Chapter 12 - Hands Shaking Under Warm Light
I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it.
My shoes made almost no sound on the marble. That was the side hallway, narrower than the foyer, the chandelier light thinner there but still warm on my arms. Caleb didn't move to stop me. I felt his hand lift off my back as I went, just the edge of his fingers, like he wanted to keep hold and knew he couldn't.
Dad — the man in the dark suit — was still half-crouched from talking to Caleb. He turned toward me when I moved. The woman in green turned too. I could see her pearl earring catch the light.
I held the box out with both hands.
That was as far as my plan went. In my head at the table that afternoon it had been simple. Walk up, hold it out, say happy birthday, let him take it. Now my arms were shaking so hard the white satin bow trembled against the beige paper. I tried to lock my elbows. It made it worse.
"For —" I started, and my breath hitched. I hated that. I had cried all evening in that pink tulle dress and I didn't want the tears in my voice for this part. "For you."
He didn't reach right away. He lowered himself the rest of the way down until his knees were on the marble and his face was level with mine. His suit pulled tight across his shoulders. His tie hung straight down. Up close his beard was darker, and his eyes weren't on the box yet. They were on me.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'm right here."
I nodded and pushed the box another inch forward. My left thumb slipped on the edge. The bow, which I'd retied twice in the car, slid sideways. One loop drooped. I made a small sound and tried to fix it with my finger without pulling my hands back, and that only loosened it more.
Behind me I heard the woman's heels shift.
"Emma, stop — you'll tear it," she said, sharp, and started forward.
He lifted one hand, palm out, without looking at her. Just that. Not high, not hard.
She stopped.
The hallway went quiet again except for my breathing. I could hear it in my ears, quick and thin through my nose because I was trying not to sniffle. Caleb was very still to my right. I didn't look at him, but I knew he was watching the bow like I was, like if it came undone everything inside would spill.
"I've got it," I whispered. I wasn't sure if I meant the box or the bow.
"I know," the man said. "Take your time."
I tried to steady my right hand by pressing the bottom of the box harder into my left palm. The paper was warm from where I'd clutched it to my chest all night. The corner on my side was soft now, bent in a little from my fingers. I stared at that dent and felt sick that I'd ruined it. This was supposed to be neat. This was supposed to look like I meant it.
My arms shook again. The box tipped.
He moved both his hands up underneath, not touching yet, just holding the air below it. A safety net. His cuffs were white against the shadow under the box.
"I'm —" My voice broke. I swallowed. "I'm sorry it's —"
"Don't," he said. "Don't apologize."
The woman made a short breath behind us. Not words. I felt her wanting to step in and fix the bow, fix me, fix the picture, and holding herself back because his hand was still up. Caleb shifted closer until his shoe touched mine. That was all. He didn't speak.
May you like
I looked at the man's face again. He wasn't reaching to take it from me. He was waiting for me to let it go when I was ready. His eyes stayed level with mine, patient, and that made my hands shake harder, not less.
I tightened my grip so I wouldn't drop it.
