“For Whit, hey?” His tongue skates between his teeth.
I point to Jonas, who’s so focused on getting the perfect frosting swirl, his eyes are crossed. “The kid didn’t have a present for her, and we couldn’t turn up empty-handed.”
“I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.” Denny takes a bit of Danish, licking a piece of flaky crust from the corner of his mouth. “You sly, sly dog.”
Guess I am. Whit can put me on a leash and ask me to beg any day.
Barkfuckingbark.
• • •
Jonas cradles the box of cupcakes in his lap, fighting off Betty with his left arm. “We shouldn’t have brought her. She’s going to sit her big butt down on the cupcakes.”
“Miss Spaghetti.” I pat my lap, calling her over. “She loves birthday celebrations. Poor girl would be heartbroken if we left her behind.”
He side-eyes the dog, wary that she’ll barrel toward him at any second. “Does she love the birthday celebrations or the treats?”
“All of it.”
My pickup rounds the corner, and Betty leans hard into my rib cage. Then it dawns on me that we’re missing something crucial.
“Hold on tight for a—” Before I finish the sentence, I veer the truck down a side road shortly before the town’s limit.
“What the hell?” Jonas grips the box in one hand, clinging to the door handle with his other to stop from toppling sideways during the sudden, jarring turn.
“Dude, we forgot the most important part of any girl’s birthday.” The truck barrels down the road, through deep potholes and across a cattle guard. “Luckily, I have a spot where I grab flowers for my mom from time to time.”
Around one last bend, I pull to the side of the dirt road and look out at a field of wildflowers. At one point a few years back, it was a logging cut block. And the absence of thick forest, combined with a lot of rotting logs and branches to provide nutrients, means the field’s covered in a variety of wildflowers from May to September. Each vying for sunlight, they stand knee high and sway softly in the slightest breeze.
The pickings are slimmer today than they would be if Whit’s birthday were even a few weeks earlier, but we have enough options with vibrant red paintbrush, pale blue lupines, and yellow balsam root coating the earth.
“I don’t think Mom cares about flowers.”
“Women like to pretend they don’t care about flowers—my mom used to insist they were a waste because they wilt so quickly. But her face lights up every time I bring her a bouquet from this field.” Tossing open my truck door, I let Betty scramble out before me.
Jonas stands at the edge of the field, tossing a stick for Betty while I scour the sun-soaked wildflowers, picking only the best. About ten minutes and one bee sting later, my arms are loaded, and I hop back into the pickup.
• • •
Keeping Betty off both the flowers and the cupcakes is wildly stressful, and a loud sigh of relief fills the cab when we finally pull into the driveway. I barely get the flowers out of the way before Betty’s scrambling over me to get out.
Jonas pushes the front door open, letting Betty run inside ahead of us. And when I’m kicking off my shoes, Whit traipses down the stairs in a pair of tight black trousers and a white button-up blouse. She must’ve clocked out of work mere moments ago.
“Happy birthday, Mama.” I hold out the bouquet, and something in my chest soars when Whit’s gaze travels from the flowers to my face. She comes alive, her gorgeous smile spreading to her glimmering green eyes.
Jonas hops over some sneakers scattered on the floor, jutting the white box toward her. “We made you cupcakes.”
“Wait, really? You made them?” She gets choked up on the words. “How…how did I get so lucky?”
Whit pulls Jonas in for a hug, which he groans about, and rests her cheek on top of his head. They stay there for a beat, until he’s groaning even louder, mumbling something about being unable to breathe and how her tears are messing with his hair.
“Thanks, you guys.” She kisses his head, slowly letting go of her intense hold. “This is the best present ever.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve actuallyseenthe cupcakes,” I say.
The three of us walk into the kitchen, and I lean my hip into the counter right next to Whit. A snort escapes her nose when she opens the box, her free hand shooting up to wipe away the tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. It kills me to not be able to reach out and wipe them myself.
“Th-they’re…uh—I’m sure they taste better than they look.” Whit laughs, plucking a sour key from the top of a cupcake and slipping it between her lips.
