“It’s how it goes for me.”
His eyes study me like he’s trying to read my thoughts. I decide to put him out of his misery and place my hand over his on the table.
“But I meant it when I said we could be friends.”
His thumb wraps around my pinky, stroking my skin softly.
“Friends who date?”
It’s obvious that Noah is used to getting what he wants, but no one can say he doesn’t work hard for it. Another minute of his persuasion, a flash of his pearly whites, and I could see myself caving.
“No.” I pull my hand back, but his reaction time is quick. He clasps my hand, intertwining our fingers. I stare down atwhere we connect, trying to shove the fireflies back into their jar.
“Just friends who make out in bathrooms?” The heated look in his eyes and the flirty tilt of his smirk makes it difficult for me to swallow, let alone say anything. “What are you doing on Friday?”
“I’m busy.”
“You got a hot date?”
“Something like that.” His fingers squeeze my hand lightly, and then he lets me go but continues to press me with his gaze. I sigh, rolling my eyes. “It’s my birthday.”
“What?!” Heads turn in our direction and I duck, lowering into my seat. “What are we doing?” he whispers this time.
“Wearen’t doing anything. I, however, am having a simple night out with Chloe.”
“Great, what time should I be there?”
“That wasn’t an open invitation.”
“Come on, I’ll make it your best birthday yet.”
The lid of the jar pops off and fireflies erupt in my stomach at the insinuation.
“Good morning!” My aunt sing-songs to the class.
Noah only winks at me, leaning back in his seat with a knowing smirk, twirling that damn pen.
20
savannah
“Happy birthday to you.”
“Bite the cherry and make a wish,” Chloe says.
I laugh at the silly request but pluck the cherry from my milkshake, tap it against Leo’s, and wish for the same thing I’ve wished for since I was thirteen years old.
I wish my mom was here.
As an adult, I know it’s stupid. I know I’m wasting my breath on something that can never come true but there’s this tiny part of me that feels like if I change my wish now, she’ll know. Like if I simply wished for the best night out or for a successful career that it somehow means I’ve stopped thinking about her.
I’ve spent years in therapy, blaming myself and feeling every emotion under the sun. I spent weeks in the darkest hole of sadness, uncontrollable sobs racking my body until my stomach would heave. I moved on to an irate level of rage where nothing or no one was safe from my verbal, and sometimes physical, assaults. When I moved on to feeling nothing, when days passed by and the only thing I was aware of were the aches in my body from staying horizontal in bed—noteating, not speaking—was when my dad was finally able to convince me to talk to someone.
Suffice to say I spent years working through my grief, but some things—like my birthday wish—I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go of.
“Happy birthday, you two.” My dad wraps an arm around me, pulling me into a side hug.
“Thanks, Dad,” Leo and I say in unison as he hands us both a thick envelope.
