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It was Lucy’s birthday, and Lockwood, being Lockwood, hadn’t known.
That sunny morning in July, he had risen from bed with the lightness of an overworked man on his first day off in a while. He’d put on the gray t-shirt and green trousers he allowed himself on days when he knew he wouldn’t have to leave the house. He hadn’t even bothered to put product in his hair. As much as he loved the excitement of being an agent, he had missed calm days like this, when he didn’t have to think too hard, when he could silence his thoughts for the length of daylight.
He sauntered into the kitchen of 35 Portland Row, smiling as he found his spectacled friend looking out the window above the sink and into their garden. George and Lucy had been spending more time out there now that their newfound fame had given them the liberty to take fewer, albeit riskier, cases with greater reward. The room smelled strongly of warmed sugar and vanilla.
“Smells good in here.”
George jumped, turning to face Lockwood so abruptly that he spilled some of his tea on his shirt.
“Jesus, Lockwood,” he huffed, pinching his shirt where a small wet spot was beginning to form.
Lockwood chuckled, reaching for the pot of tea and fixing a cup for himself. He heard the faint ticking of the oven timer and peeked into the little window under the stove. Inside was a pan of cake, nearly risen to its full height.
“Cake for breakfast? Not that I’m complaining.”
“That’s for Lucy,” replied George, eyes now focused on Lockwood. “What’d you get her, by the way?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’d you get her.” George repeated, “For her birthday? It’s today.”
Lockwood’s mind stuttered like an engine sputtering in gear. His first thought was, So much for not thinking too hard today. His second thought: Fuck!
“Please tell me you got her something.” George’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. “Lockwood!”
Swallowing his shock, Lockwood quickly descended into panic. “She never told me anything!”
Lockwood heard how pathetic he sounded, but he couldn’t help but feel a little defensive. Why hadn’t Lucy told him anything? “How did you know?”
“I asked!” George exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “I’m guessing you never asked.” Not for the first time, Lockwood was struck by how much George and Lucy were starting to sound like each other.
“I’ve already bought her some nail polish,” George continued, his tone serious.
“Nail polish?”
“Yes, nail polish. She was painting her nails in the kitchen yesterday, and afterwards she threw the bottle in the trash. I figured I'd buy her a couple, so she doesn’t run out for a while.”
“Damn,” Lockwood sighed. “That’s actually a good one.”
“I know,” George said, sounding smug now.
“What should I get her?”
Without skipping a beat, George answered, “You should get her nail polish.”
“George,” Lockwood deadpanned. “That’s what you’re getting her.”
“I know,” George replied, undeterred. “You should get her more. Girls can never have enough nail polish.”
“And how many girls do you know?” Lockwood countered.
“Don’t get snarky, Lockwood. I knew what to get her. You don’t even know where to start.”
As usual, his friend was right—about everything. Lucy wasn’t like him, Lockwood reminded himself. Lucy always offered to tell him things whenever he asked, and he knew that she told George things, too. She had told him about what happened with Norrie, and George had once said something about her having nowhere else to go.
No, the problem wasn’t that she didn’t tell him. The problem, Lockwood now understood, was that he often didn’t think to ask. He had assumed that just because he didn’t let people in, she wouldn’t want to, either.
And so, today was her birthday, and he hadn’t known.
Lockwood could always count on himself to think his way through anything. He always came up with something, no matter how far-fetched or half-assed or, if he had to be honest, irresponsible. He always tried to do good, whatever that meant for a bastard like him.
But Lucy deserved more than good intentions. She deserved lazy afternoons and quiet evenings, slow dancing in the sitting room and lounging by the fire.
Lockwood didn’t know how to give her all of that, not yet. But he knew he had to start somewhere, at least.
What do you get the girl who deserves the world?
*
Lucy had slept so deeply that by the time she pulled herself out of bed, her body was stiff from inactivity. She couldn’t remember if she’d dreamt during the night, but her mind felt clear—at least, clearer than usual. She changed into a tank top, tied her hair half-up in a loose bun, and nearly skipped down the stairs. She could smell warm sugar and vanilla even from the attic. Outside, the roofs shimmered in the heat of the afternoon sun, the cobalt sky gleaming in its cloudlessness.
When Lucy entered the kitchen, she was expecting to see George by the counter, fussing over the finishing touches to his latest batch of freshly baked goods.
Instead, Lucy was met with a kaleidoscope of color, fragments of that same pigment that dyed the sky. The usual oak and ochre of the kitchen was overlaid with what looked to her like every hue of blue imaginable. Indigo streamers hung from the ceiling, and ultramarine balloons had been tied to each of the dining chairs. A garland of cornflowers ran across the frame of the window overlooking the garden. On the table sat a cake frosted with turquoise icing.
Even the skull had a blue birthday hat atop his jar.
In the middle of the room stood George and Lockwood, both a little out of breath like they had just scrambled to position. They each wore the same hat as the skull’s. Before she could ask them what was going on, George stepped forward.
“Here,” George beamed, handing her a box wrapped in cerulean foil and topped with a neat baby-blue bow. “Happy birthday, you lunatic.”
Lucy stared at the box in her hands. She had never seen a present so pretty before, and her brain couldn’t quite comprehend that this pretty thing was for her. After a few seconds, her brain finally caught up with what George had just said.
“Birthday? It’s not my birthday, is it?” She squinted at the calendar hanging on the wall. “Oh, it is. I didn’t realize.”
She could tell that George was starting to deflate at her response, his grin slipping from his face. She quickly recomposed herself before he got the wrong idea.
“No, George, I love it. Thank you,” she said earnestly, feeling pleased when his smile returned.
“Don’t thank me yet.” George adjusted his glasses. “You don’t even know what it is! Go on, open it.”
Lucy took the nearest seat, and George sat beside her. She pulled lightly at the bow, her chest squeezing at the thought of unraveling such meticulous craftsmanship. She stuffed the ribbon in her pocket, hoping to keep this memento of George’s affection.
Inside the box were five bottles of nail polish, in different shades of dark blue. She felt tears prick at her eyes as she imagined George scouring the cosmetics aisle to find her perfect color, using the same determined precision with which he always found the gold that everyone misses.
“I love it,” she repeated, reaching for his hand. “You really didn’t have to, but I love it, Georgie. Thank you.”
“Well, I’m glad,” he said sheepishly, a blush creeping into his cheeks. Meeting her teary eyes, he cleared his throat. “Okay, that’s enough touchy-feely for today, I think.”
“Yes, well,” Lucy laughed. “You did call me a lunatic, so this makes up for it, I guess.”
She looked up at Lockwood, who was watching her with an unguarded tenderness. She took a mental photograph of him in that moment: his dark hair tousled, the slight tilt of his head, his delicate gaze, the dimpled smile that made her breath hitch in her throat. This was her keepsake of him, like the ribbon from George.
“You two are doing the thing with your eyes again,” George announced. Like always, they ignored his insinuation as if they hadn't heard him at all.
Lockwood took the seat across from George and placed a small box in front of her. As she reached for his present, their fingers brushed, his thumb caressing her palm.
“Happy birthday, Luce,” Lockwood said softly, giving her another smile. This time, it completely took her breath away.
Lockwood’s gift-wrapping skills were indisputably inferior to George’s, but his effort tugged at Lucy’s heart just the same. By the time she got through the surplus of tape and paper, the tears had escaped from her eyes, and she paused to wipe them with her palms.
“I got the wrong thing, didn’t I?”
Lockwood had gotten her a camera, the kind that could develop film shortly after a photo was taken. The exact same kind that Norrie had.
She held it in her hands, settling her fingers on its grooves. Her memories came in flashes: wisps of auburn hair, a smattering of freckles, nails painted copper.
“Lockwood,” Lucy whispered, finding herself unable to meet his attempt at lightheartedness. She bit her lip to stop herself from sobbing, because the last thing she wanted was to cause them alarm.
“Lockwood,” she tried again, louder this time. When she looked up at him again, she saw that his thick brows were furrowed, and she wanted terribly to smooth them over. “It’s perfect.”
His face glowed then, and his mouth formed a smile the way the sun embraced the sky at daybreak. Lucy couldn’t bring herself to look away.
Several hours later, Lucy sat on her bed, flipping through the stills from their party of three.
They had already known that they would risk their lives for one another. Now, they also knew things that seemed small in comparison, like whether they had pets growing up or what their first crush was like. They traded stories from childhood, sharing pieces of their past lives, from before being an agent was all there was.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Lucy had lasted a day, had turned a year older, without feeling the weight of time passing.
She began taping up the new photos around her mirror. George, mid-laugh, clutching his stomach. Her boys, cheeks flushed, sipping on wine from mismatched mugs.
And Lockwood, looking fondly at something beyond the frame with a yearning that made her heart flutter. His gaze was so soft, so warm. The shadows of sleeplessness were on his face, like they always were, but his eyes were bright, shining like he held all the stars in him. He had never looked more beautiful.
Her whole world, captured on film.