My Favourite Part

31: gift-giving

"Good morning, birthday boy."

Today's going to be a good day.

I can feel it.

The sun through the large windows floods the room with daybreak, and the light caresses the cheek I kiss. He stirs awake at the sound of my voice in his ear, and an undeniable grin spreads across his face.

"Is that today?" He says, rubbing an eye lazily. I laugh,

"I thought so... unless," I wrinkle my brows in playful confusion, and his confusion is real and fascinated when I reach under his pillow, pulling out a small black box, tied with a strip of red ribbon, "unless I got it wrong? If I got it wrong, I could just give this to you another day..."

When I start to sit up, pretending to leave, Eric laughs and grabs hold of me, making me squeal and writhe as he tickles my middle and pulls me to sit between his legs

"Evie...," At his mellow voice, I sink into him, leaning my head back on his shoulder, "you know I didn't want you to get me anything. Just having you here is more than I could ask for."

"Eric..." I say, matching his rich tone, "you know I had to. Open." I nudge his bicep as he toys with the little box.

I put the playful nonchalance down to the morning light, but I feel my pace quick when he tugs on the red bow. What do you get the man who has everything, or could have it at the snap of finger? It had been on mind since the very afternoon he asked me to come to the Cotswolds, making me restless as it rattled about.

I thought about what Lea might have got him. A gorgeous vintage car with her dad's money, probably, with some cute remark about how old his Beetle is. Maybe she'd have gotten him something stylish and rare – a Rolex worth thousands or a Cognac they don't make anymore. Thoughts like that made me sadder than they should have. I wasn't Lea, and unless Mum was a secret heiress or Dad won the National Lotto, I likely never would be. What do you get the man who has everything?

When the darker thoughts passed, the brighter ones rose, I remembered that Eric was mine. No matter how much money I didn't have, or what university I did or didn't get into, he was my gentleman, my boy, my man. And through the lens of that rosen reality, the answer became so much clearer, although maybe a little metaphysical. Every thing ends. My gift to the man with everything would be my promise of forever. 

His excited eyes linger on mine as he lifts the lid, and at the moment that he does, my eyes dart to his, trying to gage a reaction. He wears a slowly spreading smile, but doesn't say anything at first, as he picks the miniature gramophone out of its box.

"It's a music box," I explain, my voice quick with nerves, and my hands tucked under my chin, "you twist that bit there and it plays music, and-"

I stop when he twists the tiny needle, and the slow, tinkling sound of Moon River spills from the little horn. It's the song he always plays without thinking. When's waiting, or pondering, or dreaming, his fingers move across his piano and play this tune to sweet-toned perfection. I've never said aloud how much I like it. I like that there's a part of him that I see that he doesn't know I see; doesn't know I adore.

But he still hasn't spoken; his eyes still haven't left the little gramophone, and I've begun to scratch at my nails. God, does he hate it?

"A-and underneath," I say hurriedly, why the fuck am I still talking? "It's a little, just a little... um, little thing..."

When he turns it over, my heart feels suspended, ready to drop into my stomach if he hates it, or he thinks it's corny or dumb. I don't have the way with words that he does, but it's a token – my promise.