Birthday Girl(43)

“Hey.” I gesture to the cabinet to the left. “The aspirin’s in there. Get yourself some water and a shower. You can help me with the bathroom.”

He nods, but he looks like he’s two seconds from vomiting. His skin is a sallow green, and I actually feel sorry for him. I don’t miss that feeling.

“You’re drinking a lot,” I say.

He ignores me, shuffling toward the cabinet and pouring himself some aspirin.

I press further. “You’re drinking too much.”

He still says nothing, but his jaw flexes, telling me he heard me.

I wish he’d talk to me. Even fight with me, because it’s better than nothing. I want to hear about his job and his life. About the friend he lost. I shouldn’t have learned something like that through Jordan.

I should’ve pushed harder when he started to shut me out. So much harder.

But I know who I really have to blame for the wedge between us.

“I was good to your mother,” I tell him.

He sniffles, taking another huge gulp of water and still not looking at me.

He’ll believe her. He’s not ready to hear me yet. But I’m still saying it.

“I worked hard, I supported you both, and I was faithful.” I rise from the seat and look down at him. “You can ask me questions. I won’t lie.”

But he just shakes his head, finishing off the glass and setting it down. “I gotta get a shower.”

He turns to walk away, but I’m not done yet.

“Have I ever not done something you asked me to do?” I ask him.

He stops but doesn’t turn.

Anytime he needed money, I gave it to him. Anytime he needed a ride, I was there. Whenever he wanted to go somewhere or see something or take a karate class or just be with me, I was always there for him. Pain stretches through my chest as I stare at his back.

I was a good father. When he wanted me around.

“Have you ever caught me in a lie?” I go on.

A lie she didn’t teach him to believe, that is?

He looks over his shoulder at me, and I can see the struggle in his eyes. He wants to be angry at something or someone, and I was that target for a long time, but now he’s not sure why anymore. He has to start seeing who his mother is and what she does to people. He needs to stop letting her do it to him.

“I’m here,” I say. “Okay?”

I hear him breathe, the rise and fall of his chest heavy, and finally he nods, still looking hesitant, but it’s something.

Then he turns and walks out of the room, toward the stairs, but I suddenly glance at the front door again, something occurring to me.

“Where’s Jordan?” I call, walking into the living room.

He’s halfway up the stairs but looks over at me again and shakes his head, still not speaking.

“Didn’t you pick her up from work last night?” I question. “Weren’t you both together?”

“No.” He yawns and rubs his hand through his hair. “I’d had too much to drink, so I sent one of my buddies to pick her up and bring her home. She probably went out for a run, and you just missed her.”

I stand there, trying to piece together my conversation with her last night as Cole trails upstairs.

So when I spoke to her last night, she wasn’t with Cole. Wasn’t with him at all.

And she hasn’t been home. Their bed is still made.

Cole heads upstairs, and I shout after him, just remembering. “Use my bathroom!”

I’ll be working on theirs for a little while longer, and the master bathroom has the only other shower in the house.

I move back into the kitchen, still thinking.

Why would she lie about that? If she stayed with a friend, her sister, whatever…it’s fine. But she let me believe she and Cole were together, which is why I called—to make sure they both were okay.

I sent one of my buddies to pick her up and bring her home.

Yeah, your buddy didn’t bring her home. I have a half a mind to be worried, but she lied for a reason.

And despite how much I like Jordan, I can’t help the old feelings curling through my gut that I haven’t felt for a very long time. I don’t like being lied to.

Especially by women.





An hour later, I walk into Grounders and already see a lunch crowd filling the high-top tables and bar. A couple servers dressed in their jeans, tight shirts, and little aprons carry plates to bikers pit-stopping during their Sunday runs and hunters coming in from their early morning jaunts. The bar is filled with old-timers who look like they slept in their clothes last night, and the dank fluorescent lighting makes everything look dirty despite the smell of Pine-Sol stinging my nostrils.

The soles of my work boots stick to the floor with every step I take across the room. I’ve never understood the appeal of this place or why it’s lasted so long.

I spot Jordan at the other end of the bar, her fist covered with a white towel and buried in a drinking glass as she dries it. I wasn’t sure she’d be here, but when she’s not at the house, this is where she is.

She’s still in the same clothes I saw her leave in last night, and a yawn stretches across her face. Her hair is bound in a high ponytail, and her lips are rosy with a hint of lipstick.

She was pretty yesterday. This morning, my suspicion is blurring everything. All of a sudden, I’m twenty again and wondering where Cole’s mother was all night.