Hollis: A little birdie reminded me someone’s birthday’s coming up soon.
I can’t help the slow-forming smile that spreads.
Me: Talking to birds these days, Barnes? Weird.
Hollis: LOL.
Me: Still working?
Hollis is a caddy for one of the bigshots who frequents the country club where he works. After he finishes caddying, he’ll pull a long shift and assist with the clean-up once the tournament ends. I can’t imagine how exhausted he’ll be after being out on the golf course, hauling heavy clubs around in the heat and humidity with the sun beating down on him. Speaking of sunshine…
Hollis: Yes, ma’am. They’re backed up on the first hole on the back nine.
Me: You’d better be reapplying sunscreen.
Hollis: Worried about me, Shortcake?
Me: Always.
Hollis: Promise I’m reapplying.
Hollis: Gotta run. We’re finally moving.
Me: Hydrate and make sure you don’t get sunburnt. Love you.
Hollis: But not like that. ;)
I stare down at his final text and wish he were here so I could talk to him. I know he’d never be upset with me because of my mother’s idiotic beliefs about him, but it would still hurt him. I wish there was a way to get around it somehow.
I jerk upright as soon as I hear Roy come through the front door and call my name. “Magnolia? Come here, please.”
My feet carry me to the bedroom door in a flash, and I tug it open, rushing down the hall to meet him. “Yes, sir?”
He shuffles through the Saturday mail, not paying me attention, and merely tips his head to the side. “That came for you.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he’s gesturing to. A plain brown cardboard box sits on the entryway table. It’s probably about two feet wide and rectangular. I step over to it and peer at it curiously. It’s addressed to me, but it doesn’t have a return address.
“Thanks, Roy.” I heft it in my arms, surprised by how lightweight it is. I start in the direction of my room again but stop and turn back slowly. “Um, I have a question for you.”
He raises his head, his dark eyes meeting mine, concern suddenly washing over his features. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
“Well,” I hedge, “I wanted to see if it would be okay if Hollis came to my birthday party this weekend.”
His brows slant together. “Your mother told you no already, didn’t she?”
I wince. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”
“Magnolia Mae,” he reprimands, “you should know better than to try to play your mother and me against one another.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I rush on, my words hurried. “But it’s important to me. He’s my best friend, and he’s not a bad person like Mother wants to believe.”
His expression tenses in thought. “You’re still with the Hampstead boy, right?”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. He always calls him the Hampstead boy instead of Dallas. While it is annoying, it’s never condescending. Mainly because Dallas’ dad has been a campaign contributor, and Roy doesn’t want to rock the boat and risk not having that cushion of support.
Instead of giving in to the urge to roll my eyes, I straighten. “Yes, sir. Dallas is my boyfriend.” Silently tacked on is something like, So there’s no reason for anyone to worry about Hollis.
Roy runs a hand over his thinning hair—it has to be stressful being in the public eye and responsible for decisions that affect voters—and regards me much like a detective might study a suspect taken into custody for a bank robbery. I school my expression and hope it appears calm and innocent.
He appears to mull over the idea. “I suppose it would look good to have him here,” he muses, more to himself than me. “Another act of goodwill to those less fortunate.”
Finally, he nods with an, “Okay, fine.” As soon as my lips part to thank him, he cuts me off with a stern, “But you’d better not make me regret this.”
I nod, hugging the box to my chest. “Yes, sir.” Then I add a quick, “Thank you.”
He copies my nod, and then he’s off, down the hall toward his office to…do more work. That always puzzles me. Why come home from work only to do more work? Why not stay and get as much of it done before calling it a night?
That’s your future, an inner voice taunts. One that sounds suspiciously similar to my mother’s. I shove it aside.
Then I go back to my room, set the box on my bed, and quickly send two texts.
Me: Don’t forget about my party on Sunday, mister. Best friends are required to attend.
Then for the second, I type:
Me: I’d love to.
My boyfriend’s response is quick.
Dallas: I’ll pick you up at seven. Can’t wait to see you.
I text an emoticon of a kissing face and set my phone down. Grabbing a pair of scissors sitting in the never-used mug on my dresser that holds a few pens and a Sharpie, I slice open the box.
Pressing the flaps aside, I find a large plain white paper folded in half with my name on it. I immediately recognize the handwriting and unfold it.
Happy Birthday, Shortcake!
I wasn’t sure if I’d get to see you on your birthday since I know your mom has strict rules about the guest list and because I’m sure Dallas has planned something cool for y’all to do to celebrate. So, I wanted to make sure you’d get my present safe, sound, and covertly (and I planned it around your mom’s schedule).
I laugh softly, recalling Hollis asking me all sorts of questions. I’d remarked how weird it was that he was suddenly so interested in my mother’s whereabouts.
I continue reading.
I know we’re probably getting too old for model car kits and all, but it made me think of you and Dallas.
Hope you enjoy.
Love,
Hollis
P.S. I know, I know. But not like that.
I sit for a moment, rereading the note and cherishing every word while simultaneously feeling shame wash over me. He knew my mother wouldn’t let him come to my party on Sunday. He knew, yet he still planned ahead to make sure he wouldn’t miss out on giving me this present.
I trace the pad of my index finger over the firm, masculine slashes of ink on the paper. My heart actually hurts to think about him sitting down to write this. I know he’s a guy and all, but I know without a doubt that I’d be hurting if I were in his position and his parents refused to let me attend his birthday party.
I draw in a deep breath before setting the note aside carefully and reaching in the box to withdraw an odd-shaped object wrapped in paper printed with repeated, “Happy Birthday!” and balloons.
When I set the gift on my lap, I don’t tear into it. Instead, I peer at it, wanting to savor this moment.
As seniors in high school, there’s no telling what will happen once we graduate and head off to college. Things will inevitably change even though that’s the last thing I want in some ways, but in others, what I want most.
I wrinkle my brow, trying to guess what he’s given me, and come up with absolutely no guesses. Finally, I pluck at an edge of the paper and rip it slowly with equal parts trepidation and excitement. When I reveal about a two-inch portion of the gift, my breath lodges in my throat.
He remembered.