THE GIFT

WRITTEN BY NAOMI DAY

ILLUSTRATIONS BY GILLIAN LEVINE

As a native New Englander, I was so confused by the relentless passivity I encountered when first trying to befriend people in Seattle. A year in, I'd gotten so used to the presentation of friendliness over its actual presence that I had forgotten how much I crave deep friendship. This narrative comes from that reflection.
– Naomi Day

Deja got her gift when she registered for a public library card.

Everybody gets one, the librarian said when she asked. Now remember, we have no late fees here, just try to get your books back on time, hmm?

The gift was just about the size of her library card, and much heavier. She forgot her follow-up questions when the librarian showed her to the top of the stairs leading to the library’s downstairs level. With late afternoon light filtering through the curving windows and a sea of Black and brown kids whisper-shouting to each other below, it was a sight worthy of the Douglass-Truth name.

It was a nice day, so she walked the twenty minutes to her bus. Enjoy the summer, everyone had said after she moved, so she did, smiling into the sun as she strolled. A passerby grinned at the pavement instead of back at her.

Her new house was small — cozy, the four housemates said — but her room got direct sunlight and she wasn’t really a common-area-hangout type of person anyway. That evening, she found the gift shoved in her back pocket. She put it on the windowsill, shook her fingers to get the chill out, and forgot all about it.

Deja’s new job threw her a welcome lunch the next week. Fried chicken! her boss said. From just around the corner. Listen, it might not be as good as you’re used to, but just give it a try.

It got awkward when Deja explained she was vegan.

But you’re from Atlanta? her boss said.

The vegan food is really what brought me here. It was only sort of a joke. The office was quiet after that.

That night, Deja’s room was cool, despite the oppressive heat that had arrived with fire season. She tossed restlessly for hours, and woke angled awkwardly towards the windowsill.

Halfway through the next month, she returned to the public library. Sorry these are overdue, she said.

Oh that’s okay, the librarian said. Deja could tell they had a nice smile even behind their mask. Ah, Fifth Season? I love that one.

The beginning was really cool, but I didn’t finish it. I felt guilty about the overdue email and couldn’t renew the loan.

There’s always a line for this one, the librarian said. I’ve got a copy living in my car, I love it that much.

Deja brightened. An awkwardly long moment later, she realized the librarian wasn’t about to loan her their copy.

Well… cool, Deja said. I’m just gonna go — She waved awkwardly behind her, but the librarian was staring fixedly at their screen.

Hidden from embarrassment in the stacks, she trailed her fingers over the books — Fiction Hj - Ko, Fiction Df - Hi, and so on. When she turned the corner, she walked straight into someone leaning against the shelf.

Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you… Deja trailed off as she noticed the book in their hands. Butler? A classic. I haven’t read that one yet.

The stranger lifted the book a little. They were also masked, and rocking a fresh twist-out that made Deja a little jealous. It’s the second one — Sower is the first.

I’ll check it out. Thanks. And — sorry, again.

The stranger smiled faintly, eyes already tracking down, and Deja decided it was time to go.

Toward the end of October, Deja’s office threw a Halloween-themed party. Between dry vegan sliders and fried cauliflower bites, the manager from accounting pulled her into their office. I just wanted to ask, they said, how are you getting on with your gift?

Deja frowned. Its eerie sheen caught her eye most mornings, but she hadn’t given it much thought beyond that.

It’s just that they can really help, the manager said. Look, mine is fully customized now. Deja made appreciative noises, though being so close made her head hurt. It gets better the more you settle in. Let me know if you need help — I can refer you to someone.

Thanks. Deja hesitated. Speaking of settling in, would you want to catch a movie sometime? Or grab coffee outside of work?

The manager looked briefly shocked before pasting on a smile. They exchanged numbers and the manager promised to reach out soon.

Deja sat with her gift that night. Its surface was slightly pitted, and it had grown since she first tossed it onto her windowsill. It was approaching the width of a slim book.

Two weeks passed and the manager didn’t reach out. After Deja texted suggesting a film at SIFF after work, they began to avoid her in the office as well.

Thanksgiving passed quietly — her least favorite holiday, combined with the cross-country move, was the perfect excuse not to go home. Her four housemates got drunk in the living room and Deja marathoned movies in bed. Her gift sat next to her, its chill seeping through the extra blanket. She didn’t ache as much when it was close, so she stroked it idly as the movies played, one after the other.

Deja joined a jogging group in early December. The ragtag bunch began to feel like friends, but when she suggested dinner on a non-running day, their hesitant chorus of yeses felt familiar.

Is it me? she asked her sister on the phone when her group text was met with excuses of travel schedules and work obligations and weather-related complaints. It was Christmas morning. She’d stayed in the city again, unable to muster the money and energy required for holiday travel. The gift sat gleaming across her room in a pool of gray morning light.

You make friends with airport gate agents, her sister said. It’s not you.

Deja tried to believe her. That afternoon, she convinced herself out of bed. A walk will be good, she told herself firmly. She emptied her favorite tote bag to make room for her gift, now slightly bigger than a laptop and heavier than a pumpkin.

Out on the meridian, Deja walked with her gift hugged close to her side. It radiated a reassuring chill when she returned her neighbors’ thin-lipped smiles. She hardly noticed now how their gazes darted away as soon as their eyes met. She was thinking instead of returning to bed with her gift snug against her side. She missed the stranger smiling at her until they were just about to pass.

Butler, right? they asked, and finally she looked up.

They wore a low bun today, but outdoors and maskless, she could see their faint smile. It was the stranger she’d literally run into at the library.

Hi! She put a hand reflexively on her gift. I didn’t know — I haven’t seen you around here before.

The conversation was awkward in a way Deja had never quite experienced. They paused twice for the planes roaring overhead, exchanging mutually sheepish smiles. After the second, the stranger cleared their throat.

It was good to see you again. You should come by MBC sometime — all the cool kids hang out there.

Back home, the gift icy-cold in her lap, she starred the spot on her maps. Then she flipped over to browse listicles of the best winter blankets. By the time she reached for her credit card to order one, she’d forgotten all about her second encounter with the stranger.

The cold months stretched on. Deja’s gift kept growing and her overdue library books piled up on her nightstand. One particularly gray weekend morning, she was getting off the bus when the bottom of her overstuffed grocery bag burst. Cans of beans and coconut milk rolled in all directions.

Deja swore loudly.

Yikes, someone said, stepping delicately over a bag of carrots and onto the bus. Good luck!

The bus doors squealed shut. The remaining handful of people at the stop tucked their noses into chunky scarves and stared intently at the parts of the sidewalk not covered with Deja’s groceries. She wanted to cry, but she’d been here long enough to understand that made people warier, not kinder.

She left the groceries and went home. Her gift pulsed where she’d left it in her unmade bed. It was nearly the size of a modest end table, and too heavy for her to lift. She understood why the manager displayed it in their office. What good was a sign of her dedication to life in this city if it stayed hidden away here?

The cherry blossoms peaked in the middle of April. Deja thought about heading to the university to see them, but her gift was too heavy to bring with, and she didn’t like leaving it for long.

Ask a friend to come, her sister begged on the phone. When Deja refused, her sister sighed. Go somewhere, Deja. You’ve been inside all winter. And don’t think about lying — I have your location.

Deja relented just to get off the phone. Then she scanned her maps. Métier, she read from the only place she had starred. Might as well get it over with.

The 8 bus dropped her a couple blocks away. She felt exposed and aching with emotion without her gift. But inside, she found a bustling brewery.

I don’t really like beer, she admitted to the person behind the counter, who chuckled.

Try the coconut porter, someone else said. Deja turned to find the stranger from the library and the meridian. They lifted a half-drunk pint towards her. I’m not a beer fan either, but this stuff’s the best.

Deja hadn’t tried to connect with anyone since her failed attempts with the running group. But something was different about this place. There was laughter. Camaraderie among the bartenders.

Can I join you? she asked before she lost her nerve. The stranger’s smile reached their eyes this time.

They told her about their own move seven years earlier, and the friendships that had bloomed and died. She told them about the groceries on the bus and the job with passive-aggressive coworkers she was starting to hate. By the time Deja looked up, the sun had set.

The stranger reached for their coat. I’ve got to run. Can I give you my number? I’d love to do something.

Deja texted on the bus home before she could talk herself out of it. Dinner? I’ve been meaning to try a squash soup. No promises on the taste.

The stranger texted back as she was getting off. I’ll bring the bread!

The following Sunday, Deja cleaned her room. Her gift was at the end of her bed, radiating a chill that made her teeth ache. She couldn’t remember when the cold had gone from pleasant to painful.

The doorbell rang. She slid her gift to the floor and beneath her bed, and rubbed her hands to warm them. Then she went to let her new friend in.

Naomi Day is a writer, editor, and teaching artist who writes speculative fiction about the Black body, social monstrosity, and generational trauma. She’s been published in LitHub and Uncanny Magazine, among others. She believes art making is world making and has a passion for storytelling across forms.