Twenty-Five – Harrison
TWENTY-FIVE
HARRISON
One Week Later
E liza struts across my living room floor in a tightly fitted baby blue dress and nude pumps—the first of her new wardrobe outfits that are hanging in her closet.
She still wobbles here and there, but it’s nowhere near as noticeable as it was before, and the indiscretions are usually due to her turning.
Seeing her like this is fucking torture, and deep down I’m glad that Frederick the Christ has offered to oversee the etiquette sessions with me (for an additional fee, of course) until he has to fly to his home overseas.
“Well, I’m only using the term ‘farm’ because it’s easier to slip off the tongue than award-winning agricultural resort.” Eliza smiles, running her fingers through her freshly pressed hair.
Her accent is still sliding under the syllables, but her pronunciation is perfect.
“Watch your hands,” Frederick says. “I know you’re not used to having anything except a dry mop attached to that scalp, but no one else needs to see you play with your new strands when you’re talking.”
“She’s only done it twice,” I say, watching Eliza sip from a glass. “It’s not that noticeable.”
“If you were starting to keep count, then it is noticeable.” Frederick scoffs, clapping his hands. “Anyway, walk for us again, Miss Eliza. Pretend like you’re trying to seduce us into signing a business deal.”
She straightens her back and takes a deep breath before slowly walking toward me—no wobbles, no shakes, all confidence—and I’m slightly jealous that I’ll have to share her with an entire conference soon.