Page 35 of One Small Secret

By Axley’s second gift he’s figured out the whole wrapping paper system like a pro. Mom and I both snap way too many pictures of him. Then Mom opens her gift from Ruben—the tiny, professionally wrapped one. Her eyes go wide as she lifts the dainty gold chain from the box. A single charm dangles from the end. It’s an apple. It’s perfect.

She opens my presents next—a few hand-tailored shirts and dresses—and seems almost as happy with them as she was with her apple necklace. Almost.

I finish opening my presents next. A lot of them are things to make my life easier with Axley. The biggest is a cuddle sleeper designed to give Axley his own space in my bed. I never told Mom my anxiety about buying a crib, but she must have felt it.

When we're done, I pull out some fruit and cheese while Mom rests on the couch. I’ve avoided looking at the sofa as much as possible, which is tough in an apartment as small as mine. Axley is playing with the cars Ruben brought him while Mom keeps tugging at the apple charm around her neck. The man apparently knows how to give a gift. Maybe that’s why none of his girlfriends talk badly about him after they break up. It would taint the memory of the man who gave them their favorite dictionaries.

I snort at the thought of Daphne VanPelt looking happy at receiving a dictionary from him. He probably sends her super impersonal gifts, like diamonds every other Friday.

Sucks to be her.

My phone vibrates on the counter next to me. It's the gift-giver himself.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Merry Christmas.” His voice is low and sensual—his cologne commercial voice. Why is he using his cologne commercial voice on me? Can’t he be normal? My brain can’t handle it. I don’t live in his world of harmless flirtations. Mom looks up at me and I cover the receiver and whisper his name to her. Then I sneak into my bedroom like I’m in high school, hiding away when a boy calls.

Daphne has nothing on me in the sophistication department.

I close the door and fall onto my bed. All I need is braces and a high ponytail and I'd be the poster child for teen romance. “I’m pretty sure you already wished me a Merry Christmas this morning,” I say in what I would like to think would be my cologne commercial voice. He doesn’t respond—doesn’t even make a sound. Ugh. Why can’t I be more normal? I switch to a professional tone. “How’s Ben? Did he take the news alright?” I don’t dare ask about Daphne.

“Grandpa is…” He lets out a small puff of air. “Well, he would like you and Axley to come over for Christmas dinner. Your mom too.”

“Why?”

“Your family is like family to ours. We had your mom over for dinner plenty of times while you were in Vietnam.”

“On holidays?”

“Sure.” I can almost hear his shrug. Liar.

“Which holidays?”

“I’m 95% sure she came over for Groundhog’s Day last year.”

“Are you being serious?”

“No. I mean, maybe she did. The point is, it isn’t weird for the three of you to come over today. And Grandpa may need to hear a few things from your own mouth.”

I don’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“I guess someone sent him an anonymous note this morning saying they had proof that I was the father. All they want is a hundred thousand dollars to hand it over to him. Obviously that’s a scam, and I told him as much. But it doesn't help that he thinks Axley looks like me.”

No one could have proof that Ruben is the father. That note has to be a scam. The only person who even thinks that is…crap. Maybe this is all my fault after all, and not just because I haven’t invested in blinds. “Have you talked to Daphne?”

“Andrew has. They’re working some things out.”

“Who is Andrew, again?”

“My publicist. You know him. He was two years older than us in high school.”

Andrew Lincoln. I vaguely remember him. “Did she admit to sending the photographer?”

“No, and I’m inclined to believe her.”

I sigh. “I think I know who took the picture and sent the note.”

There’s a creak on the other line. Is Ruben in his bed too? It sounds like he just sat up. “Who?”

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