NO.
I won’t let you in.
Why aren’t you responding?!
“Ugh!” I scream, startling Ernest where he was napping on his dog bed. “Fuck.”
I don’t want to see Ben. I don’t want to think about our pact. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday!
As if he was standing right outside of my door when he texted, I hear a knock less than thirty seconds after I send my last text. Begrudgingly, I shuffle over the door and peek through the peep hole.
Benoit Bardot is standing there, his slutty little glasses sitting high on his nose. His arms are full of gift bags, and he has a fucking cake in his hands.
“Go away!” I yell through the door.
He smirks, looking directly into the peep hole. “Open the door, Colette.”
“No,” I reply, turning the lock anyway.
Annoyingly, he looks like the perfect gift when I finally do pull the door open. His hair is effortlessly tousled and he’s wearing a striped button-down and khaki shorts. The cake in his hands is covered in red icing with “HBD Red!” in white icing across the top.
“That cake looks like blood,” I remark, scowling.
“You like blood, murder, crime, et cetera, et cetera.” His lips tip up at the corner, knowing he caught me.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Are you going to let me in?” he asks, cocky as ever.
“Do I have to?”
“No.” His reply is quick and I actually believe him. If I turned him away right now, he’d leave.
My eye roll is overdramatic as I move out of his way.
He walks in like he owns the place, setting the cake on the counter and arranging the presents just so. “Come sit in front of your cake,” he commands, pulling a candle and a lighter out of his pocket.
I narrow my eyes, walking toward him. I don’t know why I’m letting him boss me around. Why I’m letting him acknowledge a day that I rarely ever acknowledge. He pulls out the chair for me, nodding in satisfaction when I take a seat.
He steps back and holds up his phone for a picture. “Smile and say, ‘Thirty’!” Instead, I scowl and flip him off. “Perfect,” he mutters, and when he sets the phone down on the counter beside me, I see that he’s set it as his background.
“I won’t sing to you,” he promises, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “But I do want you to make a wish.”
“I wish that you’d leave me alone,” I reply, blowing out the candle.
“Bummer. You told me so now it won’t come true. Oh, well.” He smirks. “Guess I’ll have to stick around.”
Ben takes it upon himself to locate a knife and two plates in my kitchen. When he slices the cake, I see that it’s red velvet inside.
“What’s your obsession with red?” I ask.
He pauses, eyes darting up to my hair. “I would think it’s obvious.”
I scoff. “Red… What an unoriginal nickname, too.”
Ben considers me for a moment. “Maybe for some. But when I look at you, all I see is red. The color of your hair, sure. But also the flush that runs up your neck when you feel anything—and you feel so deeply, though you don’t let many people see that—excitement, frustration… desire. It’s the color of your toes when you allow yourself the frivolity of painting them. The color of your tongue when you drink diet cherry cola. It’s your hair, yes… but it’s so much more than that.”
I’m momentarily stunned, speechless. Where the fuck did that come from?
