There's a basket left on her desk, bearing an assortment of flavored vodkas and a card proclaiming "Happy Birthday, dinner at 7" in elegant scrawl. Beside it sits a thin box containing three cashmere sweaters in gem tones and a bouquet of irises, all spread out to take up the majority of the flat surface.
ALANA WAS BORN TODAY AND I FORGOT IâM A BAD MOM SEND HER THINGS.
Status: YES IâM A BAD MOM
She looks at the assortmentâ the assortment of everything, honestly, all these colors and these shades, all these beautiful things. Sheâs touching the sweaters and the bouquet alike, fingertips brushing against, adoring, like sheâs been astoundingly taken aback. Sheâs glad of how private this gesture isâ no muss, how itâll keep Zoey from some kind of happy gift retaliation. She picks up her cell phone instead, leaning to scent the irisesâ they mean promise in love, wisdom, valour, hope, all these kind, wonderful things. A number dialed, and she waits, patient.
âDinner at seven,â She confirms when the line picks up, her tone light, âPeople will say weâre in love, OâHara. Youâre spoiling me. Is that appropriate?â
Her egoâs already so big.
