Birthday Girl

He reaches down and cups my ass, diving into my neck and kissing me. I gasp as he presses himself into me, and I laugh, squirming out of his arms.

“Stop!” I scold in a whisper as I glance nervously to the two-story house behind me. “We don’t have privacy anymore.”

He smirks. “My dad’s still at work, babe. He won’t be home until around five.”

Oh. Well, that’s good at least. I look up and down the neighborhood street, though, seeing house after house, curtains open, and kids playing here and there. It’s not like the apartments where everyone sees your business but doesn’t really care, because you’re transient and won’t stick around long enough for anyone to think you’re worth their attention. Here, in a real neighborhood, people invest their time in who lives next door.

I take a deep breath, soaking in the smell of grills and the sound of lawn mowers. It’s a really nice neighborhood. I wonder if this could be me someday. Will I find a great job? Have a nice house? Will I be happy?

Cole bows his forehead to mine again. “I’m sorry, you know.” He doesn’t look at me, staring at the ground. “I keep screwing up, and I don’t know why. I’m just so restless. I just can’t…”

But he doesn’t finish. He just shakes his head, and I know. I always know.

Cole isn’t a loser. He’s nineteen. Impulsive, angry, and confused.

But unlike me, he never had to grow up. There’s always someone taking care of him.

“You know who you’re meant to be,” I tell him. “Committing to it is a different process for everyone, but you’ll get there.”

He raises his eyes, and a moment of hesitance crosses his gaze like he’s going to say something, but then it’s gone. He flashes his cocky little grin instead. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, and then he slaps me on the ass.

I jerk, holding in my annoyance as we let go of each other. No, you don’t. But you’re cute, and you give good massages.

We finish unloading the car and make several trips back and forth, carrying everything into the house. I drop off the few groceries I bought earlier into the kitchen and then carry one last box through the living room, and up the stairs to our room, first door on the left.

I inhale a deep breath through my nose as I round the doorway into our new bedroom, unable to hide my smile at the smell of fresh paint. From the looks of the house we’re moving into, Cole’s father is renovating. Although it seems like the bulk of the major work is done. There were gleaming hardwood floors downstairs, matching crown molding in every room, granite countertops in the kitchen with all new-looking chrome appliances, and the black and glass cabinetry kind of made my heart flutter a little. I had never lived in a place even remotely this nice. For a construction worker, Pike Lawson wasn’t a bad designer.

It’s definitely a nice house. A really nice place, in fact. Not that it’s a mansion—just a simple, two-story craftsman with a small, walk-up porch leading to the front door—but it’s redone, beautiful, well-kept, and the front and back yards are green.

I set the box down and walk to the window, peeking between the blinds. An actual yard. Cole’s mom’s living situation wasn’t always great, so it’s nice to know he has a clean, safe neighborhood here whenever he needs. I wonder why he always made it seem like he needed someone to take care of him when he had this anytime he wanted. What is up with him and Pike Lawson?

Someday I’m going to have a place like this, too. My father, unfortunately, will die in that trailer I grew up in.

Cole walks in, swinging a couple suitcases onto the bed, and immediately leaves again, digging out his phone on his way out.

“Do you think your dad will mind if I use the kitchen?” I call, following him out of the room. “I got stuff to make burgers.”

He keeps walking, but I hear his breathy laugh. “I can’t imagine any guy, even my dad, is going to say a woman can’t use his kitchen to make him a meal, babe.”

Yeah, right. I shoot a look at his back as he takes a right into the living room and heads outside. I keep going straight, into the kitchen.

I used to like doing things for Cole. Being there for him better than my mother was for my father. Keeping a clean house—or apartment—and seeing him smile when I made his life a little bit easier or made sure he had what he needed. It’s gotten one-sided over the past few months, though.

His father is doing a lot for us, though, and

cooking a few nights a week is part of the arrangement, so I have no problem keeping my end of the deal. Well, our end of the deal, but Cole isn’t going to cook, so I’ll leave the yard work to him, which his father also stipulated was his responsibility to keep up.

Pike Lawson. I’ve had to make an effort to not think about the theater the other night. It’s still hard to wrap my head around the randomness of the whole situation.

I keep thinking about the matchstick in the donut, and the pep talk he gave me about going after what I want. Part of me, though, feels like he was saying those things to himself, too. Experience and maybe a little disappointment laced his tone, and I want to know more about him. Like what he was like as a young father.

And so I thought he was cute. So what? I think Chris Hemsworth is cute. And Ryan Gosling, Tom Hardy, Henry Cavill, Jason Momoa, the Winchester brothers… It’s not like I had sexual thoughts, for crying out loud. It doesn’t have to be awkward.

It can’t be. I’m with his son.

Walking over to one of the chairs at the kitchen table, I dig my phone out of my bag and start my app, Jessie’s Girl immediately playing where it left off after my run this morning. I do a scan of the kitchen, as well as a quick peek back into the living room, making sure none of our things are laying around. I don’t want his dad inconvenienced any more than he already is.

I walk to the fridge, running my hand over the island countertop as I pass by. While the other counters are a tan granite with accents of black, the island top is made of butcher block. The smooth wood is warm under my fingertips, and I don’t feel any grooves from carving. The whole kitchen looks recently redone, so maybe he hasn’t used the cutting board much. Or maybe he isn’t a big cook.