That Girl (That Girl, #1)(8)

Today is, in fact, my nineteenth birthday. That is one thing I promised to never forget or lie about. It was the one day I always looked forward to growing up. Depending on the year and mom’s mental state, I’d have parties. Looking back, I now realize all the drunk adults smoking weed and partying in the background wasn’t normal, but the cake and presents took all that away in my eyes.

Some years I had the cake and presents, and other years she was so blown out of her mind, I was lucky to get fed. On those years, Jazzy and Old Man always took me out for pizza, and then he’d give us cash and dump us off at a local mall for hours. My birthdays have always been special to me. No matter how the day was spent, it has always been the one day of the year about me.

Last year, I gave myself the best gift of all, my freedom. There hasn’t been one moment I regret leaving. Not one struggle do I complain about, not one moment do I feel sorry for myself, and not one time do I look in the mirror and see my mom. I broke free from her and the prison she held me in for eighteen years.

Time still haunts me. I’ve learned I have to work about two and half jobs to keep my mind off my scars. I still pick at the massive one on my hand when I’m bored, and cringe when I see the cut that covers the length of my neck. Last night, while trying to fall asleep, I decided what I want for my birthday this year. A cupcake and a tattoo, that’s what I want.

On route one to my waitressing job there is a cute little bakery, and on route three there is a tattoo and piercing shop. Admittedly, the bakery is super cute and bright, and on the other hand, the tattoo and piercing shop scares the shit out of me, but I’ve decided I need something other than scars to mark my body. My tattoo will be the one souvenir I take from this town.

Following the route to the bakery, I can’t decide what flavor of cupcake I want. I do know for sure I’m splurging on the biggest motherf*cking cupcake there, with all the sprinkles and frosting one can pile on a cupcake.

The bell above the door dings loudly as I open it and enter.

The shop is tiny, but completely filled to the brim with sweets. Cupcakes, desserts, and candy litter all the shelves and tables. Okay, I’m probably going to be buying two cupcakes.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Um, I want to buy a cupcake, please,” I stammer.

“Any ideas what you want?” the little old baker asks.

“Chocolate, please. It’s my birthday, and I want a little treat,” I reply.

All of a sudden I feel like a complete fool and very childish.

“Well, my granny can hook you up, honey,” comes a deep voice from behind me.

The voice scares the shit out of me, causing me to lunge forward. My foot catches on the edge of a display case, and I Superman it onto the hard tile floor.

“Good heavens, Jeremiah. You didn’t need to startle the poor thing,” she scolds the voice.

Motherf*cker, my wrist. I think I just broke my wrist on my birthday.

“I’m okay,” I declare, and try to bounce up from the floor.

When I put weight on my left arm, I nearly pass out from the pain.

“You don’t look fine. Here, sit down, sweetheart.” The little lady pulls out a white vintage chair for me to sit in.

“Now, let me see that wrist. I’m a grandma of twenty-two, and you can’t fool me with anything. I know you’re hurt. As for you Jeremiah, apologize now, before I beat your ass.”

Her words make me giggle. Jeremiah steps in closer, takes my hand, and starts examining it.

“I told you to apologize, not examine her, you little shit,” she says, popping him in the back of the head.

She takes a light towel and wraps it around my wrist, places a bag of ice on it, and then sits next to me.

“So, it’s your birthday, and my jackass grandson just broke your wrist. I think the cupcakes will be on the house today.”

“Oh no, please, I’ve been saving up for this.”

With that statement, I get very strange looks from the pair. Knowing more words would only cause more suspicion, I choose to hang my head and shut up.

“Oh, sweet thing, I understand a woman’s pride. I’ll sell you that damn cupcake and give you one,” she says with a wink.

She then kicks her grandson right in the shin, furrowing her eyebrows and launching a perfected death glare.

Bending down on his knees and placing one hand on my leg, Jeremiah says, “I’m sorry for startling you. Guess I got excited seeing a new face in town, and a pretty one at that.”

“Okay, okay, you little horn dog. ‘Sorry’ was enough,” she scolds, standing up.

“I’m really okay. Thanks,” I try to sound confident.

In all reality, I can feel the thumping pain in my wrist and know in my heart it’s broken.

Jeremiah’s grandma shakes her head. “You’re not okay. We are going to eat cupcakes and get you checked out if the swelling continues. By the way, I’m Alice, and you’re about to eat the best cupcake of your life.”

She’s the type of grandma you don’t dare argue with.

“Okay, Alice,” I meekly reply.

“Good girl, now pick your cupcake,” she says, sitting down a tray full of them, “And Jeremiah, sit your ass down, too.”

Jeremiah doesn’t question his grandma, he just sits, and I’m not sure if it’s her don’t-f*ck-with-me attitude, or if he really just wants a cupcake.