Chapter 100
Ethan
Tilda steps out of the bathroom, hair smoothed down, dress straightened. “Can I open my present now?”
My pulse still hasn’t evened out, but I nod. Unable to deny her anything. “Yeah, Starlight. You can open your present.”
She holds her hand out, and I take it, letting her help me up from my seat on the edge of the bed.
Tilda grins as she spins and heads into the living room.
She scoops up the gift bag and the apparently unbreakable mug that I don’t remember dropping on the floor, and walks into the kitchen.
Tilda puts the mug in the sink, then turns around and sets the gift on the section of countertop that divides the kitchen from the dining area.
Suddenly feeling very unsure of myself, I move to the other side of the counter and sit on one of the wooden barstools.
Sitting like this, I’m still slightly taller than Tilda, but it’s a perfect vantage point for watching her as she runs her fingers down the edge of the bag.
The iridescent glitter shimmers with different colors under the overhead lights. And the tissue paper sticking out the top is yellow.
I don’t know if she actually likes the color, but it reminded me of her wedding dress when I saw it at the craft store.
It all came from the craft store.
Well, all except the two cupcakes boxed up at the bottom of the bag.
When I lift my gaze to Tilda’s face, I find her biting her lip, staring at the bag.
“You better open it before it runs out of oxygen.”
Her gaze snaps up. “What?” Then she realizes I’m not being serious and rolls her eyes. “I’m savoring it. Don’t be a party pooper.”
A puff of laughter leaves my chest. “No one says party pooper. Now open your present, birthday girl.”
“Fine.” She carefully pulls out one of the sheets of tissue paper, revealing the card tucked along the side of the bag.
I almost shake my head.
I’d figured her for a rip it open gift receiver. But my Tilda likes pretty things, and I guess the wrapping stuff counts as pretty. So I should’ve known.
She smooths the tissue paper out on the counter, then takes the birthday card out.
Resting my elbows on the counter, I concentrate on keeping my hands still.
Tilda opens the flap of the envelope, made from some sort of textured recycled paper, then pulls out the card, made from the same material.
She sets down the envelope and uses both hands to hold the card up in front of her.
Her eyes flit up to mine, then back down to the card.
She lets go with one hand so she can drag her finger over the surface. And I know she’s touching the hair.
As time stretches, I mentally kick myself.
It’s stupid.
A child’s card.
A simple birthday card with a drawing of a pink tiered birthday cake and a girly fairy in a matching pink and purple dress, with a wand and a crown.
But the hair was blonde. So, I bought a purple marker and colored it in.
Tilda presses her lips together. And I can’t tell if she likes it, or if she’s upset.
“It…” I clear my throat. “It reminded me of you.”
Which doesn’t explain anything. Because Tilda doesn’t know that I think of her as my Mountain Fairy.
Tilda opens the card.
And, if possible, I feel even dumber.
I’d already bought the marker, so I used that to write inside the blank card. But it’s a thick marker, so the letters are too big. Too clumsy for the pretty drawing on the front.
Her eyes trace over the words as she reads.
Starlight,
Happy 30th birthday.
From, Husband Ranger
I like when she teases me with her Ranger names. And I wanted to write love instead of from because from looks so formal. But love…
I wanted to make her birthday special, not freak her out. But instead I think I made it weird.
“It’s—” I stop as a tear slides down Tilda’s cheek. “Fuck.”
I stand and round the end of the counter.
She quickly brushes at her cheek. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s dumb.” I pluck the card from her hands and hold it above my head. “I’ll get you a better one.”
Tilda… laughs. And she smiles up at me as she wipes more tears from her cheeks. “Stop it. Give it back.”
Self-loathing and confusion battle for dominance as I stare at her.
She blinks another tear off her lashes and pokes me in the ribs. “Husband Ranger, give me my birthday card back.” She pokes me again. “Right now.”
“Matilda—”
“Ethan, it’s perfect. Give it back.”
I lower my arm. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
Tilda huffs. “I’m not.” Then she snatches the card out of my hand and carefully slides it back into the blank envelope.
I want to ask why that card made her cry. But she’s not crying anymore. And I might be a moron, but I’m not a complete moron, so I don’t bring it up.
Staying where I am, I stand beside Tilda as she turns back to the gift bag.
She sets the card on the counter, then gently takes out the second piece of extra tissue paper, smoothing it out over the other one.
Slower than I thought possible, Tilda finally unwraps the first item.
The fuzzy tan fabric unfurls to reveal the pair of slipper socks. The toe part is white, with gray stitching to designate the toe lines, and the soles have gray rubber paw prints to prevent slipping.
They’re cat feet.
And they’re soft. So they’ll be comfortable on her abused toes, even if I can’t see any marks on her bare feet.
“Closest I could find to a mountain lion.”
She looks up at me, her eyes glittering. “I love them,” she whispers. And these socks are just as dumb as the card. But I know she means it.
Tilda unties the piece of string holding them together, then bends over and pulls one sock on, then the other.
When she stands straight, she wiggles her toes, then smiles up at me. “Cozy.” Her voice is stronger this time.
I let out a breath and nod to the gift bag. “Keep going.”
Tilda purses her lips, but it’s hard to look stern in a pink princess dress and cat feet socks.
I lift my hand and use my pointer finger to boop her on the nose.
She tries so hard not to smile, but I see her lips curling as she turns back to the bag.
The next item takes just as long to unwrap, but Tilda literally gasps when it’s revealed.
“Ethan.” She holds the clear bag up to the light, and the glass beads sparkle. They’re all different shades of purple, some so light they look white. “They’re so pretty.”
“There’s a spool of fishing line stuff in there too.”
Tilda reaches into the gift bag and finds it. “This is so perfect. I’m going to make Deerdra a necklace.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Then I try to think if I’ve heard her say that name before. “Who’s Dear… Who?”
Tilda smiles up at me. “Deerdra.” Then she points across the living room.
I jerk my head over, expecting to see a fucking ghost standing behind me. But there’s nothing.
Tilda lets out a laugh. “What is wrong with you?”
“Me? Who are you pointing at?”
She snorts as she aggressively points to the opposite corner of the living room.
And then I see it.
The deer head, with bows—made of familiar purple ribbon—tied around the base of each point on its antlers.
“Deerdra,” Tilda says again, like it makes perfect sense.
It is a clever name. I’ll give her that much. But I have to state the obvious. “You do know that the antlers mean it’s a male deer, right?”
She lifts a brow. “You do know it’s dead and doesn’t care what I call it, right?”
I dip my chin. “Touché.”
She’s definitely amused at me, rather than with me, but I’ll take that over her tears any day.
“Finish opening your present.”
Tilda reaches into the bag and pulls out the last piece of tissue paper, revealing the final item.
A bakery box.
I reach around her and help by holding the bag in place as she pulls the flimsy paper box out.
She looks up at me.
I lift a brow at her.
She huffs, then sets the box on the counter and opens it.
I lean over her shoulder. “They got a little smushed.”
She swipes her finger through the frosting stuck to the top flap of the box and puts it into her mouth.
When she pulls her finger free and swipes it through the second spot of frosting, bringing it back to her mouth to lick it off again, I grip her wrist and lift her hand up over her shoulder.
I close my lips around her fingertip. And I suck the vanilla sweetness off her skin.
I hum my approval as I release her wrist, then I move to the cupboard and take out two plates.
“Which one do you want?” I ask Tilda as I set the plates next to the box.
One is all vanilla; the other is all chocolate.
We spent the weekend eating oatmeal and protein bars, with very limited flavor options, so I don’t actually know what Tilda prefers.
She sets one on each plate, then lifts her shoulders. “They both look good.”
“Half and half?” I suggest.
Tilda nods. “Yes, please.”
She starts to turn, presumably for a knife, but I stop her.
“Wait.” I reach into the chest pocket on my flannel and pull out a single birthday candle, shaped like a pine tree, and a book of matches from Rocky Ridge Inn.
I stick the candle in the top of the chocolate one, because it’s closest to Tilda. Then I pluck a match from the book and strike it.
“Where did you find a tree candle?”
“Same store as everything else, except the cupcakes.” I lean down and hold the match in place while I light the wick. “I’ll take you someday.”
Candle lit, I shake out the match, then drop it into the empty dessert box.
We watch the candle burn for a second.
“It’s customary at this point to make a wish and blow out the flame.”
Tilda huffs. “I know.”
The candle continues to burn. “And…”
“And… Will you hum ‘Happy Birthday’ to me?”
Will I…
Then I remember.
That night after the mountain lion encounter.
I don’t want to.
I really don’t want to.
But I can’t deny my Mountain Fairy.
Not on a regular day. And sure as shit not on her birthday.
Instead of answering, I step so I’m directly behind Tilda, then I wrap my arms around her upper chest and hold her against me.
And then, with our bodies pressed together, I hum.