birthday. And I’d completely forgotten.
“First sign of getting old,” Guy teases, as if he’s reading my thoughts.
“I don’t mind that,” I say, and invite them inside.
No, I don’t mind at all.
Later, it’s just Guy and me in the kitchen. We’re cleaning up, which he insists I don’t need to do, that it’s my birthday, and all I need to do is keep him company. We’re talking about inconsequential things—the newly cracked asphalt on our street that needs to be reported to the town council, the teenagers who apparently tore through everybody’s gardens last night, and the fact that his neighbor needs to buy a new hose.
I make sympathetic noises and attempt a blank expression. I’m not sure it’s working, because Guy has a hang-dog look to match Tiny’s when the latter is caught counter-cruising.
“Pansy-Girl, I want to make sure I didn’t overstep my bounds.” He’s wiping one of my thrift store teacups like it’s fine china, and it’s already beyond dry. “My doorbell camera was pinging all night long, and I maybe checked this morning and saw that your friends had left.” He shakes his head, anguish in his features. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you spending your birthday alone, especially this birthday, and?—”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “They couldn’t help it. They were called back to Seattle.” With my thumb, I rub the thin scar that bisects my left palm, back and forth, back and forth. Healed, and yet it too has the aftertaste of pain. “Besides, I’d rather spend my birthday with all of you.”
Carefully, he places the teacup in the cupboard, and there’s nothing but doubt and guilt in the gesture. Then he turns to face me.
“It’s true,” I insist.
He opens his arms, and I accept a giant birthday bear hug from this giant bear of a man. “It’s good of you to say that.”
The kitchen is blue and white and brilliant in the afternoon sun. The scent of coffee lingers enticingly in the air, and that chocolate cake is ready for round two. Something about the house has shifted, and I ease into it, like easing into a comfortable pair of slippers.
And I think to myself: It’s good to be home.
It’s dusk when my doorbell rings again. I’m already in pajama bottoms and a cami top, curled on the couch where I’ve spent most of the evening, everything silent and serene. Tomorrow, I plan to confront the housing development. Today, though? I’ve done little more than some gentle yoga and checking notices from the Enclave. Other than a memorial post for Professor Reginald Botten, all is quiet.
But someone at my door? The thought makes my heart thump in anticipation and hope, although this isn’t the Sight, and it won’t be for a while. The Sight is a sluggish thing that’s recovering somewhere deep in my mind.
I’m on my own for the next few weeks, a sensation that’s both freeing and a bit frightening. So I straighten my ponytail in the powder room mirror and head for the door, toes tingling, stomach fluttering.
On the other side is Denisha from The King’s Larder. I try not to sag in disappointment. I try to pretend that I wasn’t expecting well, someone. In the stand next to the door, my umbrella sags as well. Her sigh is nearly audible.
“Special delivery,” Denisha says, holding out a small box, her grin bright.
“For me?”
She laughs at this. “Yes, for you. He ordered it special, all the way from Seattle.”
I take the box along with the card she hands me. I try to tip her, which she refuses with a quick, “Already taken care of, too. I like him. We all do.”
She’s on the sidewalk, swinging a leg over the seat of her moped, when she calls out, “He really is a keeper, Pansy.”
Once she’s gone, I shut the door and confront this mysterious package. I stare for several long moments as if I have x-ray vision.
At last, I tear a corner, and then can’t stop myself. Inside is a jewelry box, oblong, a deep midnight blue.
The rich velvet of the box doesn’t scream expensive. No, it’s more of a whisper, one that insists—politely, mind you—If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
Then I open the box, slip my palm beneath the necklace, and dangle it in front of me. The silver flower is exquisite. I examine the pendant. The intricately carved details are so precise. It’s a marvel that anyone could create such a thing. A flower, yes, but not just any flower. A pansy.
Of course.
A little pansy for Pansy Little.
