The Birthday List

by Devney Perry

  “Give me your hand.” Cole placed his hand, palm up, on the console between us.

  I shook my head, knowing that if I touched him, I’d never keep the tears at bay.

  “Poppy, give me your hand.”

  “I can’t,” I choked out.

  “Poppy,” he whispered. “Give me your hand.”

  I didn’t have the strength to resist his gentle voice so I untucked my hand from between my knees and placed it on his. The second his long fingers closed over mine, the first tear fell. Then the second. Then the rest.

  I cried for the loss of a family. For the loss of Jamie’s parents as friends.

  I cried because Cole’s hand under mine made me feel better.

  Better and worse, all at the same time.

  “Nothing.” I shut off the TV and tossed the remote on the table.

  I had a bitch of a headache from staring at a small screen all afternoon, watching the surveillance tape of Jamie Maysen’s murder for the tenth time today. Just like the nine times before, there was nothing to go on.

  As I pinched the bridge of my nose, I closed my eyes, hoping the thumping in my skull would go away.

  It had been two weeks since I’d taken Poppy to pick up that old Ford from her in-laws. Two weeks and I felt like all I’d done was sit in this goddamn conference room and watch security feeds. Every night, I went home feeling like my head was being split in two.

  And tonight wouldn’t be much different.

  I pressed the heels of my hands into my temples and started rubbing just as the door opened.

  Matt came in and took the chair at my side. “Anything?”

  “No.” I dropped my hands. “I’ve been studying the liquor store tape and running it against the parking lot footage we got from the grocery store. No one matching the killer’s description comes in or out within five hours of the murder.”

  “Mind if I watch the liquor store footage again?”

  “Go for it.”

  He swiped up the remote and rewound the video to the beginning, then pressed play. I was grateful there was no sound on the footage. Seeing what happened in that liquor store was gruesome enough without adding a soundtrack to the mix.

  The TV screen filled with a grainy video taken from a camera that had been located in an upper corner of the store. The cashier, Kennedy Hastings, was smiling and chatting with Jamie Maysen as he carried over his haul—gin, vodka and margarita mix. He set them down on the counter, then took out a wallet from his back pocket, saying something to Kennedy that made her laugh.

  She’d had a pretty smile. Kennedy’s curly brown hair had been cut short but it suited her round, dark face and petite frame. And she was fumbling a little, probably nervous because Poppy’s husband had been a good-looking guy.

  Jamie had worn his blond hair a little long, but it went with his laid-back vibe. He was a big guy too, likely as tall as me and with just as much bulk. He was wearing flip-flops and cargo shorts with his Western pearl-snap shirt. And on his left hand, a silver wedding band reflected in the screen.

  My insides twisted as the footage spun on. Tragic. That was the word I’d landed on to describe this video. Fucking tragic.

  On screen, Jamie handed over some cash to Kennedy just as the killer came into the liquor store. The killer was barely inside the door before he started waving his gun in the air. Jamie said something, you could make out the word don’t, and then took one step forward. The moment he moved, the killer gripped the gun with both hands and shot Jamie in the head. Kennedy’s mouth was wide as she screamed before the killer turned the gun on her and shot her center mass.

  Then, with no hesitation, as if he hadn’t just taken two innocent lives, the killer reached across the counter and yanked out all of the cash from the open register drawer.

  He’d kept his back to the camera as he backed out of the store. The angle of the camera had never caught his face—just hints of his profile. All we could see was the plain charcoal hoodie and jeans he’d been wearing. When he pulled the cash out from the register, we could make out a sliver of his light-skinned nose and a small tuft of brown hair at his ear. Black sunglasses covered his eyes and black gloves his hands.

  With the register empty, he backed out of the store, leaving behind two dead bodies.

  Leaving behind a young daughter without a mother and a wife who’d had to bury her husband in a closed-casket funeral.

  Matt and I sat quietly, both staring at the screen as it played on. I’d seen a lot of fucked-up things as a cop, but this video was the worst. Maybe it was because I knew Poppy. Maybe it was because I knew what would happen hours later when I showed up on her porch. Maybe it was because the image of her heart breaking right before my eyes was one I’d never forget.

  Besides delivering the news to Poppy that her husband had been killed, watching this video over and over was the hardest thing I’d ever done as a police officer.

  Matt stopped the video and broke the silence in the room. “That is fucked up.”

  I nodded. “And for what? A couple hundred bucks from the register? Doesn’t seem worth it, does it?”

  Matt shook his head. “We’ve got to find this guy.”

  I dug my fingers back into my temples. “I’ve gone through all the tapes from the complex, all the footage we got from the grocery store and all the other shops. I can’t find a glimpse of this guy anywhere.”

  Matt sighed. “Which means we’re on to Plan B. Stoplight cameras.”

  “Yep.” I popped the p just like Poppy did. “Which means if you’re looking for me anytime before eight or after five, I’ll be in this room.”

  I had no fucking clue how long it would take me to start weeding through camera footage in my free time. A month? Maybe two?

  But for Poppy, I’d do anything. I’d sit in this damn room and leave work every night with a headache just for the chance to give her some closure.

  Because closure was the one thing she craved as much as love. She was desperate for someone to tell her it was okay to start living again. And since she sure as fuck wasn’t going to get it from Jamie’s parents, I’d do my best to give it to her myself.

  These last two weeks, she’d built a brick wall between us. When I’d go to the restaurant for dinner, she’d be too busy in the kitchen to sit with me for more than ten minutes. When I’d text to check in, she’d respond with short answers.

  Me: How was your day?

  Poppy: Just fine.

  Me: Do you care if I come by the restaurant for dinner?

  Poppy: Sure. That’s fine.

  Me: Are you doing okay?

  Poppy: I’m fine.

  Fine. Things were not fucking fine. But if she thought she could shut me out, Poppy Maysen had something to learn.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I’d known going into this thing with her that the road would be rough. That she had more to overcome than I could possibly imagine. I had to give her time. So while waiting for her to realize that I was the new constant in her life, I’d been here, watching video footage.

  And fixing up that old truck.

  I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed tinkering on classic cars. How much fun I’d had as a kid working on old beaters with my dad. Besides my brief encounters with Poppy, that truck had given me something to look forward to at the end of each long day.

  I’d ended up taking it to my parents’ house because Dad had better tools and a bigger garage. He had been more than happy to part with the garage space, thrilled to jump into the project with me. Mom was happy because I’d been there almost every night for the past two weeks.

  Every night except when Poppy had been there for her ukulele lessons.

  Those nights, I’d given her some space.

  “You should get out of here.” Matt shut off the TV.

  “I think I will.” Leaving sounded like a damn good idea. I needed some time away from this room. Some time to think about the case. “See you Monday.”

  Matt nodded as we
both stood and walked back to our desks in the bull pen. I didn’t waste a second grabbing my keys, sunglasses and wallet from my desk and getting the hell out of the station.

  The minute I pulled out of the parking lot, my headache started to ease. I debated going home, but when I passed a convenience store, I had a better idea. With a cold six-pack in the passenger seat, I drove to my parents’ house to spend the evening working on Jamie Maysen’s truck.

  It was still early—only four in the afternoon—when I got to Mom and Dad’s, which meant I had the garage to myself. Dad wasn’t home yet and Mom was teaching in her studio. So I let myself in, stripped off my gun and badge, then traded my Bozeman PD polo for a plain white T-shirt I’d stashed in the back of my truck. I popped the top off a beer and got to work, letting the clank of tools on metal drown out the silent gunshots from the murder video I’d watched too many times.

  Three hours later, I’d completely gutted the interior of the cab. The bench seat had been taken out, along with the floorboards. The steering wheel and door panels were gone. I’d even removed the radio, jockey box and driving gauges. The only thing staying was the black dashboard, which was in good shape but needed a thorough cleaning and conditioning.

  With the inside basically a shell, I started on the smaller items, using a screwdriver to take out the driver’s-side sun visor. I’d just loosened one screw when the visor fell open and a picture dropped to the floor.

  I set aside the screwdriver and wiped my hands on my jeans before lifting up the photo.

  It was a picture of Poppy and Jamie from college. Jamie had his arms around Poppy’s chest, his chin resting on her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera as they stood in a crowded row at the MSU football stadium.

  Damn. She looked happy. So fucking happy.

  My heart beat hard as I studied Poppy’s face. She hadn’t changed much since college. Some of the youth she had in the picture was gone—and pain had erased some of her innocence—but she was just as beautiful now as she had been back then.

  Just as beautiful, but nowhere near as happy.

  I wanted to see that kind of raw joy on her face again. I wanted to be the man that put it there.

  Me. Not Jamie.

  “Hey.”

  My eyes swung to the garage door. So lost in my inspection of her picture, I hadn’t heard the woman herself walk inside. But there she was. My pretty Poppy. The sun limned her in an amber halo, and my heart did that weird double-beat thing before I found my voice. “Hi.”

  “Sorry if I startled you.” She walked toward the far wall where all of Dad’s tool benches were lined up.

  “It’s okay.” I rounded the hood of the truck to join her, holding out the photo. “Here. I just found this.”

  She took the photo and smiled. “Look how young we were. This seems like a lifetime ago.” With one finger, she touched Jamie’s face, then set the picture aside on a workbench.

  I waited, wondering when I’d run into the wall she’d constructed between us, but she surprised me by planting both palms on the top of the bench and hopping up to take a seat.

  Did this mean she was done shutting me out? Done avoiding me? Because that would turn my long, shitty week all the way around.

  “You know,” she said, “I think that picture was the last time I went to a Bobcat football game. I kind of want to see the expanded stadium. Would you go to a game with me this fall?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  That got me the smile I hadn’t seen for way too long.

  Damn, I’d missed her these last two weeks. That smile. Her laugh. Her crazy hand gestures. The distance she’d put between us was killing me.

  She pointed to the truck. “How’s progress going?”

  I turned and leaned against the bench, my hip next to her knee. “Good. I think I’ll be able to do all of the interior myself. I was able to order a new seat and all of the parts. I’ve got a guy coming to replace the windshield next week, and I’ve asked a buddy of Dad’s if he can help with the body stuff and paint.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help. But you’re keeping track of how much I owe you, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  Whatever the total ended up being, I was whacking it in half. There was no way she was going to pay for all of this truck, no matter what she said. Not when she was trying to run a new business, to support her employees and herself.

  “I think I’d better have you save receipts.”

  I chuckled. It never ceased to surprise me how well she could read my thoughts. “So what’s new? Everything going okay?”

  “I’m good.” She nodded. “I actually just finished a lesson with your mom and I saw your truck so I wanted to say hi.”

  My eyebrows came together. “I thought your lessons were on Tuesdays.”

  “They are, but I asked to switch this week. I took the whole afternoon off for an appointment.” She reached to the collar of her shirt. She wasn’t wearing her normal restaurant T-shirt today. Instead, she had on some sort of sports bra with a loose, short-sleeved sweatshirt on top. The collar had been cut so it draped across one of her shoulders, teasing me with a patch of flawless skin.

  As she yanked the collar wide, I tucked a hand in my pocket so I wouldn’t be tempted to see just how silky that skin was. My cock jerked against my zipper as she kept pulling that collar lower and lower, stretching it so her shoulder was completely bare.

  “See?” She angled her back to me and I leaned closer.

  “You got a tattoo today?”

  She nodded and peered over her shoulder. “My first and only. That thing hurt like a mother.”

  I grinned. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “No tattoos?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. I just can’t think of anything I’d want to get inked.” I pointed to her shirt, wanting to hold it down so I could get a closer look. “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  My fingers replaced hers at the collar and I gently tugged it lower. I was careful not to touch her skin, knowing it would be tender, but also so my dick wouldn’t get any ideas about where this was going.

  On her right shoulder, covered in plastic wrap, was a long string of delicate script—the rest is still unwritten.

  “I like it.” I had expected any tattoo she’d get to be something about Jamie, but this seemed more like something just for her. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a song lyric. Something that has always stayed with me.” She adjusted her shirt back over her shoulder as my fingers let it go. “The first few years after Jamie died were hard. I didn’t see any of our old friends much. Mostly I just kept to myself. I worked as a receptionist for a dentist’s office until I bought the restaurant, and if I wasn’t at work, then I spent my time at home or with Finn and Molly.”

  I nodded and stayed quiet, not wanting her to stop.

  “But after three years or so, I started to get out more. I started running into old friends. They’d always chat with me like old times, but as soon as I’d turn away, I’d hear them whisper widow. That was the first word they used to describe me behind my back. That poor widow, Poppy Maysen.”

  She stared, unblinking, at the truck as she spoke, while the anger flashed in her eyes.

  “I hate that word. Widow.” Her hands balled into fists on the workbench. “Every time I hear it I want to scream. People say widow like that’s who I am now. Like it’s expected that I stay in this permanent state of grief. Like it’s unacceptable that I’d consider moving on with my life.”

  She didn’t have to say their names, but I knew she was referring to Jamie’s parents.

  “Anyway.” She relaxed her hands. “That’s when I started to think about doing Jamie’s birthday list. And that’s what my tattoo means.”

  “That the rest of your life is still unwritten.”

  She nodded and locked her blue gaze with mine. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot these last couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah?�
�� My chest tightened as I braced for her to throw up that wall. As I waited for her to tell me I wouldn’t be part of her unwritten.

  “Yeah.” She looked to her lap. “You scare the hell out of me, Cole,” she whispered.

  “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

  “I’m sorry. I just needed some time to think.”

  I wanted to touch her, to tip her chin up so she’d look at me, but I kept my hands tight to my sides. “And what did you come up with?”

  “I like you,” she told her fingers. “I like you a lot.”

  The tension rushed out of my shoulders and I let out a breath. She likes me. This was good. No, this was fucking great. If she was actually willing to acknowledge her feelings for me, my uphill battle might start to level out. “I like you a lot too.”

  “But I—”

  “Wait.” My finger flew to her lips. “Let me say something before you take away the best feeling I’ve had in weeks.”

  She smiled against my skin.

  “I’m not trying to take Jamie’s place or erase his memory or make you forget that you loved him. I’m just trying to explore this thing between us.” I stepped closer, resting my hip against her thigh.

  Her breath hitched under my finger and I dropped it away, resting my hand on the other side of her lap, trapping her in my space.

  “What I was going to say was,” her eyes held mine as they smiled, “but I’d like to take things slow and just see what happens.”

  Slow. She wasn’t going to back away or keep me at a distance. She just wanted to take this slow. And slow I could definitely handle.

  “God, I want to kiss you.” I wanted to strip her down and take her right here on this workbench, but since she wasn’t ready for that, I’d settle for a kiss. “Does that scare you?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you want me to kiss you, Poppy?”

  She didn’t move. She just stared into my eyes as our breaths mixed. Then, she made my whole year by giving me the slightest nod.

  I closed the inches between us until my nose brushed against hers. I stopped when she tensed, then waited, not moving a muscle. But just as I was about to step away and give her some space, she leaned into my lips with a hesitant brush.