Birthday Girl

by Penelope Douglas

  She doesn’t say anything, just sits there frozen, and I could kick myself, because I should’ve just talked to her at the house instead of going through all this. I knew how this was going to end. There was no way she was staying in Meadow Lakes. I wasn’t seriously helping her move tonight. I was finding my mettle.

  But what if she wanted to move in with her sister? Or stay with a friend? I still would’ve fought her. I know I would’ve.

  It’s not that she can’t take care of herself. I know very well she can.

  I just don’t want her to have to. Somewhere along the line I got invested.

  No one else in her life can give her what she deserves, and until she can provide it for herself, then I’m taking that responsibility. Screw it. She deserves the best. She’s getting the best.

  I stare ahead and lean my elbow on the door, running my hand through my hair. It’s not my decision, though. Is it? Pushing her around doesn’t make me any better than anyone else in her life.

  And I don’t want to be someone else who stifles her. She’ll end up resenting me, too. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about relationships—any relationship—is that no one should wear the pants. You have to know when to come in strong and when to back off. Both of you.

  Give and take. Share the power.

  I ease on the brake and slowly veer to the right side of the road, coming to a stop as a car speeds past me.

  Her eyes shift, but she still won’t look at me.

  God, what she must be thinking.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my tone quieter and calmer now. “I didn’t mean to command you like that.” I drop my hands from the wheel and try to slow down my heart a little.

  “Cole is staying with…” I trail off, knowing she knows who he’s staying with. “For the time being,” I finish. “You’ll have space, and you can have the other spare room. It’s your space. You like my house, right?”

  She takes in a breath, searching for words. “Yes, but…”

  “I like having help around the place,” I explain. “And it’s nice to come home and not have to make dinner every night. We keep the same arrangement.”

  She pauses, and fear creeps up. Maybe I read her wrong, after all. Maybe she’s just trying to find a way to get me off her back. Maybe she really doesn’t want to stay at my house.

  “Will you be happy? At my house? Honestly?” I ask. “Happier than back there?”

  The silence stretches between us, and I’m beginning to feel stupid. Like I misread everything and she wasn’t getting comfortable under my roof.

  But all the times I caught glimpses of her this week—lighting her candles, working in the garden, having a morning swim, or cooking in the kitchen and bobbing her head to whatever awful hair band she’s listening to this week—it seemed like she was at home, you know? She was smiling so much, we’d gotten comfortable enough to joke around, and she was even getting mischievous on me, adding stupid sprouts and avocado to the turkey sandwich in my lunch the other day.

  I smile a little, thinking about it.

  I don’t want her to trade down because she thinks she’s unwanted at my house or she’s imposing. I want to make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to leave.

  I blink long and hard, suddenly weary. And I fucking hate the idea of her in that shithole with no one there who’s going to appreciate anything she does.

  I drop my eyes and my voice. “Please don’t make me leave you there.”

  I see her head turn in my direction, and I know how I must sound.

  “Please,” I whisper again.

  She’s staring at me, but I refuse to look at her, because I’m afraid my eyes will say something more or give away something teetering on the edge of my brain that I don’t want to face yet.

  She’s happy at my house, she’s safe there, she has a bed, and there’s no fucking mice. It’s that simple.

  Yeah. It’s that simple.

  After a moment, I hear her draw in a calm breath as she reaches over and grabs her seatbelt, fastening it.

  I swallow.

  “Fright Night is streaming on Netflix,” she says. “Half pepperoni and half taco?”

  I break into a smile. Turning to her, I see her blue eyes looking at me with the same easy humor she had when we were cutting watermelon the other night.

  I shift the car into gear again and nod. “Call it in,” I tell her. “We’ll pick it up on the way home.”

  Jordan

  We come to new terms.

  I’m a tenant now, essentially, and while the end goal is to live here to save money for my own place eventually, I can’t live off him like I was. Maybe I could’ve made excuses when I was Cole’s girlfriend, but now, this needs to be fair. No matter how much he balks.

  “I don’t need your forty bucks a month for the gas bill, Jordan.”

  “Then let me pay the electric bill.”

  “Why would I tell you to stay here to save money and then ask you to spend more money?”

  “I am saving money. And I can keep saving money while paying at least one bill, Pike.”

  “Or you could not pay any bills, save even more money, and just be out of here faster.”

  And then that pissed me off, like maybe he really didn’t want me here, after all.

  “No, wait.” He flinches. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just…I don’t need your money, okay? Let’s stop talking now. Please?”

  But we didn’t. We kept bickering until he finally relented and let me have the gas bill and the grocery bill, although he did make me promise to not replace his snacks with anything organic or fat free, to which I agreed. If he catches me sneaking in fair trade coffee and almond milk, I’ll just tell him I forgot.

  Taking the broom out to the front porch, I lift up the welcome mat and shake it out before hanging it over the railing. Rain pours down outside like a torrent, and the street looks like the whitewash of ocean waves as the falling raindrops kick up and spatter against the ground.

  I wonder how well Pike will be able to see the roads on his way home. It’s still only about one in the afternoon, though, and it’s still light out, although pretty gray, so it might stop raining before he’s off work.

  I swipe the broom across the wooden porch, the overhang protecting it from getting wet. The air is balmy and thick, my skin feeling damp even though no rain is hitting me under the awning. My T-shirt sticks to my stomach a little, and I tuck my hair behind my ear because it’s tickling my arms. Looking up, I see Kyle Cramer pulling his BMW into his driveway, covering his head with his briefcase as he dashes to his front porch.

  He notices me and flashes a smile. I give a little wave.

  I wonder why he and Pike aren’t friendly.

  He disappears inside, and I finish cleaning up the tiny amount of dirt and thistles on the porch before laying the welcome mat back down.

  In addition to the gas and grocery bill, I’d taken on responsibility for the downstairs of the house: dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, keeping the kitchen tidy, although he has to do the dishes when I cook, and I only have to do them when he cooks. Which, actually, he hasn’t done at all in the three days since I’ve come back to stay here. I kind of realized at some point over the last few weeks he really only makes meals from the frozen food section in the grocery store—or canned soup and stews—so I’ve just taken over meals completely and he does dishes, and I’m cool with that.

  I also do the garden, while he handles the lawn, pool, and sprinklers. Our rooms are our own responsibilities, but I clean my bathroom, and he keeps the basement in order.

  Setting up the individual chores was almost too good to be true. I thought for sure he’d flake, and I’d end up cleaning up crap he left in areas that I was tasked with keeping tidy.

  But it hasn’t happened. He tosses his boots in the closet after work, picks up the T-shirts he discards if he gets too hot, and I never have to bug him to get his clothes out of the dryer. I realize I’ve never lived with a man who had l
ived on his own before me.

  Until now, that is. Pike’s used to taking care of himself and his things, because there’s no one else to do it for him. It’s like a whole new world.

  Walking back in the house, I stick the broom into the closet and head upstairs to sort my dirty clothes. Cole’s old bedroom—our old bedroom—sits vacant, since he hasn’t been back since he left. I’m not sure what he’s been wearing the past few days, and I don’t know if he’s talked to his dad, but one thing is for sure. He’ll be back eventually.

  I put up with as much as I did because Cole was a friend and not just a boyfriend. Most girls—if they’re smarter than me, and that wouldn’t be hard, mind you—get tired of deadbeats real fast. Knowing he and Elena probably won’t make it is the only consolation for the hurt. He jumped right out of my bed and into hers, didn’t he?

  But maybe he did me a favor. Would I want him back? No. I don’t want to hate him, and I know he’s better than this, but we pushed it, because we needed to grab onto something once upon a time. We forced what wasn’t there, not because we needed each other, but because we needed someone. We were always better friends.

  I feel like I can breathe now. And if he has a problem with me being here, I’ll let his dad deal with it.

  Across from Cole’s room, I open the door to the other spare room—my new room—and pull my collapsible laundry basket out of the corner.

  I love my new space. There was already a day bed in here, so I just went out and bought a new bedding set. I could’ve moved my old one from Cole’s bed, since it’s mine anyway, but I wanted to start new. Nothing to remind me of who I was with him. I moved the rest of my stuff out, closed his door, and haven’t been back in.

  Pike and I went to IKEA and picked out a dresser—which I paid for, but we needed his truck to move—a bedside table, and a cushioned chair. I had a little fun decorating, since I didn’t need to consider anyone else but myself. There’s twinkle lights weaved into my wrought-iron bedframe, some fun pillows and a lamp, and a painting I bought from a street vendor in New Orleans when I went with my sister. Pike’s pal Dutch even brought by his old vintage Panasonic cassette boombox radio for me that he found cleaning out his parents’ garage a couple days ago. I guess Pike told him about the tapes.

  “Jordan!” a bellow comes from downstairs.

  I drop the white shirt I was sorting and jerk my head, hearing the screen door slam against the frame downstairs.

  My heart thuds a little harder.

  Leaving the room, I jog down the stairs. Pike’s by the front door, pulling out his jacket from the closet. Water streams down his face and the golden skin of his tattooed arms, and his hair is stuck to his scalp. He pulls his jacket over his head and his soaking wet T-shirt.

  I walk up to him. “What’s wrong?”

  “The riverbank is flooding,” he says, charging into the kitchen and toward the fridge. “They’re calling anyone who’s able to come help sandbag before it reaches the streets.”

  Got it. I pull my Chucks out of the closet, hopping on one foot as I slip each one on. “Did you call Cole?”

  “Yeah, but he’s not answering.” He grabs an armful of water bottles. “Why don’t you try?”

  I yank my raincoat off the hanger and close the closet, grabbing my baseball cap off the hook on the outside. “If he didn’t answer for you, he definitely won’t for me.”

  Pike re-enters the living room, his five bottles pinched between his fingers. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking me again, and I roll my eyes.

  “But I’ll try in the car,” I tell him, opening the door. “Let’s go.”

  We get down to the inlet in no time, Pike having already loaded up as many of his sandbags as he had left in the back of his truck. The city has a hefty supply, though, and they were already down here with their trucks.

  With the rain being so bad this summer and every last inch of snow finally melting farther north, the river has been a time bomb. I remember it flooding the homes on the west side a few years back, but the city got prepared after that. Police, firefighters, city crew, and citizens are now scattered amongst the rocks of the flood barrier already in place. Piles of sandbags are set up all the way from the water, up the incline of the boulders, and to the dirt and grass up here. There’s little more than a hundred yards of weeds, trees, and railroad track to cross before the dilapidated houses of the old west side that was the first part of Northridge to be settled. The water is rising, but slowly, so hopefully if the flood barrier isn’t enough, the sandbags will be. The people in this neighborhood can’t afford to leave, much less lose their houses.

  The river runs south, growing in speed, and I shiver a little, every inch of me soaking wet. Drops of water fall from the bill of my cap, and rain runs down my legs.

  “Water?”

  Pike holds a bottle out to me, and I peer up at him from under the brim of my hat and smile, snatching it up. “Thank you.”

  He moves around me without another word, grabbing a sandbag and tossing it to a guy down the line. We’ve been here for three hours now, and we haven’t been able to reach Cole, although I can’t say I tried very hard. I don’t want to see him right now, so I gave it three rings and then hung up.

  I look down at the bottle of water in my hand. My mouth is like a desert.

  Unscrewing the cap, I suck down half the water, take a breath, and swallow two more gulps. There’s only about an inch left, so I stick it in my jacket pocket to finish later.

  “Hey, Jordan,” a chipper voice calls, passing by.

  I look to see April Lester pulling on a pair of work gloves and heading down the rocks toward Pike, dressed in jeans hugging every inch of her legs and a cute camouflage T-shirt and hat. A black ponytail hangs out the hole in the back.

  She looks kind of cute. I’m so used to seeing her in her ‘going-out’ clothes at the bar.

  I pull out a sandbag from the truck bed and heft the forty-pound burlap sack to the next guy in line and turn back to the bed, repeating the task. Each bag makes its way from one set of hands to the other until it reaches its place on the river bank.

  I notice April in another assembly line, directly across from Pike, and she’s talking to him.

  I try to keep my eyes averted, because it’s not my business, but I find myself stealing glances, and I don’t know why.

  Liquid heat rushes through my chest, and I feel a cool sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  Does he know her? Have they ever talked? I don’t think they’ve ever been out. They can’t have been. Pike’s like a priest. He’s so uptight, and that woman comes on stronger than a hammer over the head. She’d scare him.

  I wet my lips, handing off another bag, and unable to keep myself from watching them. She smiles brightly, saying something, and he looks over at her, listening with amusement. One of his rare, outstanding, and gorgeous smiles flashes on her—on her—and my heart skips a beat.

  I scowl and grab another bag.

  Is he fucking blushing? He actually looks a little shy, but he doesn’t look turned off by her flirting.

  I groan.

  Get over it. He’s a man. A young one still and, I’m sure, a pretty healthy one, too. He’s had sex with women—Cole is proof of that. It’s unrealistic to think he’s going without. He’s going to bring a woman home sometime. Everyone has needs.

  I drop my eyes to his torso, the thin, black pullover rain jacket molded to his body like a second skin. His sleeves are pulled up, showing off his forearms, and I swear I can see the rain falling down his neck from here. He’s tall and broad, and I love the way his T-shirts fit and he wears his jeans.

  When a man looks that good in clothes, you know he looks good out of them.

  And if he looked half this good in high school, every girl must’ve wanted him. I’m curious to know what he was like then, but then there are some things I don’t want to know, either.

  April passes him a bag but fumbles, and he darts down to grab it before it fa
lls from her arms.

  They’re smiling and leaning in close to each other, and my lungs hurt.

  And, as if he senses me watching him, his eyes suddenly dart up, meeting mine, and for a moment everyone else disappears.

  I stop breathing. Shit.

  I look away, quickly grabbing another bag.

  I don’t look back, even though I can feel him watching me.

  Once the truck is empty, I take out my water bottle and drink the rest, walking over to Pike’s truck and tossing it in the bed.

  “Ready?” I hear him say.

  I spin around and see him coming over and pulling off his soaked jacket. His T-shirt rides up with the movement, and I tear my gaze away from his stomach.

  “Are…are we all done?” I ask.

  He throws the coat into the back and digs another water out of the cooler. “This is about all we can do, I guess. We just need to hope it’s enough and it holds.”

  I take one last look around, noticing everyone has moved on to one thing or another. Some are climbing into their cars and some are still positioning bags or chatting.

  I whip off my jacket, too, toss it into the bed of the truck, and climb into the passenger seat.

  I pull the door closed, and he starts the engine, the wipers immediately kicking into gear from where they left off on the drive over.

  I look out the window.

  “Oh, shit,” I breathe out, gazing out in the distance. He follows my gaze.

  The truck sits higher up, and we have a full view of the river beyond, all the way to the other side. A small set of islands that sit in the middle is now almost covered with water, and houses on the opposite bank are threatened as the river rises half-way up their stilts.

  It still has a long way to go, and the rain has already slowed down a little. Hopefully it will be fine.

  “I can’t believe how high it is,” I say. “Surreal.”

  He turns to me. “You’re smiling again.”

  I meet his eyes, my face relaxing. Was I smiling? “Well, I’m trying not to,” I tell him, breaking into another one. “I mean, I hope no one gets hurt and no one gets flooded, but…”