“No idea.” I hold it up and turn it from side to side. We’ve been getting a few late gifts since the wedding, but this one’s different. There’s no card and no return address, just our last name written on the plain white wrapping. “How the hell am I supposed to open it?”

Diane takes out a pair of scissors from one of the drawers and says, “Let me try.”

“I can do it.”

She looks at my bandaged hand and pulls the scissors away. “You should let me. It’ll be easier if I-”

“I’m not a goddamn child, Diane. I can do it.” My voice comes out harsher than I’d intended, and I stop myself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

This isn’t the first time I’ve snapped at her in the past few days. Since the attack, all I’ve done is lie around the house and work my way through the bottle of Vicodin they gave me at the hospital. The pills help with the pain, but they don’t do a thing for the constant itch grinding up from the spot where my finger used to be.

It makes it tough to stay in a good mood.

Diane says she understands, but that doesn’t make me feel good about it.

“I am sorry,” I say.

Diane sets the scissors on the counter and walks out of the kitchen and into the living room, away from me.

I don’t blame her.

I look down at the scissors, then at the bandage on my hand. I feel the anger building in my chest, and I push it away the best I can.

It’s getting harder to do each time.

When I think I have it under control, I pick up the scissors and set them on top of the package, then go to the closet by the front door and grab my coat.

Diane comes around the corner. “Are you leaving?”

“Going for a walk,” I say. “I need to get out of the house for a while, get some fresh air, clear my head.”

She steps closer and puts her hand on my arm, then leans in and kisses me, soft. When she pulls away, her eyes never leave mine, and as always, I lose myself a little inside them.