We stand at the front door to the Green Monstrosity. The bulb on the porch light is burned out, and his face is cast in shadow.
“Sorry about earlier,” I say with a grimace. “Lunch, I mean. It was weird. I made it weird.”
He shrugs as his voice rumbles out of his chest. “It’s gonna take time, I think.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“We’ll get there, though.”
I don’t know if I quite believe that, but if he does, the least I can do is try. “Yeah, Dom.”
“I didn’t….” He stops. Takes a breath. Sighs. “Didn’t know Corey was going to ask that. About your trip. I didn’t mean to shoehorn my way in.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t. That’s… that’s Corey for you. Besides, it’ll be good.”
“You think?”
“Sure. We’ll have fun. You can keep me out of trouble.”
He chuckles. “I’ll do my best.” He looks like he wants to say something else, but all that comes out is “I better go.”
“Okay. I’ll call you. Or something.”
“I’d like that.”
Why does this feel like the end of an awkwardly bad first date? “Great. That’d be… great.”
“Night, Tyson.”
“Bye.”
I shut the door. Lock it. Press my forehead against the wood. Berate myself for a million things. Like, how I could have sounded so dumb. Or so childish. Or so immature. Or so ridiculous. Or so—
There’s a knock at the door. Almost like I was expecting it, by the way I pull it open.
Light spills out onto Dom. He looks nervous. Unsure. He reaches up and scratches the back of his head and looks down toward his feet. “I… I got you something,” he says. “For your birthday.”
“Oh, hey! You didn’t need to—”
He thrusts a badly wrapped package into my hands. It’s heavy. Something shifts and rattles inside.
I look up at him, not knowing what to expect. He nods and then turns, walks out to his car. Gets in. Starts it. Drives away.
All without another word.
I watch as the taillights fade into the dark. Eventually, they’re gone and I’m alone.
I close the door.
Sit on the floor, my back against the wall.
Put the package between my legs. Slide my fingers underneath the paper. It tears easily. It sounds so loud in the quiet of the house.
Inside is a wooden box, carved ornately with little flowers and leaves on the lid, swirling as if they’d once grown but long since died and hardened and became part of the box. The wood itself is dark and smooth, well-oiled and cared for. Brass hinges attach at the rear.
I lift the lid.
There’s a note on top, folded in half. I take it out and see the familiar scrawl inside.