Paul pulled open the front door, revealing Celia standing on his porch. “I just walked you home from the restaurant an hour ago.”
She smiled. “Is it okay if I missed you?”
“It’s more than okay.” He grabbed her hand and led her into the house.
“Is your mom home?”
“She is, but she’s already in bed.”
Her brow furrowed. “It’s only eight o’clock.”
Paul shifted from foot to foot and avoided her eyes. “It means we have the living room to ourselves.” He squeezed her hand and they sat down on the couch. “I’m glad I don’t have to wait until tomorrow to see you.”
She was quiet a minute. “Paul? I did miss you, but I also just needed to get out of the house.”
He propped one foot up on the coffee table and leaned into her, resting their joined hands on his thigh. “Any particular reason?”
“Um…” Her voice shook and she swiped underneath her eyes with her free hand, unable to finish her thought.
He flipped her hand over and looked at the lines running across her palm. He traced his finger over the one closest to her fingers. “This is your worry line. See how it’s made of several lines laced together?”
She bent her head over her palm and nodded, a true smile on her face this time.
“It’s twisted up like a rope. That means you’re worrying about something.”
She pressed her palm to his and entwined their fingers again, resting their joined hands on the couch. “Am I that easy to read?”
“It was right there on your palm.”
She shoved his leg with hers.
After a minute, he asked, “What happened tonight? At your house?”
She scooted down low enough to rest her head on his chest. “More of the same.”
Paul wrapped both arms around her and held her tightly. Her breath warmed his shirt.
“Your birthday’s in a few days. You’ll get to make a wish.” He pulled her palm toward him again. “And look, your birthday line is long and curved, and that means it’s going to be a perfect day. Can I give you your present now? I don’t want to wait.”
She laughed, and then nodded. “If you really can’t wait.”
He hopped up off the couch, and came back with his hand behind his back. He sat down facing her. “Close your eyes.”
Celia squeezed her eyes shut, freeing him to gaze at her face without her asking him what he was staring at. He must have stared a little too long, because after a minute, she said, “Paul?”
He grasped her right wrist and turned her hand. She opened her fingers, and he set the box on her palm. She curled her fingers around it, and opened her eyes, smiling at the pink wrapping paper. “Now, it’s not like something Malcolm would give Fay. I don’t have any talent for making things.”
“I don’t want you to be like Malcolm. I want you to be like you.”
“Well, that’s good. If I were Malcolm, your parents would never let you be here with me.”
“Paul, you know me well enough by now to know that I do what I want. I don’t care what my parents think.” Her eyes darted to the cuckoo clock on the wall, and she studied its gaudy features.
Actually, he knew her well enough to know that wasn’t true. She did care what they thought. She didn’t want to, but she did. She may say she did what she wanted, but he knew she walked a tightrope, trying to keep everyone happy, and her own happiness often came last.
“They don’t know you’re here, do they?”
She shrugged. “No.”
He leaned over and kissed her forehead.
She squirmed in her seat, shifting the present from one hand to the other, until she blurted, “Aunt Olive invited us over for cake after dinner on my birthday, and I want you to come.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Me and your family in the same room?”
“Yes, you big dope.”
This was a huge deal. “They won’t mind? There will be enough cake to go around?”
“There isn’t enough cake in the world to feed you, Paul. But Olive told me I could invite some friends if I wanted. I pick you.” She shrugged again, her way of telling him not to make a fuss about it.
“Sure. I’ll come.” He tapped the present with his finger. “Open it. I want to see what you think.”
She pulled off the pink paper, and revealed that it was a velvet box—the kind from a jewelry store. She glanced up at him, and he wondered what she was thinking. Did jewelry indicate a certain level of seriousness? He hoped so. He hoped it did, and that she let it mean to her what it meant to him.
She flipped open the lid to reveal a silver chain with a heavy, silver raindrop pendant. She brought her hand up to cover her mouth. She was either horrified or overcome. He spoke before she could. “It’s a raindrop, not a teardrop. Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
“I knew.” She touched the drop with her finger and looked up at him. “I knew it was rain.”
“I think of you when I think of rain.”
She pulled out the cardboard and released the necklace from it, holding it out and letting it dangle for her inspection. He took it from her and wrapped it around her neck, clasping it behind her and lifting her hair over the chain.
It rested on her sternum, and she covered it with her palm. “I love it, Paul. I love it.”
“I’m glad.”
She reached over and rested her hand on his cheek. She studied his eyes, and he hoped she found what she was looking for. She lifted her mouth to his.
He enjoyed the kiss for a moment, then pulled back. “I bought you this necklace to tell you something.”
She fingered the raindrop. “What is this telling me, Paul?”
“That I think of you when you’re not around. That you’re practically all I think about. That I care about you.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. “That you’ve taken me over.”
She placed her hand on his chest, pushing him back until he was lying on the couch. “You care about me, huh?”
He was distracted by the teasing smile dancing around her lips, by her fingers pressed into his chest. “Mmhmm.”
“I hate to one-up you at a time like this, but I more than care about you, Paulie. I love you.”
She leaned over him and the ceiling spun above him, and her body came to rest on top of his. She put both her hands in his hair, and her lips on his lips, and he murmured against them, “I love you, too. I do. I love you, Celia.”