Birthday Girl

My arms give way, and I nearly drop the package of paper.

“Pike…” she repeats. “Like in Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”

“Huh?”

“1992 cult classic?” Danni explains. “Luke Perry? His name is Pike in the movie?”

Normally I would laugh at her verbal diarrhea, but my head is swimming and my stomach is doing somersaults. He’s here? He’s really here?

There’s silence for a moment, and then Pike asks, “So, does Jordan work here? I really need to see her.”

He sounds vulnerable, his voice making me realize I missed him even more than I thought I did.

But somewhere inside, my strength grows, and I steel my spine, ready to show him I’m not going to hide from him. I don’t know why he’s here, but if he tries to make demands again like when I tried to move back with my dad, I don’t feel like it will be hard for me to stand up and stay defiant. He won’t tell me what to do.

No matter how hard he tries.

Stepping out from behind the corner, I enter the lobby, seeing Pike standing on the other side of the counter. His gaze immediately locks on me.

He inhales a breath and just stares, his body rigid.

I take in his black T-shirt and deeper tan, like he’s had a full summer working outdoors, and my heart flutters at the sight of those piercing and warm hazel eyes and big hands that have picked me up and carried me half a dozen times. He looks taller, but I know he hasn’t grown, of course.

Danni hops off her stool. “I’ll just…go check on my grandma,” she says and quietly walks past me, to her apartment.

Pike stands between the front door and desk, fisting his hands at his sides and looking like he’s about to move forward but doesn’t.

I walk to the desk and set the paper down. “What?” I ask.

But again, he just stands there like he’s in a trance.

The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? “What do you want?” I press, my tone curt.

He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.

“Pike, Jesus—”

“The day you left,” he blurts out, and I stop.

I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.

“The house was so empty,” he continues. “Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was…” he drops his eyes, “gone.”

A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.

“But I could still feel you,” he whispers. “You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves.” He smiles to himself. “But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.”

My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my

arms.

He pauses and then goes on. “Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to.” He shakes his head. “I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you.” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.”

His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.

“I really thought I was doing what was best,” he says, knitting his brow. “I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.”

My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.