“Party bags definitely seem to be the trend in the children’s party industry at the moment,” I reply.
Her eyebrows fly up. “Since when do you have such an in-depth knowledge of children’s parties?”
And just like that, the pain is back.
It isn’t lessening like I expected.
Instead, it seems to be sharpening. Every day I don’t spend in Archie’s company is like a skipped meal and my body has now stopped pretending it isn’t starving.
I know Andrew is worried about me. He’s checking in with me constantly from London, and I’ve stopped pretending I don’t need his support through this.
I’ve never had to repair my heart before, and it turns out it’s a painful process.
I swallow hard. “You’d be surprised by how much I know about the children’s entertainment industry,” I manage to say.
Caitlin’s forehead wrinkles, but luckily, before she can say anything, Kimmy comes up to me to show me the card she made for me.
It’s got a large pink flower on the front with uneven petals and the wordsUNCLE LEOspelled out in block letters that got progressively smaller as she ran out of space.
“It’s your birthday. You’re supposed to be the one getting cards,” I say.
“It’s a card to say thank you for coming,” she replies.
I take it carefully from her.
“Thank you. I’ll treasure this,” I say.
Maybe this is enough? Maybe I can fill the gap Archie has left behind in my life with my family instead? Be present at more events. Stop being the uncle who sends gifts and start being the uncle who’s actually there.
But it turns out a children’s party isn’t the best event to attend when I’m focused on trying to forget Archie. I can’t prevent all the memories from flooding back. Archie’s top hat catching the light as he pulls scarves from nowhere. The way he’d drop to one knee to talk to a shy kid at eye level. The running commentary during balloon animals that made the parents laugh as much as the children. The way he’d catch my eye across a room full of chaos and grin, like I was the only person in on the joke.
I don’t know what a therapist would say if I told them that children’s birthday parties trigger me. It’s not exactly a standard trauma category.Where does it hurt, Mr. Brennan? Right in my heart, doctor, every time I hear a balloon pop.
As a distraction, I throw myself into making balloon animals.
I make a dog. A sword. A giraffe that comes out slightly mutant-looking.
“So, how do you know how to make balloon animals?” Caitlin asks me as she watches me twist and wrestle a particularly resistant piece of latex into something that could be a butterfly if you had a generous imagination and low standards.
“They teach you at Stanford,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Someone taught me,” I relent.
“Who?”
“Just someone.”
Fuck. I don’t think I’ve managed to hide the grief in my voice.
Caitlin’s gaze flies to mine, and I can see her debating whether to ask me more or leave it.
Luckily, she chooses to leave it.
The party is taking place in Caitlin’s living room because it’s Detroit in March, and outside, it’s the kind of cold that hurts your teeth. Caitlin has pushed the furniture against the walls,hung streamers from the light fixtures, and put up a banner that readsHAPPY BIRTHDAY KIMMY.
“This is slightly different from the birthday parties we used to have,” Caitlin says sarcastically, and I snort.
