‘You gotta work and call your folks,’ I finish for her, trying not to concentrate on the curve of her body silhouetted against the white kitchen wall. ‘You know where I am if you need me.’
The words linger in the air between us. Why would she need me? Not possible. My only real hope is that she might want me.
‘Don’t eat all the biscuits or you’ll be back on baking duty tomorrow,’ she warns before leaving me alone to clean up my mess.
25
Mia
It has been a perfect birthday.
I slept in, my friends threw me a party, I ate half a Colin the Caterpillar cake myself and the guy I like wrote me a song. Which sounds great on paper but having listened to it at least ten times now … I really don’t know how to feel. Abandoning my reading before I’ve begun, I pick up Oliver’s gift and pop the earbuds back in my ears. Whatever I thought Oliver’s music was going to sound like, I do not know, but it wasn’t this.
Between the acoustic guitar and all the male singer songwriters on his playlists, I had assumed something closer to Noah Kahan or Bon Iver, but this is not that. My lips pinch with confusion as the beats kick in, followed by a screech of guitar and Oliver’s frantic vocals. It’s difficult to make out any of the lyrics but if this is his idea of a love song, I am afraid. Maybe I just don’t get it. My musical tastes don’t run to the sophisticated depths of Radiohead rarities and B-sides. I prefer music that makes me feel something real. This only makes me feel like I’m about to have a stroke. Truly, as I lie back and close my eyes, trying to grasp Oliver’s lyrical genius, the song sounds more and more like nightmare fuel. Why is there a chainsaw in the middle? And if it’s not a chainsaw, what the hell is it?
On my desk, I see the bags containing my other gifts. Thoughtfultokens from people I’ve only just met. Some fancy shower stuff from Alice to wash away the smell of a long shift at Members, handmade scrunchies from Jenna, a hilarious green tote from Bryn and a pale blue leather-bound notebook from Michael with whisper-thin pages that feel way too expensive for a casual gift. But I remembered Alice telling me his family is from old money and accepted it graciously, knowing I will treasure it forever and never write a single word in the thing. And there, on my desk, is Ethan’s gift.
Ethan baked me biscuits.
When I let myself wonder what that could mean, my brain starts to make sounds like Oliver’s song. Senseless whirring and high-pitched squeals that I cannot compute. Most likely he’s homesick, I reason, and yes, it’s a sweet gesture but just as much something he did for himself. The shirtless presentation on the other hand really seemed like more of a treat for me.
Tomorrow, I’ll work out what to say to Oliver. Something smart and insightful. Or at least something that makes it slightly less obvious that I have no idea what I’m talking about. But for now I give up on Oliver’s song and pick up my phone to call my dad.
‘Mia?’
He answers all his calls this way, like he isn’t convinced it’s me even though my name is written across the screen of his cell in big bold letters.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, moving to my desk chair to stare out of the window.
‘Did you try calling your mom? She’s in bed, she has a migraine.’
It’s the strangest version of ‘happy birthday’ I’ve ever heard.
‘No.’ My brows knit together as I wait for him to correct himself. He does not. ‘We already talked today. She called me this morning, before Pilates.’
‘She went to Pilates?’
There’s tinny cheering in the background, excited male voices. Of course, it’s Sunday. Where else would he be but at home, watching a football game?
‘Is she okay?’ I ask, allowing the distraction. If the Panthers are playing it could be his own birthday and he wouldn’t remember.
‘She’s worried about you. We both are.’
I can’t do this again, not today. So I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window pane and force a smile he can’t see but I hope he hears.
‘You don’t have to worry about me, I’m doing great. My friends threw me a birthday party today and my roommate made biscuits.’
‘That sounds swell, hon, but I’m more interested in how you’re doing in class. We’re not paying for you to spend your time throwing birthday parties and baking.’
‘No, my friends threw me the party—’ I cut myself off because what’s the point? Either my dad has forgotten it’s my birthday or he’s decided not to acknowledge it and really, which of those is worse?
‘Everything’s going great,’ I assure him. ‘Classes are good.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure, I’m sure.’
I never have been able to get anything past my dad.
