Wow. It felt great to write again, in this small way.

Since I updated this story, I finished my Masters in Social Work; became a full time therapist; got married; was diagnosed with endometriosis and had to have surgery, plus had to go into medically induced menopause; bought a house; tried to get my emetophobic ass pregnant; had a bad reaction to fertility hormones; had another surgery; adopted the perfect dog; lost the perfect dog to cancer; got a new dog who is an ornery little shit; entered a new decade on July 12th, and life continues to go.

How have you all been?

Love Bombing

Téa's parents sat with her on the couch, talking with her about her upcoming birthday party. She had already turned 16 in August, but, since her father's 40th was October 1st, they decided to have one big celebration. They were sipping tea when her mother turned to her and asked her what was going on with Seto Kaiba.

"He came by here and asked for your hand in marriage," she said. "It was the strangest thing."

Téa's throat clenched, whether to keep from vomiting or screaming, she wasn't sure.

"To tell you the truth, sweetie, we didn't know what exactly to do," her father said. "We figured he would ask you out, after all that. But you haven't said anything."

Téa felt that hot anger in her guts. She put down her tea harder than she intended, rattling the cup and saucer.

How dare he do this, she thought. How dare he bring them into this.

"Honey, what's the matter?" Her mother was searching her face. Téa looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. She pictured Kaiba barking orders at her parents, demanding, insisting, condescending. She heard the tone of his voice.

She swallowed hard and found her own voice. "Was he mean to you?" She finally asked, her question softer than she wanted it to be.

"No, that's one thing I can say," her father said. "He told us to call him Seto, he said please and thank you, and he assured us that even though he is a jerk to your friends, he's not to you."

Téa's entire body felt like a clenched fist. She knew her parents noticed. Her mother put her hand on her shoulder.

"Téa, it doesn't matter how he speaks to us. It matters how you feel. We both pointed out to him that he didn't appear to know you that well, and he admitted he could get to know you better."

Téa sniffed hard. The fist in her throat squeezed. She had to think. What stories of chivalry did he tell them?

"He also told us that you saved his younger brother," her father said. He reached over and took her hand in his. "Honey, that scares me. It doesn't surprise me that you would help someone in need, but I swear on all that's holy, if anything had happened to you, if anything ever happened to you, your mother and I couldn't bear it."

Téa squinted hard at her lap.

"Téa, look at us," her mother reached behind Téa and traced symbols on her back, like when Téa was little. Téa melted under the touch. She looked up at her parents, tears running down her face.

"We love you, Téa Celeste Gardner. Do you understand?"

"I love you too," Téa sniffled.

"What's wrong, baby?" her father lifted her hand and traced her fingers with his. It took Téa back to before she had a woman's body, when her hand was tiny and she traced it with a marker in kindergarten to make a bird, her fingers the feathers. Yugi had been sitting next to her, and they had passed each other their papers to color in each other's birds. The bird Yugi had colored for Téa was on her wall in her room—it had a sunny lemon-butter yellow head, with mint green feet, blue eyes, and pink and violet feathers.

Her parents' hands brought her into herself enough so she could speak half of the truth.

"I love you, I love you both so much," Téa said, taking her free hand to wipe her face, "but he doesn't love me, and I don't love him."

Her parents nodded. Téa continued to tell the truth, the safest part of the truth.

"He's always mean to my friends. I don't think that'll ever change." She wiped her eyes again, her thoughts clearing with her vision. "Yeah, I saved his brother, but I did that for Mokuba, not for him. And, I know, for a fact, that he loves another girl, but he can't have her."

Her mother sighed, tutting. Her father kissed her hand. "Well, I can't tolerate anybody treating my Téa as a consolation prize," he said. "Is that why you're so upset, sweetheart?"

Before she could stop herself, Téa glared at her father. "No, I'm upset because he's an egotistical, entitled jerk and I could just see him coming in here and treating you both like crap."

"Gotcha. That's my girl, not letting a stupid boy get to her."

Téa squirmed deeper into the couch between her parents. "Daddy, Mom, I was thinking, maybe we could stop talking about stupid Kaiba and talk about our birthdays?"

The gifts started to come in a couple of days later.

A bouquet of tiger lilies and peach-colored roses opened the floodgates. They looked almost fake, they were so perfect in their symmetry. They appeared outside of her apartment door, accompanied by a sweet, almost citrusy fragrance and with a small square note that said, simply, "to Téa, from Seto."

The flowers were objectively beautiful, and her parents, both amateur horticulturalists who covered the balconies and window sills of the apartment with fresh flowers and little pots of herbs, admired them with scientists' eyes and artists' hearts. They asked Téa what she wanted to do with them.

"You can put some in your room, and some on the balcony, and maybe some here and there, on the mantel piece and on the windowsill, places like that," she had told them. Throwing them away would seem childish, an overreaction. They had been happy with this suggestion.

Three days later, a box was delivered, which her mother signed for. Inside the box was another box, made of a silver velvet. The box was lined and cushioned with blue silk, and nestled in the silk was a pendant. The pendant had eight sapphires, each set in silver, and a silver chain. The sapphires and the silver were obviously real. The note said, "to Téa, from Seto."

"Jesus," her father said, shaking his head and gazing at the pendant. He gave a low whistle, but his face was grave.

"For someone who doesn't know you, Téa, he's awfully generous," her mother said. "This is making me uncomfortable. I can't imagine how you feel. I mean, it would be one thing if he, you know, took you out on dates, but he's really showing his inexperience here."

Téa said nothing. She couldn't stop staring at the silver chain-she could feel his hands, clasping that chain around her neck. The sapphires were oval shaped, like eyes, and stared at her. She thought of tiny cameras. Her mother took the necklace and put it away somewhere, somewhere Téa couldn't see it, and yet, Téa could still feel it, ghostly on her neck, like she felt his breath and his fingers sometimes, a cold contrast to the heat of his body.

She was feeling his ghost more often, seeing him, hearing him. She checked the flowers for hidden cameras one night, in a sudden burst of terror. He was biding his time, she knew it.

The third gift was a pair of pale pink silk ballet slippers, signed by Matsuyama Mikoko, the famous Japanese ballerina. She had grabbed the crate—it was heavy as hell, and a struggle to get to her room, but it fit in her closet—with the plan to open it by herself, when her parents were in bed. She opened the large wooden crate to reveal the slippers, perfectly preserved in a curio cabinet made of smooth cherry wood. The wood was carved into swans at the outside corners of the cabinet, and the stained glass on the sides of the curio cabinet depicted swans on smooth, reed lined ponds.

Téa remembered the phone call from Mrs. Carver, telling her that she had been admitted to the summer program at the Academy, and how she felt torn between turning her back on her dream and selling herself for it. She remembered watching videos of Matsuyama, adoring her, mimicking her technique. Now, she thought of Seto Kaiba watching Matsuyama, those cold blue eyes following every placement of the feet, every arc of the wrist, just as he had watched Téa herself at the Academy recital.

She picked up the note.

The note said, "to Téa, who will be this famous someday. From Seto. P.S. Mokuba sends his love and admiration."

She placed the note on the table and stared at the slippers. She noticed faint brown blotches that had faded to beige on the toes and the ankles. Blood stains.

She heard her father's voice, suddenly raised in her parents' bedroom.

"That fucking kid, Audrey…" Her mother shushed him.

"Téa might still be awake, Rob."

Téa moved with the grace of years of training to crouch outside her parents' closed door.

"This kid, called my office, and offered me a job. Said he would start me out at $650,000 a year."

"Who does he think he is?"

"He knows exactly who he is, Audrey, someone who can buy and sell my company ten times over on his pocket change, and he wants our daughter. Our daughter."

Téa calmly and quickly stood up and moved to the bathroom, where she fell on her knees in front of the toilet and vomited until there was nothing left to retch.