Page 39 of Against the Clock
“What’s wrong?”
I turn the phone around and show her the huge, fluffy-bowed box.
“What’s that? I’m too hungover for this.”
“Same,” I say. “And I don’t know. It’s a box with a bow.”
She frowns. “Why are you showing me a box with a bow?”
“Daniel had it couriered over.”
“Shut UP,” she screeches. “That’s so fucking cute. I’m dead. I’m screaming. Dead and screaming.”
“I think you’re still drunk from brunch.”
“Mood,” she says and the camera tilts as she sits up, her hair falling all over her face. The sudden movement makes my stomach swim. “What’s in the box?”
I bite my lip. “I don’t know yet.”
“What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? Open it.”
“Fine.” I glance back at the package, then at Cameron’s face. She’s not paying attention to me but fixing her eyebrow in the front-facing camera.
I put the phone up on the bar-top counter so Cameron can watch.
“I like the bow. It’s a nice touch. Oooh,” she says suddenly, and my fingers freeze on the knotted ribbon. “What if it’s kinky sex shit?”
“What? Why would you say that?”
“Maybe he’s into some weird shit. Maybe this is your fifty shades of football moment. Maybe it’s a bunch of sex toys and an NDA.”
“The Beavers courier brought it here. It’s not going to be sex toys,” I tell her. God, that would be weird to open up with my friend on Facetime. Hilarious, though.
“A girl can dream,” Cameron says.
“I honestly don’t know what to say to that,” I tell her, suppressing a laugh. The bow finally unknots.
“Hmm.” The box is taped shut, and I have no idea where my scissors are. After a second, I fish a pen from my purse and wrench it through the clear plastic packing tape.
“There’s a note on top,” I tell Cameron.
“You better read it out loud.”
“What if it’s private?”
“You better read it even louder if it’s private,” Cameron says, and I snort at her wiggling eyebrows.
The creamy envelope is heavy, the kind of expensive stationery I drool over in stores, and I run my fingertips over it slowly before pulling out the card inside.
It’s embossed with the Beavers logo, too, and I grin at it for a second. Something about the idea of a beaver being the AFL’s idea of a terror-inducing mascot never fails to amuse me.
“Kelsey,” I read out loud. “I wanted to send you all the things you might want to wear tomorrow for the game.”
My eyes widen at the next line, and I fall silent.
“What? What? Don’t stop now, I can tell you got to the good part.”
I clear my throat and set the note down.