“Go Bulldogs!” Miguel cheers.
“Bulldogs?” My eyes go wide. My breath catches. “As in… the Bryant Bulldogs?”
They glance at one another.
“Surely, Archer told you?” Miguel asks hesitantly.
“No.” I shake my head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Dios mío, we’ve ruined his surprise.” Flora smacks her palm against her forehead. “I’m sure he was planning to tell you tonight. Oh, Josephine, promise you’ll act like you don’t know when he tells you.”
“Ifhe tells me,” I mutter.
“Of course he will.” Miguel waves my words away. “You’re his best friend.”
Flora is staring at me, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Is everything okay between you and Archer?”
“Sure,” I lie brightly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I’m not upset at all by the fact he didn’t tell me about his college decision. I’m not remotely confused that he’s chosen to attend a school mere minutes away from mine, despite having offers from better baseball programs across the country. And I’m certainly not still reeling from our confrontation yesterday.
Nope.
Not at all.
Not one bit.
“You just seem…” Flora trails off.
“Leave the girl alone.” Miguel shoots her a look.
“Fine, fine.” Flora lifts her hands in surrender. “Josephine, would you like your presents, now? They’re in the dining room.”
I heave a sigh. “Might as well get it over with…”
Walking into the adjacent room, I can’t help thinking that Blair and Vincent’s presents are a perfect reflection of their parenting style — practical, impersonal, and unadorned. No shiny wrapping paper or frilly bows. No oddly-shaped boxes to build anticipation. The gifts sit on the table, laid out in an orderly row.
A fountain pen.
A moleskin journal.
A box of dermatological cream.
A book titledGlobal Nutrition.
How perfectly pragmatic.
I carry the stack of gifts up to my room, telling myself to be grateful. So what if the notebook and pen serve as a not-so-subtle nudge to write my speech? Who cares about Blair’s slightly off-putting determination to erase my under-eye circles? What does it matter that Vincent’s idea of father-daughter bonding involves a book report on world hunger?
Be grateful, Jo.
Some kids don’t get any presents at all.
* * *
I tryto write the speech. I swear, I do. But the words simply will not manifest. The longer I stare at my laptop screen, the emptier my mind becomes. After a full hour of frustration, the walls of Cormorant House seem to press in around me, an ever-tightening vise.
In desperate need of fresh air, I back the Porsche out of the garage and head for open roads. The wrought-iron gates swing closed behind me with a loud clang that reminds me of a prison cell.