So at least I had that going for me. Of all the things on my birthday list, though, a Puffins victory wouldn’t have been at the top. The gift I really wanted was the Bruins fan on the sofa next to me.
Hartley stayed until the party was over. Then he gave me a kiss on top of the head, and another “happy birthday.” And then Dana and I were alone again.
“Let’s leave the cleanup for tomorrow,” she yawned.
“Absolutely,” I said, privately vowing to do it all myself.
I let her have the bathroom first. When I finally got to bed, I found a small red box on my pillow. In black marker, the words MR. DIGBY had been inked onto the cover.
What?
I lifted the lid. Inside I found a purple plastic object measuring about six inches long, shaped like a fat cigar. It took me several long seconds to figure out what I was looking at.
It was a vibrator.
“Oh my God,” I said aloud, the words echoing in my empty room. I could only guess that Hartley had this strange gift idea after our uncomfortable talk about sex after paralysis. Even though I was all alone in my room, I felt heat creep up my neck and over my cheeks.
Hell and damn. When someone gives you a gift, you have to at least acknowledge it. Ugh! He had to know how embarrassing I’d find this. Maybe that was the point?
There was no way I could mention this in person. So I took the cheesy way out. I texted him. And it was just my luck, but he texted right back.
Corey: Uh, Hartley?
Hartley: Yes, beautiful? ;-)
Corey: Um…you shouldn’t have?
Hartley: Since U liked RealStix I thought my other favorite hobby might appeal to U too.
If possible, I began blushing even harder. A bolder girl would have replied “thanks for the visual.” But I wasn’t that girl.
Corey: How…thoughtful?
Hartley: Too bad I can’t see your face right now.
Corey: ***face palm***
Hartley: Did I mention that I don’t embarrass?
Corey: You weren’t kidding about that.
Hartley: Goodnight Callahan. Nice party.
Corey: Goodnight Hartley.
Chapter Nine: Peace in the Kingdom
— Corey
“What’s the matter, Callahan?” Hartley asked as we made our way slowly toward Commons for lunch.
I stuffed my phone into my bag and caught up with him. “Nothing. My mom is having a cow because I told her I didn’t want to fly home for Thanksgiving.”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “It’s too many planes, trains and automobiles for only for a couple of days.” Flying with a wheelchair in tow was a drag, especially because Harkness students had to catch a bus to the airport. I just didn’t want the hassle.
“This place really empties out over Thanksgiving. You don’t want to stay here alone.”
“I’m not. Dana isn’t going all the way back to Japan for Thanksgiving. So we’re going to hang out together. The medical school cafeteria stays open that day.”
Hartley stopped crutching toward Commons. “You are not eating in the med school caf on Thanksgiving.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped it. Then he put it to his ear.
I waited, of course, because a guy can’t crutch and talk on the phone at the same time.
“Hey Mom? I need to bring two more friends home for Thanksgiving.”
“Hartley! Don’t…”
He waved a hand to silence me. “No, don’t worry. She’s still safely out of the country. These are perfectly normal friends. Nobody will be expecting caviar and fois gras.” He paused. “Awesome. Love you.” He hung up, stuffed the phone into his pocket and put his hands back on the crutch handles.
“Hartley,” I protested. “Your mom doesn’t need two extra guests.”
“Sure she does. I was already bringing Bridger and his sister. I always bring people, because I live close by. The only guest my mom did not enjoy was Stacia.” We waited for the light to change so that we could cross the street. “You and I will have to stay on the first floor, of course. If you don’t mind sharing a room with me.”
I didn’t know what to say. Did I want to go to Hartley’s house with him? Heck yes. But I could imagine the pitfalls — me looking ridiculous, mostly. “That’s really nice of you,” I said, thinking. “Did you say Bridger has a sister?”
Hartley laughed. “Wait until you meet her.”
A week later, I watched the streets of sleepy Etna, Connecticut, roll by from the backseat of Bridger’s car. Hartley rode shotgun, on the phone again with his mother. “We’re just off the highway,” he was saying. “Do you need us to pick anything up?”
In the back seat, between Dana and I, Bridger’s sister Lucy bounced in her seat. “Over the river and through the woods, to Hartley’s house we go…” she sang. “Are we there yet?”
Bridger’s sister was nothing like what I expected — mainly because she was seven years old, and in the second grade.
“If you kick the front seat one more time,” Bridger threatened from behind the wheel, “I will tickle you until you pee yourself.”
“Icky,” Lucy agreed, stilling her feet. Her ponytail was a gorgeous russet color, the exact same shade as Bridger’s.
“And you’d better not be kicking Callahan,” Bridger added.