“I don’t remember ever decorating anything,” he replied. “My birthdays were…events. Dinner. Champagne, before I was allowed to drink it. Someone always gave me a pen I didn’t need.”
“That sounds…”
“Fun?” he asked, one corner of his mouth tipping up.
Georgina touched his arm lightly. “You were the main attraction. Not the guest of honor.”
He didn’t deny it.
“What about you?” Georgie asked. “You’re the only one here with actual frosting memories.”
Bea smiled, surveying her catastrophe of a cookie—purple icing, green stars, red gummy worms along the edge.
“It was always kind of a mess. Twenty kids running around. Umma would make kimbap and Papa would make churros. Claire always tried to steal the party bags before the games even started.”
“Sounds chaotic,” Nate said.
“Itwas,” Bea said, but a smile stole her face. “Screaming and snacks everywhere. Someone always cried.”
She looked around the room—at the frosting, the glitter, the sugar-stained countertop. At them.
No one said anything for a while. Only the soft sound of icing tubes and paper plates shifting. The pop of a balloon.
Bea leaned her elbow on the table and smiled at all of them. “You know what? You’re all getting extra sprinkles tonight. Retroactive birthday reparations.”
“I’d prefer the Cheetos,” Nate said.
“Put them on your cookie,” Georgina instructed like a pro.
Later, once the sky deepened and the music shifted into summer throwbacks, Georgina announced, “Alright. Game time. Charades. Winner gets the last cupcake. Loser eats Nate’s.”
“I’ll take death,” Nate said.
“Not an option,” Georgie said, pointing a perfectly manicured nail at him.
Bea passed around slips of paper. “Birthday-themed. And yes, Gage, this counts as part of the evening.”
“I’m not performing.”
“Not yet,” she said sweetly. “We’ll make you guess.”
Georgina grinned. “Oh, this is going to befun.”
They played in a loose circle on the outdoor rug on the balcony, barefoot and slightly sugared-up. Georgina went first—dramatically miming something with wild arm movements and suspicious hair flipping.
“Princess?” Bea guessed. “No—mermaid? Nate’s ex?”
“Close,” Georgie gasped. “It’sbirthday diva!”
Nate rolled his eyes, pulled a paper, and stood like a soldier forced to join a high-school drama club. He mimed typing. Scowled. Slammed an invisible phone.
“Gage,” Bea said instantly.
Nate pointed at her. “Thank you.”
The room cracked up. Even Gage let out a low breath of amusement.
“Your turn,” Bea said to Gage.
