I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts, my mind replaying every moment, every look, every accidental touch.
I’m in trouble, all right.
But for now, I’ll keep it to myself, locked away where it can’t do any more damage. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I close my eyes on a breath, with her laughter still echoing in my ears.
SEVENTEEN
The gentle melody of “Una Mattina”doesn’t startle me this morning, but Jamie’s voice does. “Good morning, Amelia. It’s six thirty, September sixth. The weather is sunny, and it’s a beautiful day. Hap?—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off sharply, throwing a hand up as a stop sign. My voice is thick with sleep and something heavier, like a cloud that lingers after a storm. “Let’s treat today like any other day, okay?” I mumble into my pillow, and even though Jamie is just a sophisticated cluster of algorithms, I swear I can feel his disappointment.
“Understood,” he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of what sounds almost like sadness.
It’s my birthday. I don’t have to celebrate it, not even to spare the fabricated feelings of a stack of code.
Ugh, okay, that was harsh.
Jamie isn’t just a program. He’s become more than that. But I just… I don’t like my birthday. They have always been the same. Nothing good ever really happened, but somehow, I ended up hoping it might be different each year. And then, as always, apart from the secret cupcake our chef would sneak me with a single candle flickering on top, my day would pass unnoticed.
Until the first evening came around when my parents hosted a charity ball in my honor. It started when I was twelve years old. Every year, without fail, they’d sit me at the piano in front of all those faces at the ball, making me dance my fingers over the keys for hours while they collected donations for some charity or another.
It was never my choice of charity.
One year, they chose an orphanage. I was fourteen then, and I remember bitterly thinking that I’d rather be an orphan than continue sitting there. It was a horrible thought—those kids had it rough. But pain is pain, and just because it comes in different forms doesn’t make it hurt any less.
At least orphans aren’t burdened with hope that only leads to disappointment.
Playing the piano on my birthday was supposed to be about doing good, but under their direction, it was just another display, a way tolookgood rather thandogood.
Last year, my first year free of them, I still chose to spend my evening playing the piano. Only I playedmyfavorite songs, just for me, on the public piano at Denny Park, letting the music flow out raw and unfiltered.
Once a month I go play there to escape and clear my mind. It’s not enough, and the piano is shabby, always slightly out of tune and dirty from being outdoors, but it’s there for everyone.
Since I can’t haul a piano up to my small apartment on the fourteenth floor and don’t want to rent a room to play in, it’s the best option I have.
After I played for maybe an hour last year, I donated all the money my parents had sent me to the local animal shelter. I told them I didn’t need their money.
Since getting my first paycheck, I haven’t touched a penny of theirs. I make enough for myself. But they won’t listen.They insist that aStanley must maintain appearances and standards.
They imagined me in designer clothesand behind the wheel of a luxury car. Instead, I used their money to buy food, blankets, and beds for every animal at the shelter.
This year, they sent even more money. Good thing, too—the shelter needs new cages for the dog pens.
My parents would be horrified if they knew how I was spending their money, which, admittedly, is part of the reason I do it. I didn’t want to touch their money at all, but the incessant nagging about my refusal wore me down. So, if there’s a silver lining, it’s that somewhere out there, thanks to their money, some puppies are sleeping a little cozier.
If that isn’t my kind of middle finger, I don’t know what is.
Jamie’s interruption nudges me back to the present. “Your mother is calling you, Amelia,” his tone is even, almost cautious.
Or maybe I’m imagining things.
I stiffen. “Ignore it,” I command, a bit more sharply than intended. “And ignore any other calls from her today.”
I don’t bother to include Father in that command becausehewouldn’t bother to call, not even today.
And Mother? Well, her calls are rarely more than a conduit for disappointment. My birthday is the one day I grant myself the peace of not dealing with her critiques. Adding another disappointment to her list for when I will pick up her call tomorrow feels almost satisfying.
“Understood. I’ve set her contact to silent for the day,” Jamie confirms, his voice devoid of judgment.
