Shuffle, Repeat(25)
Maybe it’s nice.
I take a photo and text it to both parents. It reassures them to see proof of my emotionally healthy social life. Mom’s in class, but Dad returns a message immediately:
HBD baby girl!
I also send the picture—along with a message of gratitude—to the only person who can possibly be responsible for decorating my locker.
? ? ?
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me,” Shaun whispers across the aisle in AP English.
“Was it Lily, then? Or Darbs?”
“Better not be. Neither of those bitches decorated for my birthday.”
That leaves only one person. A surprisingly romantic act from someone who is not usually romantic.
The thought of it makes me smile.
? ? ?
“Nope.” Itch slides his hands down my rib cage to my waist. “Not my style.”
“What is your style?” Itch moved here in the middle of junior year, so I didn’t meet him until after my last birthday.
He twists his fingers through the loops in my jeans and tugs me closer. “I’ll show you on Saturday.”
? ? ?
“Happy birthday!” Ainsley lilts as soon as I walk into physics class, and I make the connection.
“You decorated my locker?”
She springs up and flings her arms around me, and I am acutely aware that every straight boy in the room wishes he was in my position. I give Ainsley an awkward pat on the back. “Thank you.” It’s what you say when someone you hardly know spends an inordinate amount of time on your unrequested birthday celebration. This must be life when you’re friends with the cheerleaders.
“You’re welcome!” She beams. “Were you surprised? Come sit with us at lunch.”
This is getting weirder by the minute.
“At the sundial?” Ainsley gives me a duh look. I shake my head. “I eat with Itch.”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Bring him along!”
“And Lily?” I ask her. “And Darbs and Shaun?”
Ainsley’s eyebrows dart down in the middle, just like they did at the bonfire when she was trying to wrap her head around my playlist song. “I don’t think there are that many open seats.”
Of course.
“I’ll have lunch with you tomorrow,” I tell her, wondering how I’m going to explain this to everyone else.
“Tomorrow.” Ainsley gives me another fast hug before heading back to her lab table, where Oliver is already seated.
Watching us with interest.
Or something.
? ? ?
I wait for Mom out by the corner. As soon as I slide into the passenger seat, she hands me a vase of flowers. I stuff my backpack between my knees and the glove compartment so I can accept them. I’m about to thank Mom when— “They’re from your father,” she says. “God forbid he call for our new house address.”
“He has it,” I tell her.
“Apparently he misplaced it, because he had these sent to my office.”
The flowers—deep violet hydrangea mixed with white lilies and roses in a turquoise vase—smell wonderful. I breathe in their scent. “I love them.”
“Your father has great taste,” Mom says. “I’ll give him that.”
I find the tiny envelope buried within the buds and open it up. There’s the message, called in by Dad and written in the florist’s neat slanted handwriting:
Baby girl—
You are beautiful, brilliant, special.
Hope your birthday is as wonderful as you deserve.
Love you. Miss you.
—Dad
My father’s words bloom bright and warm inside me. Something I can hold on to. Something to remember.
When I send Dad a thank-you message, he again texts back right away.
UR welcome, luv U
When we get home, Cash is there. He’s supervising a crew of plumbers and painters who are finishing up work on the downstairs bathroom. “Happy birthday.” He grins, jerking a thumb toward my mom. “She told me.”
Mom scurries into the kitchen and comes back with a foil-wrapped loaf of bread. “Rosemary,” she tells Cash. “With flax seeds.”
“Thanks.” He slides a brown paper bag brimming with fabric scraps across the floor toward her. “Upholstery remnants for you.”
I’m relieved that—this time—no one’s around to witness the strange bartering world in which we live.
? ? ?
Itch takes me to a tapas restaurant downtown, where we share shrimp flatbread and mushrooms sautéed with garlic and a cheese plate. After, we stop by 7-Eleven for mints (because of the garlic), and I have yet another flash of guilt as I remember hooking up with Ethan Erickson behind the building. Once again, I wonder if I should tell Itch about it. Once again, I dismiss the thought.
After our stop for fresh breath, we get back in Itch’s car and he heads us toward my house, except he drives past the turn. I shoot him a questioning look but he only strokes my leg. We pass several communities and finally come to a place where there’s a break in the tree line and streetlights. Itch turns onto a bumpy dirt road, which we follow slowly until we reach a collection of bulldozers. He turns again and we drive even more slowly for a couple hundred feet. We finally park in the center of an empty clearing, where Itch kills the engine and flicks off the headlights.