I don’t need another reminder. I don’t need to commemorate anything about the day that I was born.
Not anymore.
In fact, if I could forget the day altogether, I would. But I don’t have that luxury. Instead, it’s the one day of the year I allow myself to wallow in my own self-pity. I don’t talk to anyone. I shut my phone off. And I do the thing that I always do so I can get it out of my system for another three hundred and sixty-five days.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall sends Dev’s gaze into mine.
“Mom’s up,” she says.
I check the time. She’s never up this early.
Shuffling into the kitchen, Mom heads straight for the coffeemaker. “Morning, Dev.”
She ignores me, as per usual. We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms for several years now, but she lets me come and go because it’s what’s best for Devanie.
“Okay, I’m out.” I say, ruffling my sister’s curly mop as I get up from the table.
“Hey.” She brushes her hair back into place.
“Stay out of trouble today. And tell Brighton I said hi.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Why would I tell her you said hi?”
Shit.
I’ve got to be more careful. As far as my sister knows, the last time Brighton and I saw each other was the morning Brighton drove her home after that party.
“Because.” I leave her with a non-answer and get the hell out of there before I back myself into another corner. Devanie might be twelve, but she’s perceptive. She doesn’t miss a thing.
I’m halfway home when I get caught at the red light on Bellevue Avenue, which always tends to take a solid couple of minutes to change coming from this direction. Grabbing my phone from the passenger seat, I fire off a text to Brighton.
ME: Off at 10 tonight …
BRIGHTON: See you then. ;-)
By the time the light turns green, I realize I’ve been sitting here for the past two minutes, thinking about tonight with the dopiest grin on my face.
I think I’m starting to actually like this girl.
God damn it.
27
Brighton
Today marks a lot of things.
First time ever having sex in the shower—fun, but not my favorite.
First time bringing a guy to my parents’ annual Fourth of July Extravaganza—he’s so excited he can hardly contain himself.
Also, today marks one month since we officially started fake dating and exclusively screwing.
I don’t dare tell Madden that though …
It might freak him out to know that I’m keeping track of a date that’s supposed to mean absolutely nothing to either of us, but to me, June 4th is like my own personal Independence Day.
Madden’s bathroom is cramped and the two of us fight over who gets the bulk of the steamed-up mirror first. We’re supposed to leave for my parents’ party in less than an hour, and I still need to dry my hair.
“Let me shave and I’ll be out of here,” he says, his hands gripping the thin bath sheet hanging low on his hips.
“Fine.” I re-secure my towel and take a seat on the lidded toilet, watching—admiring—the view as he lathers his chiseled face. I don’t know what it is, but there’s something so sexy about watching a man shave. The careful drag of the razor. The masculine, soapy scent of the cream.
He taps his razor on the sink before rinsing it out.
“There,” he says. “All yours.”
As soon as he’s gone, I grab my little travel bag of toiletries that he lets me stash under the sink, and I get ready, humming along to the Stone Temple Pilots song coming from the next room. I’m desperate for a distraction—anything to temper my nerves and get my mind off tonight, if only for a few minutes.
Three days ago, I got a call from Hershman Medical Research, where I’d interviewed for a research assistant position a couple of weeks ago. It was my fifth job interview ever, one that I was positive I bombed. The questions were nothing like the ones I’d been asked in the four interviews that preceded it, and I found myself stumbling over answers and losing confidence every step of the way.
I was off my game that day, and I couldn’t walk out of there fast enough.
And then they called me ...
...and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Tonight, with Madden by my side, I’m going to tell my parents that I’m not going to medical school this fall and that I’ve accepted a job at Hershman Medical Research.
I’m hopeful they won’t make a scene since they’ll be surrounded by their closest friends and the Who’s Who amongst their Park Terrace social circle. I’m also hopeful that by the time I see them again after tonight, they’ll have had ample time to cool off so we can have a rational discussion about this.
“Forgot my cologne.” Madden’s presence fills the doorway, and I try not to gape at what he’s wearing.
Khakis.
A chambray button down cuffed at the elbow.
I hardly recognize him …
“This is new,” I say, tugging at his shirt.
He leans across the sink, reaching for a bottle of cologne. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off this new version of him—not that there was anything wrong with the old version. Madden Ransom is Madden Ransom. Hot as sin. I’ll take him any way I can. Clothes or no clothes.
He puts the cologne back and returns to the makeshift living room without saying a word. But he doesn’t have to. I know he did this for me.
I just don't know why.
We pull past the iron gates and into the circle drive at a quarter past seven. We’re the tiniest bit late, but my parents are so preoccupied I doubt they’ll notice, and if they do, they’re not going to make a fuss in front of company.
“Head to the circle drive,” I tell him, pointing toward the fountain and the fully-lit front facade of the house where a team of young men in red sports coats operate tonight’s valet stand.
With a Mercedes in front of us and a Bentley behind us, his vintage GTO with its purring engine and growling muffler is completely out of place—and I love it.
We climb out when it’s our turn, and he hands over his keys with reluctance, telling the young man who’s about to climb in something about the clutch being sticky.
“Come on.” I loop my hand into his arm and drag him toward the front entrance, where Eloise is stationed to greet guests.
“Miss Brighton, good to see you tonight.” She speaks to me but she looks at Madden. Her eyes light up. She didn’t get to meet him last month when we had him over for dinner. She’d already gone home by then. And I haven’t brought him back since. “And who’s this handsome gentleman on your arm?”
“Eloise, this is Madden,” I say. “Madden, this is Eloise. She’s worked for our family for almost twenty years now.”
“I’ve known this one since she was in diapers,” Eloise says, swatting her hand. “Cutest little thing you’ve ever seen. Used to run up and down these halls, little blonde pigtails bouncing, singing at the top of her lungs. Free as a bird.”
Funny. I don’t remember that. Though I suppose no one remembers anything from that young of an age. Still, it’s good to hear that I was “free as a bird” at some point in my life, that I wasn’t always locked in a gilded cage by my own parents.
“Go on inside,” Eloise says when she spots the next guests behind us. “You two have yourself a wonderful time, okay?”
I take him through the foyer, past the curved staircase, down the hall and out the back door to the patio by the pool.
White tents cover our backyard and a local band is playing cover songs, mostly upbeat seventies rock, the kind of music that makes my parents and their friends want to get up and dance.
A buffet table covered in enough food to feed a small country is set up on the patio just off the north side of the house, and a long line has already formed.
My parents go all out any time they have something catered, only booking the best local hot spots with mile-long wait lists.
Inside the pool house, my parents have set up a bar, and from here, I see it’s their usual line-up of nothing but top-shelf liquors, vintage wines, and imported beers.
Scanning the yard, I spot my mother and father chatting up a state senator, one my father had a hand in getting elected this last time. Working in the pharmaceutical industry, my father has made no bones about the benefits of having politicians in your back pocket at all times. In a lot of ways, he’s almost made it a side gig of his—collecting as many influential Washington types as possible. He always says you never know when you’re going to need to phone in a favor …
“You doing okay?” Madden asks me.
I must look ridiculous, standing here frozen in my own backyard, but I can’t deny my sweaty palms, racing heart, or the fact that I practiced what I was going to say at least a half dozen times on the drive over here.
He eyes the bar in the pool house. “You look like you could use a drink. Stay here.”
If my parents didn’t think I was becoming a lush, they're sure as heck going to think that tonight. But whatever. I need something to take the edge off my nerves so I can get this over with.
Madden returns a few minutes later, handing me a glass of white wine. I take a sip, letting the crisp sweetness linger on my tongue.