Birthday Girl

“But yeah, it’s yours, so let him go for it,” I finally say, sparing her a quick glance before looking back down at my cards.

“Weren’t you going to tell me it was there?”

I shrug. “I forgot about it, I guess.”

The lie doesn’t sound convincing, but her excited voice saves me from the heat of everyone’s eyes on me.

“Well, in that case, then no,” she states firmly. “He can’t have any. It’s mine.”

My heart warms, and I can’t help it. I look up slowly. She’s smiling at me as she ascends the rest of the stairs.

“Thank you!” she calls, and then I hear the door open and the music flood in before it closes again.

Pink. I bought her a fucking pink cake like she’s seven. With roses on it. Did she see the cake? Does it look like a little girl’s cake? Or worse, something romantic? They had cakes with balloons on them. They had plain cakes. Fuck, I’m an idiot. I didn’t even think.

I throw down my cards, closing my eyes, and running my hand through my hair.

“Just a minute, guys,” I say, pushing back my chair and moving around the table, toward the stairs.

A few snickers and chuckles explode behind me as I leave the basement and run after the kid.

You know, it wasn’t long ago I could think clearly. I wasn’t constantly doubting every move I made and listing every possible outcome for a single action and how Jordan would respond to it. I haven’t been this confused about anything in a long time.

Pushing through the door at the top of the stairs, I hear the blare of I Love Rock ‘n Roll coming from the backyard and the splash of someone jumping into the pool. I’d tasked Jordan with collecting keys for anyone drinking, but if the neighbors decide to call the cops because of the noise, my safety measure to keep kids from drunk driving wouldn’t save me from the illegality of letting minors drink here in the first place.

Although I have a cop downstairs, so I’m guessing the odds are on my side.

I enter the kitchen, catching glimpses of the party-goers outside, and see Jordan by the refrigerator, pulling out the pink box with the cake.

She turns around and sets it on the island, looking up and meeting my eyes. “I’m not going to eat it yet,” she says. “Otherwise I’ll have to share it. I just want to see it.”

Apprehension creeps in as she lifts the lid, and there’s an apology on my lips even as I see her break into an excited smile.

I walk to the fridge and get a soda I pretend I came up here for. “Sorry if it’s childish,” I tell her. “Not sure what I was thinking.”

She crosses her arms and folds her smile between her teeth, like she’s trying to contain herself, but it’s not working. I can see the blush on her cheeks in the dark kitchen and the way her breath is trembling.

She turns her head toward me. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a cake this pretty,” she says. “Thank you for thinking of me. It’s a nice surprise.”

She looks back at the cake, a whimsical look in her eyes.

&n

bsp; Great. Now I feel worse. She looks like this is the nicest thing someone has ever done for her, and wouldn’t that be fucking sad?

It kind of is a pretty cake, though. The frosting is designed into roses and starts off at the bottom in white and slowly grows pinker by row as it moves toward the top where it’s finally evolved into a dark hot pink.

See, it wasn’t stupid. I knew she liked pink.

“It’s pink on the inside, too,” I tell her. “Pink cake, I mean.”

Her smile grows bigger.

And it’s not made for kids, now that I remember. The cake is made with champagne, the sales lady said.

Ok, I did good. My head finally evolves into the perspective I had when I bought it, and I feel less tortured.

She dips her finger into a rose and brings it to her mouth, sucking off the sugar. My gaze freezes, watching the way her lips purse and her tongue dips out to lick the tiny bit of frosting left off the tip.