Page 70 of This is a Kissing Book

“We’re paying for these, right?” I ask, half joking, but also hoping I didn’t accidentally wind up with a dine-and-dasher.

“Obviously.”

Jules calls to the woman behind the counter as she hands us our order. “Excuse me, do you happen to have two birthday candles?”

The woman smiles and rummages around, producing two slightly melted candles and a lighter. “Are you celebrating something?”

“That we didn’t get arrested,” Jules deadpans.

Yet.

The woman looks confused and then breaks into laughter. “You had me there for a second. I’m only on my first cup of coffee.”

I feel like the walking dead, yet strangely more alive when with Jules than I have since the Ottawa Outlaws had a real shot at the Stanley a couple of years ago.

We find a small table by the window and she sticks the candles into the birthday cake doughnut.

I light the candles and Jules says, “Make a wish.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“I couldn’t very well put a birthday cake with candles in that envelope along with the confetti, now could I? This is your belated birthday—fried-cake substitute—deferred celebration.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“And isn’t that the point? Both of us, on the count of three, make a wish, then we take a big bite.” She counts down with her fingers.

I close my eyes, and I find myself wishing for clarity. For the courage to tell Jules the entire truth about who I am, for answers about the letters Mom believed in so desperately, and for this thing between us to work despite all the secrets I’m keeping.

When I open my eyes, Jules is already looking at me.

We blow out the candles together, and as thin trails of smoke rise between us, I realize that maybe what I really want is right here. This. Her. Something real.

“Will you tell me your wish?” I ask.

“No way. You know the rules.” She licks the glaze off the bottom of the candles and splits the birthday cake one in half, then takes a chocolate one.

After helping myself to half of an old-fashioned doughnut, I say, “Tell me more about your family. Aside from your triplet brothers, what was it like when you were growing up?” I cannot imagine the lifestyle that spawned this unique woman.

She takes a bite of her doughnut, chewing thoughtfully … or stalling. “Not much to say. Dad was, um, in the casino business. Mom was a showgirl. She wanted me to live a sensible life.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“No, that would be you, a descendant of Abraham Lincoln.”

The weight of that legacy settles on my shoulders like it always does. “Is it? Sometimes I feel like I exist in the shadow of one of the greatest men to ever live. Like nothing I do will ever measure up to his legacy.”

I instantly wish I could take the comment back. I try to act as if it were offhanded, but that very thought has eaten me up for years.

Jules doesn’t seem fazed by my admission. Instead, her expression softens with understanding. “Are we talking about Honest Abe or Frank Andresen?”

I never thought of it that way.

“Maybe the point isn’t to measure up. Maybe it’s to honor the best parts of that legacy while still being yourself.”

The bonds of the past … and future loosen in my chest. She makes it sound so simple, so possible.

“Besides,” she adds, tearing off a piece of a jelly doughnut topped with powdered sugar and possibly trying to lighten the mood, “I bet Abraham Lincoln never wrote anyone a birthday song.”