I smirked. “Birdy,” I answered.
“You finally picked up, you piece of shit,” she said, all attitude. “You better be dying or working on an album.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Neither.”
She clicked her tongue. “Mhm. Figures. All you do is lay around and drown in your own sorrows. Not getting no pussy. Not living.”
I ignored her and changed the subject. We shot the shit for a while, but she kept circling back to my lack of motivation.
“You thought about Jordin lately? You should call,” she said.
“Birdy.” A warning. It was the first time in four years she’d directly brought up Jordin, though I knew they were friends now. I’d seen them together on vacation, on her Instagram before I deleted the app.
“You should call her. You might find the motivation to get back toyouafter just a conversation.”
I exhaled, my jaw clenching. I wanted to call her. I’d seen that she’d blown up in the industry right after we split. Her songs were everywhere for months. Then, she’d disappeared out of nowhere. No new music. Nothing. I wanted to know what happened. I’d picked up the phone to call so many times. But I couldn’t. Too much time had passed.
“You should come out,” Avian said when I got quiet.
“Come out where?”
“My birthday party. You owe me, nigga. You missed the last two.”
I smirked. “I hate parties.”
“You love me, though.”
I sighed, leaning my head back.
“Ciarán,” she said, her tone softening. “I miss you.”
That shit hit me in the chest. Because after losing Jordin, after losing music? I couldn’t afford to lose her too.
I tapped my blunt against the ashtray, my throat tight. “Fine.”
“YES!” she shouted.
I rolled my eyes. “Chill the fuck out, damn.”
“Nah, fuck that. This is major. I’m breaking you out of your recluse stage.” She chuckled. “I’ll text you the info. The party will be in Tampa at some close friends place. Don’t stand me up, dumbass, or we are going to have problems.”
She hung up before I could reply.
I sat there for a long time, staring at my phone, my stomach in knots.
I wondered if Jordin would be there.
Fourty Eight-Ciarian
I flew into Tampa the night before Avian's party to prepare myself. I’d been in solitary confinement for years. I needed to give myself time to back out, but be close enough to convince myself to go.
I decided to show up.
I was sitting outside the two-story traditional home she’d texted me. I was surprised she was having a party in the middle of the afternoon instead of at her club. But this was better, I supposed. My therapist said sunlight is healing.
The driveway was packed, so I had to park on the street. I didn’t pay attention to the black SUVs and minivans instead of the sports cars Avian's friends usually drove—until I saw balloons on mailboxes and heard kids' music thumping low in the background.
I double-checked Avian's text, wondering if I had the wrong day.
