Page 154 of Unconditionally Yours

Because what exactly do you buy a woman you metaphorically stabbed with a glitter knife?

Nothing. That’s what a sane person would say.

But I’m not sane, I’m polite.

So here I am, trying to assemble a combo wedding gift-slash-apology bundle that says: “Sorry I threatened you with glitter blood and tried to sabotage your modeling gig. I thought you were trying to fuck my therapist. My bad. Congrats on the whole wedding thing. Big fan.”

The wedding section is a massacre of ivory lace and pearl ribbon. I pick up a white bag with little embossed hearts and immediately put it back.

Too virginal. They were porn kissing. They’re not drinking tea and waiting for Jesus.

I try pink. Too murder Barbie.

Try white again. Too “I see you from the bushes.”

I stand there clutching both bags and realize I’m sweating. Actual decision fatigue in the gift bag aisle.

A child is watching me. I snarl and he flees.

Fine. Pink. It’s flirty. Festive. Slightly threatening.

Next: contents.

What says “Sorry I came at you like a feral magpie but yay marriage?”

I grab bubbles. Bubbles are weddingy. Innocent. No stabby implications. Champagne minis. Obviously. Fancy truffles. Heart-shaped, because I am nothing if not on-brand. A congrats card that is so aggressively bland it might as well say “I’m being supervised.”

I open it in the aisle and scrawl inside with a pink glitter pen: I didn’t mean the other shit. Congrats to you and Rachel.

Do I sign it? No. Keep it anonymous. Leave room for plausible deniability. Let them wonder if it’s a peace offering or a hex.

I’m about to check out when I remember the knife.

The actual knife I stabbed into her door, which means I do need to buy them something heartfelt and stabby.

Cake knife set. Silver. Engraved with his and hers. I swap the his out so now it’s a hers and hers set. I feel like that’s the emotional equivalent of court-ordered community service.

I cradle it like I am the raccoon who stole something shiny, felt guilty, and brought back a trinket from the trash as penance.

Perfect.

Goose girl and Susan are gonna love it.

Task still not complete. I’ve got to face chicken man to deliver it.

Goose Bitch HQ smells the same. Like dryer sheets and low-level psychic warfare. Nostalgic, really. The buzzer gives its usual groan of reluctant submission and someone, still no questions asked, lets me in. I ascend like the Ghost of Court Orders Past, heels clacking a little less murdery than usual. Character growth, baby.

The hallway is quiet.

Last time I was here, I left a sparkly blood trail and a message in lipstick like a slutty banshee. Today, I’m here with peace. Allegedly.

The bag swings innocently in my grip.

The hallway’s temperature drops five degrees and the ghosts of every rotisserie chicken screamed in unison.

I turn.

And there he is.