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 I’M A BAD MOM SEND HER THINGS.
Status: YES I’M A BAD MOM
She looks at the assortment– the assortment of everything, honestly, all these colors and these shades, all these beautiful things. She’s touching the sweaters and the bouquet alike, fingertips brushing against, adoring, like she’s been astoundingly taken aback. She’s glad of how private this gesture is– no muss, how it’ll keep Zoey from some kind of happy gift retaliation. She picks up her cell phone instead, leaning to scent the irises– they mean promise in love, wisdom, valour, hope, all these kind, wonderful things. A number dialed, and she waits, patient.
“Dinner at seven,” She confirms when the line picks up, her tone light, “People will say we’re in love, O’Hara. You’re spoiling me. Is that appropriate?”
Her ego’s already so big.
