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We hang up with awkward mumbles of goodbye.
twenty-seven
Anna
For the first time, I am not happy that it’s my birthday. I’m not in the mood to celebrate. Drew’s birthday was yesterday. And though I’m the jerk who pushed him away with both hands, somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d planned to celebrate our birthdays together. At the very least, I’d have found a way to be with him on one day or the other. Who did he celebrate it with? Will he think of me today?
Sitting on my bed in the empty apartment, I curl over on myself, pressing a hand to my chest. When is the pain supposed to end? I feel so hollow, yet so heavy with hurt that I can barely move. Sleep is no longer a comfort. Every moment I’ve spent with Drew plays in a loop in my head. When I wake, my pillow is damp, and my cheeks are tight with dried tears.
I’m walking out to meet George downstairs when I trip over the box on my doormat. It’s a present, large and square, and done up in plain white paper and a black ribbon. An envelope is tucked under the ribbon. I can’t see any writing on it, but instantly my heart is thumping so loud I hear its thud in my ears. I’m almost afraid to pick the present up.
From outside, a horn blares. Grabbing the package with clumsy fingers, I run out to the car.
“You aren’t supposed to get yourself presents, Anna,” George jokes when he sees the package in my hand.
“Ha.” I tried to laugh, but I can’t.
We drive off, the present cool beneath my sweaty palm. Staring out the window, I press my fingertip against the hard corner of the card until it bends. Should I open it now? At least see who it’s from? I think I know. But I might be wrong. I’m not sure what would crush me more, if I’m right or if I’m wrong.
Only one way to know. And I can’t wait until I get home. My fingers tremble as I pull the envelope free and rip it open. It’s a plain white card with “Anna” printed on it in hard, masculine script.
My breath seizes at the sight and a wounded sort of wheeze escapes. I don’t even know if it’s Drew’s writing. I’m only guessing. How sad is that?
Fumbling, I open the card.
I bought this before—
Seemed petulant to waste it.
Happy Birthday.
—Drew
I haven’t cried in weeks. I won’t let myself. But staring down at the wrapped present, I feel a familiar burn and tickle behind my lids. My throat constricts so hard that I struggle to swallow. I can’t bear to rip into Drew’s present. I want to keep it just as it is, in the precise way he last touched it. But something waits inside for me, and I have to know what it is.
The car speeds along the highway as I carefully pull the ribbon free and attempt to open the present without tearing the paper.
Inside is a box, and when I lift my present free, a sob wrenches out of my chest. It’s a framed Siouxsie and the Banshees album cover—JuJu, circa 1981. And it’s signed by the entire band. A rare and wonderful thing that I don’t think anyone else in the world would know that I’d love.
Like that, I’m a veritable fountain of tears, snot, and heaving sobs as I clutch the frame to my chest.
George casts me a horrified look. “What the hell? Anna, talk to me.”
I can’t. Not without dying a little more inside. “I’m sorry. I’m PMSing.”
While George’s look of horror grows, I sniffle and search for a tissue in my bag. I find a crumpled cocktail napkin that scratches my face when I use it. “The present is from my mom,” I lie. “I guess I’m homesick.”
He doesn’t look convinced. In fact, I’m sure he knows I’m lying. But he lets it go with a shrug. “I guess it’s good you’re going home for break soon.”
But my home isn’t a place anymore. I’ve realized too late that it’s a person. And I’ve torn him from my life.
Drew
I turned twenty-three yesterday. Ever since my parents died, I’ve hated my birthday. It only serves to remind me that my family is gone, and I am essentially alone. Gray is clearly doing Anna damage control. He managed to talk me into seeing a movie yesterday—a sad sack way to celebrate, in his opinion. Now he wants to drag me out to do a birthday celebration with the guys, who aren’t taking no for an answer. I’d rather pretend birthdays didn’t exist.
I think about the present I left on Anna’s doormat. Since the album cover arrived, I’d been wanting to see her expression when she opened it. Now I can only try to imagine. Did she smile in that quick and bright way of hers when she’s surprised? Or did she smile with slow, blooming reluctance, like she’s losing the fight with her emotions?
Did she even like it? Am I pathetic for giving it to her? Hell, if she ever found out how much I paid for it, I’d certainly look like a sap. But it wasn’t as if I could return it; I’d bought it at auction.
