I look over at the noodles all tangled together in the containers and cross my arms. “Why are we celebrated for being born anyway? I didn’t do anything. I just came out.”
Logan gives me a look that tells me he’s not buying it. In past relationships, if I was dating someone and my birthday happened to come around, no one’s ever questioned my requests for no presents, no celebrations.
Then Logan came along…
I sit in a blue angelfish that’s double my height and lit from below. Logan picks the butterfly fish closest to me.
“Truthfully, it’s the day after birthdays I hate,” I share. “Birthdays themselves were like a giantPAUSEbutton. They were days my dad had something else to focus on other than gambling.”
I immediately wish I could take back the words. I’ve always kept this part of my life hidden from everyone. Then I realize Logan already knows so much. Too much, probably.
But he doesn’t budge an inch. He waits patiently as I spill my guts inside the fish’s.
“Birthdays were generally fine days,” I continue. “Not amazing, but good enough. Better than the others. There’d be cake sometimes. I’d even get a present on years when my dad had a recent winning streak, but usually he’d just promise something extravagant. My brother and I didn’t fight.” I release a humorless laugh. Just a soft puff of air, really. “But the day after? Everything that had been held back came rushing forward like the previous day had never happened. It just made me wish birthdays never came around.”
“That’s a mind trip,” Logan says, nodding in a way that makes me think he can relate.
“They were. I haven’t heard from my dad today.” It tells me as much as I need to know about how Atlantic City went. This is always how it is when the games don’t go his way: His mood plummets, plans get canceled, and I have to tiptoe around him trying to figure out how to fix it. I did, however, receive an animated card from Jerry in lieu of a daily check-in. It featured dolphins wearing party hats singingHapp-eee-eee-eeee Birthday.
Logan makes a face. “Seriously?”
“Not that I want to talk to him,” I mumble without thinking. “I feel bad for feeling—and saying—that.”
Part of me expects Logan to reply with something positive or for him to point out the silver linings, the way he has the entire time I’ve known him. But what he says next surprises me.
“Parents tend to be people we want to love and connect with, even when they disappoint us.”
I nod. “Birthdays were especially hard after my mom died. They were her favorite,” I say, feeling safe in the privacy of the fish. The sea glass–colored fish soothe me, sparking a distant memory. It was my birthday at the aquarium. The last party Mom organized for me. The last birthday party I ever had. “She once made me a mermaid cake. Twisted streamers to look like seaweed. She set up bowls with gummy sharks and Swedish Fish.”
The rest of the details are fuzzy, but the memory itself is the color of deep-sea blue. From the massive tanks we were surrounded by, probably. Still, to this day, the color calms me.
I had forgotten until tonight how much Mom loved celebrating birthdays. Any major event, really. I don’t remember much about her, but I do recall her being a celebrator. Just like Logan.
“I think she would’ve loved this night you planned,” I say. Another tear springs out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Logan says, jumping out of his fish, squeezing beside me in mine. The seat’s so small I end up on his lap, my arm draped around his shoulders. “Use my shirt.”
It reminds me of when we met. As he gently dabs my cheeks dry with his sleeve, I say, “These are happy tears, I think. I’ve never talked about this with anyone before.” It’s uncomfortable to share about my family. It exposes the underbelly of the vulnerable and messy sides of me. But this moment has also made me realize something else. For a long time, I haven’t trusted others. And maybe even myself. “I like talking to you, though. This was the best present you could’ve gotten me.”
Logan takes my hand in his. “Well, I did get you a physical present, too.”
We step out of the fish so Logan can grab a bag he’s hidden under the table. I push past the blue tissue paper and remove eight small boxes, piling them in my arms. I use the carousel seat as a makeshift table, opening the first box. It’s a gold charm of a wrapped-up flower bouquet.
“They look like bodega flowers,” Logan says. “You didn’t want them, but that day we met, I wanted so badly to buy you flowers.”
I open the next box, which is a gold cat charm.
“Toffee. So you always remember him,” he says.
“I’ll give the bird charm some distance from him,” I joke.
The rest of the boxes hold more charms: a four-leaf clover (“because we couldn’t find any”), a turtle (“so we don’t go to jail for stealing one”), a ladybug (“they’re even harder to find than clovers”), a lightning bolt (ha-ha), and a horseshoe (“in case Pancakes doesn’t need his shoes repaired next time we see him”).
The last box is a charm of Mickey Mouse.
“I was inspired by your tattoo,” Logan says, pleased.
For a split second, I’m confused. Then it clicks. A delighted laugh bursts out of me.
