Birthday(53)

We sit in silence for a long time. I notice her friends have settled across the room and they’re not even trying to hide their stares. My face starts to burn as I imagine what they must think of me.

Susan rubs her neck, smiles softly, and shrugs. “What do you say we end on a high note?” she says. I give her a confused look as she stands and smooths her skirt. Then she’s around the table, leaning down, brushing her bangs to the side, and with a soft little noise, she kisses my temple. “You were always very kind, Eric. For what it’s worth.” I feel my face turning pink. “I won’t regret that it was you.”

“D-ditto,” I say, my voice cracking a little. “All of that, ditto. And you’ve been more patient with me than I think I deserve.”

“Maybe,” Susan says with a tired sigh, and then she’s backing away. “Anyway. Are you quitting outright, or will I see you at the game next week?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Well then. See you around, I guess…”

“Yeah,” I say.

She walks back to her friends and they huddle, speaking rapidly in urgent whispers. I throw away my trash, make my way to the exit, and as I near the door, Susan gives me one last look good-bye.





MORGAN



I get home from therapy to find that Dad has left Mom’s present on the counter. It’s a small box wrapped in wax paper and bound with butcher’s twine. I pick it up, noticing it’s heavier than I expected, and take a deep breath. Last year, her letter about the car nearly unraveled me—did unravel me—and part of me is afraid of what this year will bring. I remind myself I’m stronger today than I was a year ago. I can handle it.

I take the present to the front steps and open it with care, peeling back the wrapping paper. A small leather journal rests in my hands, older than I am, with its corners faded and curling and its pages yellowed. The nameplate on the front reads, Top Secret Donna Steiner Gardner Culinary Technology. Do Not Steal. I open it with trembling fingers and find the names of dishes I haven’t had in forever: fried green tomatoes, buttermilk biscuits, deviled eggs, squash and bacon casserole. Years of microwaved food and takeout leave my mouth watering at memories of family meals, steaming and fragrant around the table in our old kitchen. Grief starts to rot the memories, but then I flip to a middle page and a note falls out.

Morgan,

Here’s hoping you inherited my talent in the kitchen and not your father’s. If the worst comes to pass and you can’t boil water without starting a fire, well, you can give this to your wife someday. Still, wherever I am when you read this, it would make me happy for you to at least try making a few things before giving up. Wish I could write more but I’ve been tiring out so easily lately. I know you know I love you, but I still want to remind you. I love you. I’ll always love you.

And speaking of love, take a look at this recipe. I’m not saying it makes people fall in love with you, but I did make some for your father when we’d just started dating. Maybe it was my natural beauty and charm that seduced him, but I’m pretty sure it was the cake.

Love,

Mom



I investigate the marked page and find the entry for German chocolate cake. The margins are filled with hearts and Mom’s handwriting warns caution across the top and bottom. I wipe my eyes and laugh, but then an idea flashes. No matter what happens tonight, Eric and I need a birthday cake.

Turns out, baking is actually easy. It’s like chemistry class or cleaning a camera. All I have to do is make sure I have the exact measurements and follow the directions. My phone buzzes as I slide the chocolate cake onto our rickety oven rack. I wash flour from my hands and look at the screen. It’s Eric.

Hey. Sorry for the delay. Happy birthday. We can talk whenever.

Hey you! Cool cool cool. Movie marathon at your place?

Carson might be miserable to be around lately, but his house dependably has working air-conditioning and it’s usually clean. Which is better than Dad and I can say for our trailer.

There’s a pause and then he writes: Sure. Cool.

This is fine. This is fine.

Great, I type. See you in an hour? I stare at the draft for a moment and then add, And hey. Are you okay?

It’s fine, he types. I’ll see you in an hour!

He said, “It’s fine,” not, “I’m fine.” The words set me off, but I know I can ask him in person soon enough.

Thirty minutes later, the timer dings and I take the cake out of the oven to cool. The smell of chocolate and coconut wafts through the trailer, making everything feel warm and cozy against the chill September afternoon. I manage not to burn my hands on the cake tin—not even a little bit—and I tell myself to take that as a sign that tonight is going to be okay.





ERIC



I drop my phone on the passenger seat and lean my chin to the steering wheel, the Walmart parking lot monopolizing my vision like a hypnotic black wasteland from some dystopian movie.

My fingers absentmindedly scan through the radio, through random, fuzzy channels. If I’m being honest, Susan dumping me isn’t the darkest cloud in my life, but I feel slightly guilty thinking that. At least I’ll see Morgan in an hour. That’s something. Silver linings, right?

My phone lights up and starts to buzz a few minutes later, and tension rolls through me because who even calls anyone anymore? But then I see Peyton’s name.