I keep staring at the box.
It has sat on my bedside table ever since I got home.
Douglas didn’t come with me. The whole night he didn’t say much, despite the gift. I assume that he didn’t know what to say when I opened it and looked at it.
Even Malcolm, Sophia’s ex, knew the look of mixed confusion and disappointment from a mile away.
And when the dinner was over, Douglas gave me a kiss on the cheek, to match the one at the start of the night, got in a taxi, and left. James put his arm around me as I watched him disappear into the night.
“He’s not going home with you?”
“No. He said he had somewhere else to be. If you ask me, he’s got more Tiffany’s boxes to give out.”
James bit his lip, the expression he gives when he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to say it.
“Surely not. He’s mad about you.”
I wasn’t buying that lie. Men who are mad about you don’t avoid calling you for a week and don’t show up until 5 days after your birthday.
I’m not an expert on relationships but you don’t need a degree to realise these actions are speaking very fucking loudly.
The bag is also speaking very loudly to me, too. Not the bag itself but what’s in it. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it again last night after opening it.
But today, now in the privacy of my bedroom at 1 Lovelock Drive, I have the courage to examine it.
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