The Birthday Girl

by Melissa de la Cruz

She dragged herself out of the bed. She put on something to wear and she went out with him. They went to Groucho, then Annabel’s, and ended up dancing next to a stuffed giraffe at Loulou’s at 5 Hertsford Street. The place was packed with royals and billionaires and socialites, her favorite kind of party. It cheered her up. She was glad to be out.

  “Thanks, man,” she said, punching him on the arm.

  He was so pretty back then.

  “You’re so pretty,” she told him, lying in his arms the next morning. Right, they’d tumbled into bed at dawn. It seemed only polite.

  “You’re so pretty,” he drawled.

  She looked at him. He had saved her. He had pulled her from the funk. Sanjay had saved her too. (Literally. Who knows what that crazy sheik would have done?) But Blake had saved her heart. Archer broke her heart. She had loved him and he had broken her heart, but Blake had pieced it back together. They spent the week going to art galleries and shopping and ordering seafood towers at Scott’s.

  Their favorite pastime was to go to Harvey Nick’s and try on clothes and critique each other’s choices. Blake dressed like an English dandy, all Berluti suede jackets and Drake’s scarves.

  “You have a good eye,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t that much of a douche all the time. Maybe he had even helped her figure out her company.

  “I don’t know. I was thinking something in fashion,” she said. “I have an interview with Chanel next week.”

  “You should have a brand,” he said. “And you should be the face of it.” At last, years later—after she left Chanel after five years to work for Michael Kors for three—she did exactly that.

  But back in London, when they were young, those two heady weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, after he’d rolled off her.

  “Hmmm,” said Blake, now rolling a cigarette. “Pardon? Didn’t quite catch that.”

  “Nothing.” She didn’t repeat it. But she had said it and she meant it. She loved him. It was why she could never get rid of him later.

  It didn’t last. He started dating someone else. A beautiful boy.

  He was bisexual, but she was the only girl he’d ever been with, or at least that’s what he said. She liked to think she was special, but who knew.

  He told her as much. He cared for her, but it was over. He had gotten her out of her funk, and she was on her feet now, and he had moved on. He would dance with her at her wedding to Todd a few years later.

  Blake Burberry. Still single, still searching. She wondered if he would ever settle down, or would he grow up to be just like Archer, the perennial bachelor?

  Blake was sprawled in the corner, holding court, his long legs on their Minotti couch, holding a glass of red wine. “Relax,” he said when he saw her face. “I’ll pay for it if it stains.”

  “You better!”

  He dismissed his minions. “What’s up?” It was only then that she noticed he was wearing an ascot. She tamped down the slight irritation.

  “Celine said your new boyfriend is the dean of studies at Stanford,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting intellectual in my old age.” He smirked.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I need a favor.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Two Can Keep a Secret

  October 20

  Twenty-Four Years Ago

  12:00 A.M.

  It was exactly midnight. Her birthday was over. She was officially sixteen, and had been kissed by the two people who had celebrated with her. But now her best friend hated her; she’d seen the look in Mish’s eyes at the end of the evening. Mish was not only her best friend, but her only friend, the only reason Leo had someone to celebrate with—and Leo had stabbed her in the back. It wasn’t her fault, she told herself. It was just a game!

  Except it wasn’t, and Leo knew it, and Mish knew it, and the only one who was clueless about what was going on was Brooks. She didn’t even want Brooks. She just wanted—someone who was just for her. Someone who made her feel special.

  That someone was Mish. She was all she had and now Leo didn’t have her either.

  Arnold was supposed to come over when the club closed, but he probably wouldn’t. He didn’t really like her; he was just being nice. He was letting her down easy. She was nothing, she was nobody. She was the kind of girl someone like Dave Griffin could use like a tissue and then forget about. Arnold wasn’t coming over.

  She let herself inside the house and noticed her mom had left a message on the machine. Happy birthday, sweetie. I’m so sorry I’m not home yet. They asked me if I could night-manage the swing shift, so I won’t be home until five in the morning. I left your cake in the fridge. We can eat it tomorrow?

  Leo deleted the phone message. She opened the card, and a twenty-dollar bill slipped out. Wow, that was even less than she was expecting. Things must be pretty dire.

  She yawned, changed into her sweatpants and an old T-shirt, checked that the front door was locked, and went to bed.

  * * *

  —

  The hand on her thigh didn’t wake her up completely, but she knew, almost immediately, who was in the bed with her.

  “Shhhh,” he whispered.

  She squirmed. Should she pretend to be asleep, like before? That’s what she did, ever since it started, after the first time, when he’d begun to come over at night.

  Just pretend it didn’t happen.

  Just pretend she wasn’t awake.

  Just pretend she didn’t know what was happening.

  She shut her eyes. She could feel his breath on her neck, and she cringed, repelled, her entire body paralyzed and cold.

  * * *

  —

  Leo closed her eyes and felt the tears on her cheeks even though she didn’t realize she was crying. The first time it happened, he’d been looking for Leo’s mom. He came over in the middle of the day, right after he’d gotten out of prison. He was a handsome man, smooth and strong.

  “Hey, your mom around?” he’d asked.

  “She got a job, she’s at work,” said Leo. She didn’t pay attention to him; he was just Mish’s dad, the guy across the street, the guy who just got out of jail.

  “So you’re Leo, huh?”

  Leo looked up. “Yeah.”

  “You know, your mom and I used to date, before she married your dad.” He smirked, crossing his arms against his chest so she could see the tattoos snaking up his forearms. There was one of a heart, one of a snake, and one of Mish’s face as a baby. She decided the tattoos were butt-ugly and looked away.

  “Okay,” she said, in a tone that meant she didn’t care in the least.

  “You ever know your dad?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yeah, well, me neither,” he said, barking a laugh. He sized her up keenly. “Want a beer?”

  Leo looked up. “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  * * *

  —

  That first time, he just brought her a beer. That’s all they did. They sat and drank, and she’d never had a beer before; it was kind of bitter and she didn’t like the taste, so the next time, he brought her a bunch of wine coolers. Mish was working at Sears, so Leo had her afternoons to herself, and she started looking forward to his visits. He was funny, and kind of cool, and he paid more attention to her than her mom, who was always working.

  It was later that the other stuff happened. The first time, it was a surprise, and she hadn’t even been able to understand what was happening until it was too late, and she’d lost her virginity. Funny thing, losing your virginity; it sounded like she’d misplaced it somewhere, like she’d lost it at the mall, or dropped it on the street.

  In reality, it had been taken from her without her consent, wit
hout her agreeing to it, and she didn’t even understand that it was something you could agree to, that it was something you gave away, not something that was taken from you unexpectedly. Then she thought she was pregnant. That was the worst part. But then she got her period and everything was okay again, or as much as it could be.

  He would come over a lot, at night, when he knew her mother was working at the restaurant. Sometimes she would pretend to be asleep. Sometimes she couldn’t pretend, but she knew she musn’t cry out, and musn’t tell anyone. It was a secret, a dirty, disgusting secret, and it made her feel disgusting and ashamed and gross and she hated herself for letting it happen; it was all her fault, all her fault, all her fault. And if she told anybody, they’d say the same thing.

  She never, ever, ever, ever told Mish.

  * * *

  —

  No, not today, she pleaded in her mind. No, please, not on her birthday, of all days. No, she didn’t want this. She never had. She just wanted to sleep, just wanted to dream of another life.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Surprise! Happy birthday, girl!” He was staring down at her, as if she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Just like that first afternoon. Just like all the nights after.

  She saw her face reflected in his eyes, her fear and her rage, and she moved, so fast she couldn’t believe it; she was a blur, she was all motion and fury. She knew this was going to happen, she expected it. She grabbed the gun underneath her bed and pointed it at him. The gun she’d hidden there the day after he’d visited the last time. His own gun that she’d stolen from him.

  “Hey now! Whoa! Hold on there!” he said, trying to scramble away and holding up his hands in surrender.

  “Don’t touch me! Never touch me again!” she screamed.

  Quick as lightning, he lunged, grabbing it out of her hand. He was so terribly strong, he pinned her down, but she was strong too, with fury and spite, and now they were struggling with it, rolling off the bed, rolling against each other, and she held on to the gun; she would never let go.

  She had the gun in her hand, her finger on the trigger. She saw his face, the shock and the fear. This was it. This was the last time.

  She had the upper hand, for once. Everything was going to change. Everything was going to be different. All she had to do was shoot.

  But just then, the door banged open.

  That split second.

  That was all it took.

  He saw his chance. He wrestled the gun away from her, turned it the other way, so that it pointed away from his stomach and into her chest.

  The gun fired. One shot. That was all it took.

  There was a scream.

  Who was screaming?

  It wasn’t her.

  She couldn’t make a sound. Because her mouth was full of blood. And it wasn’t her voice. She wasn’t the one who called him that . . . who called him—

  “DADDY!”

  THIRTY-SIX

  So Many Old Flames

  October 20

  The Present

  12:15 A.M.

  Ellie peeped back into the party room. Yep, there he was. The one and only Brooks Overton, looking out of place for once in his life. She’d forgotten she’d invited him. He’d sent her a friend request on Facebook a few months back, right before reunion, and she’d accepted. She wondered if she should tell him about the texts she’d received earlier in the evening. She wondered if Brooks was still in touch with him. The one who’d sent her all the texts earlier. Not that they’d ever been close friends, but things were different now with social media and all those things that sort of connected people but not really. How many times had she promised old friends from Portland that she would see them if they were ever in town? So many times. How many times had she seen them? Zero.

  Oh my god, Brooks, of all people, was fat. Fatter than Todd. So much fatter. She’d really given her husband a hard time, when in reality, he’d been so skinny before that the extra forty pounds weren’t terrible on him. Whereas someone ate Brooks and was now wearing his face.

  She picked up Celine’s barely touched champagne glass and walked over to him. It wasn’t as if she could ignore him all night.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “The Hilton. I have points,” he said.

  She never knew what to say when people said they used points. Condolences, maybe? Her dearest friend, her business manager, never stayed anywhere he had to pay; the man traveled on Marriot, American Express, Hyatt, Hilton, and Starwood points. It would be kind of sad if it wasn’t also endearing.

  “Mishon told me about the party, said I should stop by. I saw her at reunion,” he said. “We missed you.”

  “It was Fashion Week. I couldn’t make it,” she said. She had spent the weekend in Las Vegas, at the trade show, selling units like crazy. She’d had no time for a high school reunion.

  Brooks was balding too. That golden mop of hair was gone. Now he looked like any ordinary middle-aged white guy. No one would believe he used to be beautiful. Oh, the ravages of time. She fought against it, every step of the way, with medical procedures and her thousand-dollar eye creams, but some people couldn’t or didn’t, and the loss of such beauty made her sad.

  “You look exactly the same,” he said. “Gorgeous as always.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that; you’re too kind.”

  “Look at you now.” He whistled. “Is that a real Damien Hirst?”

  “Yeah, we bought it at auction. My husband . . . collects.” She was richer now than Brooks and his family had ever been. She laughed sometimes when she thought about how young and naïve she had been, how little she knew of the world, how much he and his family had impressed her. She had lapped them and more.

  “You know I turned forty two years ago.”

  “Yeah? What’d you do to celebrate?”

  He shrugged, took another pull of his beer. “Went out to dinner with the wife and kids.”

  “Nice,” she said.

  “Yeah, it was okay,” he said. “Nothing like this.”

  “As my husband says, not everyone needs this,” she said. What a lie! For Todd’s birthday, they went on safari and then a river cruise down the Nile with a group that included the Beckhams and the Bransons—Sanjay had invited them.

  Brooks nodded.

  Ellie tried to keep her voice light. “So how was reunion? Was everyone there?”

  “Yeah, it was all right. Stacey was there; she’s married, two kids; they still live up in Arlington.”

  Ellie tittered. “Of course she does.” It was exactly as she’d predicted.

  “Olivia was there; she’s a lawyer in the Bay Area. Divorced. Um, who else? Dave Griffin; he lives in Chicago, still single. He works in insurance.”

  “I know,” she snorted. “He works for us.” It was a revenge hire, as she still remembered how rude Dave had been in high school. Ugh, Dave. Gross. It was satisfying hearing him grovel to her and her husband on the phone as he tried to sell them more insurance. She kept him around like a talisman, like a chieftain, using her old oppressors as victims. What was the line? You will work for us someday. Well, that someday came to Dave Griffin.

  “Oh,” said Brooks. “Well, Andie’s in rehab, for the sixth time.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” she said coldly, remembering the condescending senior.

  “Deacon’s a tax attorney. You kept in touch with Mishon.”

  “Yeah. She’s pretty much the only person I still know from high school,” said Ellie.

  Brooks smiled. “You have any kids?”

  “I have four; my eldest is at Stanford,” she said, out of habit. “Then another girl, and two boys.”

  “I have three, all boys.”

  She hoped he wouldn’t show her a picture, but he did anyway. She pret
ended to be interested in his bland offspring. What was he doing here? Ugh.

  Her husband walked up. “Todd, this is Brooks. I told you about him earlier,” said Ellie. “He was the one who was texting me,” she said pointedly.

  Todd offered his hand, assessed the stranger.

  Brooks took it warmly. “Hey, man, I used to be madly in love with your wife.”

  “Weren’t we all,” said Todd with a smirk.

  “Gee, thanks, I think,” said Ellie.

  “Come on, let me get you a drink,” said Todd.

  * * *

  —

  Ellie excused herself as her phone was ringing again, and this time, she wanted to make sure she actually got to talk to Harry.

  “Ellie!” he said, his voice carrying over the scratchy line.

  “I’m so sorry; it’s my party and the reception out in the desert is the worst.”

  “No problem. I was on a plane, so I couldn’t call you, and we just landed,” he explained.

  “So what’s going on? Should I be worried?”

  “Well, I have to tell you that we’re not doing the deal.”

  “Oh.” Ellie felt as if the ground underneath her had just swallowed her whole. She was done.

  “Yes, we ran the numbers and it didn’t make sense.”

  “Right. Well. Okay. Fine. Thanks for letting me know,” she said.

  “Ellie—I’m so sorry . . .” he said, but she’d already hung up. What was there to talk about? She didn’t want to ruin her mood any more than it was ruined.

  Ruined.

  She always imagined a girl in a white dress in the rain with mascara running down her cheeks. RUINED.

  She was RUINED.

  * * *

  —

  She put her phone away. She was calculating sums in her head, coming up short in every scenario. What would she tell Todd, how would she break it to the kids? So she really had no time for Brooks right now, who had made his way back to her to make another declaration she didn’t need to hear, while Todd was still at the bar, waiting for their drinks.