She’s catching onto my bluff. I need to cool it. Stop sounding so eager. “I told you, just curious.”
“All right,” she says, not sounding the least bit “all right.”
“Cool.” I guess I do have something to look forward to at my party. “I’ll see you Saturday then.”
The rest of my birthday passed without much of a hitch. Olive informed me of Mr. Sheridan’s early afternoon departure. Something about hot yoga and his girlfriend in tight leggings. Whatever his plans were, it felt like a fortuitous birthday present for me. I left the office at a reasonable hour for once and prepared for the evening traffic on the I-5 to Orange County.
I told my friends to keep dinner light. Nothing fancy or extravagant. The last thing I needed was to treat today as if it’s some celebratory event. It’s just another Wednesday night with the added deed of maneuvering through the late afternoon traffic to see my friends. Though sitting in bumper-to-bumper congestion wasn’t my ideal after-work activity, I was looking forward to seeing them. We decided on a quaint hamburger joint, and my friends insisted they be allowed to bring me a birthday cake. Mainly to satisfy their own sweet tooth cravings, but also so they could spend thirty-two seconds singing Happy Birthday while simultaneously embarrassing me.
“Happy birthday!” Hayley throws her arms around me, Rohan following in her path.
I met Ro in college my sophomore year taking a geography course. A class that I thought I would ace but ended up struggling through. That was when Rohan stepped in. He helped me understand the concept of erosion and plate tectonics with an invitation into a local study group. Our friendship lasted beyond the knowledge of the earth’s atmosphere, all the way to graduation. I met Hayley a few years ago when she and Ro started dating, and since then, she seems to have joined our little friend group with ease.
“Happy birthday,” Ro adds, sans the over-extended enthusiasm. Just a firm pat on my back and a broad smile.
By their side stands another UCI alumni holding a cake slathered in thick chocolate frosting under a clear plastic dome lid. Jake, Ro’s old roommate from his freshman year, motions a loose salute in my direction, his bold facial hair joining him as if it has a whole personality of its own.
“Those whiskers are growing in pretty well, Jakey,” I comment, gesturing a finger at the sharp ends of his handlebar mustache. “Soon you’re going to look like the Pringles guy.”
“Ha!” he exclaims, the mocking tone in his flat laugh bouncing off the walls. “The birthday boy has jokes.” He lightly punches my gut, making me bow, and we laugh it off as he adds another birthday greeting to the many I’ve received today.
After Olive let the word spread that I am officially over this proverbial hump everyone reaching the grand age of thirty seems to fear, I got a few more greetings throughout the day. Add to that a few text messages from my brothers and the random acquaintances who send me emails or texts only on special occasions, it’s been a pretty steady flow of birthday wishes. Except I haven’t gotten one from a specific someone.
There’s no way Grace would know it’s my birthday. Not unless my sister happened to bring it up. Or if she’d done some stalker-status digging and happened to come upon the sliver ofinformation. So, I shouldn’t keep holding on to the expectation that she’ll call me or text me to wish me a happy birthday. But I can surely hope. I can keep wondering what it would feel like to discover her waiting at my door, never mind that she’d have to really lay into that stalker persona to find out my home address. Maybe a more realistic Cash App transaction alert is what I should be hoping for. A light shove to get the momentum going. Like a Newton’s Cradle, the metal balls hitting each other with a loud clack. That’s what it feels like when Grace’s name fills my phone screen. A pulsating snap that makes me want to push back with something just as stirring and playful.
I guess there’s one plus to having my friends embarrass me with an open display of my birthday celebration. I can always wish for Grace to make an appearance—physical or digital— when I blow out the candles.
Once we’re shown to our table and we’ve ordered the first round of drinks, Jake fills us in on a recent Hinge date. It turns out his date was roommates with a girl he hooked up with and never called back over a year ago. He ran into the realization when she invited him over, and low and behold, that ghosted date was sitting right on the living room couch.
We’re laughing, watching Jake grow uncomfortable with chagrin, when the attention suddenly turns on me.
“How about you, Andrew?” Ro asks, using the segue to his advantage as if he’s had this burning question held at the tip of his tongue all night.
The sudden shift has me rearing back my head. “What about me?”
“Have you met anyone recently? Been on any dates?”
“We were talking about Jake,” I point out, not wanting to dive into my dating life or lack thereof.
“Yes,” Ro answers. “But you’re the one with the commitment issues. If we’re going to worry about anyone dying an old maid, I think it’s you.”
“What the hell are you talking about? As if Jake doesn’t go on a date with a different girl every week. At this rate, he’ll never settle down.”
“No, no,” Hayley rebuttals. “The thing with Jake isn’t commitment issues. He has an issue with limerence.”
It’s Jake’s turn to look offended. “What’s ‘limerence?’”
“It’s intense infatuation that’s occasionally characterized by obsessive behaviors,” Hayley explains, her tone taking on a Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary-like graveness. “The way you plan the honeymoon after the third date or how you call and text ten times a day?—”
“That’s limerence?” I ask, curious about her offhand psychology lecture.
Hayley nods and tells Jake, “You tend to fall fast and hard, and I’ve noticed that the women you date are usually turned off by it.”
“And I have commitment issues?” I ask.
She nods again. “You tend to find anything and everything wrong with the women you date.”
“No, I don’t,” I argue.
