Birthday Girl

“My grandmother watched from the table, laughing with everyone else with this look of joy.” I swallow, remembering the huge smile on her face. “Everyone was just so happy, and even at their age, they kept growing, having fun, being silly…” I trail off. “I don’t know. I liked that, I guess.”

“You want that,” Jordan says quietly.

I think about my grandparents, constantly making each other smile, and all the women I’ve been with, and how I never felt that. Not even with Lindsay. I was probably incapable.

“It just didn’t look forced, you know?” I go on, turning to her. “They set a high standard. It’s hard to find that one person who speaks your language.”

She drops her eyes, looking deep in thought.

I keep going, changing the subject. “What about you?” I broach. “Any ideas about how you want your life to be someday? Your marriage, the wedding, the perfect day, the perfect dress…?”

She just sighs and takes a drink from the bottle. “I really don’t care about the wedding,” she says, staring back at the television. “I just want the life.”

The life.

Those words hit hard, and I don’t know why.

Maybe because I’m still waiting for the same thing.

Over a week later, and the house has settled into a routine, thanks to our pizza and movie night.

Jordan is usually already up when I come downstairs in the morning, and I notice there’s a nicer sheen on tabletops and countertops that wasn’t there the evening before. The floors feel clean, the refrigerator is magically free of bad food and three-day-old leftovers, and the appliances shine.

Everything smells fragrant, too, and sometimes it’s because she made muffins or pancakes, and sometimes it’s because of the scented candles I no longer mind her burning in the house. She uses a French press for coffee, and I’ve stopped using my Keurig in favor of it.

Anything Cole left laying in the living room, like shoes or soda cans, the night before are suddenly gone, and I can’t remember the last time I had to unload the dishwasher.

And I don’t, for one moment, believe it’s thanks to my kid. He’s become pretty damn lazy, it seems, and I hadn’t realized how he’d changed.

The more he grew up, the less time he wanted to spend with me, and I see hints of how his mom was with me in how he treats Jordan now. He’s neglectful, and I find myself grinding my teeth to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself.

I love my kid, but it’s hard to see why he deserves her.

He’s hardly ever home except to sleep, and when he is, Jordan’s at work until two in the morning. I was worried I’d walk in on them having sex on the couch or something when I offered to let them live here, but thank God, their schedules don’t mesh well so they’re hardly here at the same time. And if they are, I’m at work, and I don’t have to hear or see anything.

Still, though, she’s alone a lot. He won’t even stay home on her nights off, and I wonder why the hell she puts up with it. She seems capable and strong-willed. A girl who can handle herself. What brought them together? She doesn’t seem to have anyone but Cole and that sister of hers, in fact. No friends or other family members have dropped by here to see her that I can tell.

Either way, though, I’m enjoying having her around, even if I do wish Cole was home more. I break into a smile as soon as I walk through the door every afternoon, hearing her 80’s music carrying through the house and somehow making it feel even more like summer time in here. It’s nice not to come home to an empty house for a change, and I even find myself leaving work on time every day, because I actually enjoy being home now.

She and I have chatted more over the last several days, inquiring about how work was or how school is going for her, and the girl has an uncanny ability to get me to talk. She likes to run shit, and she’s good about teasing or making jokes to put me at ease.

I can do without her eggplant lasagna, that’s for sure, but if she weren’t here, Cole would be avoiding me even more than he is now, and I wouldn’t be holding my tongue with him as well as I am. I’m glad she’s here.

Holding the bag of laundry over my shoulder, I charge down the stairs, swing around the bannister, and walk into the laundry room.

After clearing my clothes out of the dryer, I moved the stuff from the washer and drop a new load in, starting both machines again. I catch sight of the dust on the front of my T-shirt from working in the garage this morning and pull it off, dropping it in the running water before closing the lid.

Stuffing the bag on top of the dry clothes, I pick up the basket and head back upstairs. In my room, I dump the clothes onto the bed and sift through the pile, looking for another shirt.

But I stop, grazing my fingers over a tiny piece of red fabric I don’t recognize. It lays nestled in a pair of my jeans, and I don’t have to think twice to know what it is.

I stand up straight, steeling my spine.

Shit.

Hooking my finger through the little band, I eye the see-through, red G-string hanging from my finger.

“What the hell?” I say under my breath, looking down at the laundry to double-check I have my clothes. “How did this get in my stuff?”