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I’m surprised to see a website pop up. It’s called “Poetry Tree.” It’s sort of like Wattpad for poets, apparently.
I have to create an account to see the poems. I do so quickly. Then, champing at the bit with impatience, I type in her name again. Several of her poems come up. They were published five years ago.
I start reading them, one by one. They’re good—really good.
And then I strike gold. My heart hammers in my chest.
One of the poems is the one that the professor stole from her. It’s an earlier version, and the first few lines are different.
Maybe that’s why it didn’t come up in a search.
There were several verses, however, that are word for word what Ruby recited to me. And her name is on it. And the date.
I grin from ear to ear.
This is going to be the best birthday ever. I screenshot the page, just in case somehow it mysteriously vanishes. I go through and screenshot every single poem that she wrote. I grab a notebook and start taking notes. That motherpucking puckface is going down, and he is going down hard.
“Best birthday ever,” I pronounce loudly. “Paxton for the win.”
My thoughts are interrupted by the shriek of the smoke alarm.
Something smells . . .burnt.
It suddenly hits me that I forgot to set the timer for the cake. My mother always sets a timer when she’s cooking.
Damn it. I leap to my feet, run into the kitchen, which is filling up with smoke, and turn off the oven.
I open the oven door, and smoke pours out, making my eyes sting. I open my apartment windows. I open the door.
The smoke alarm is still shrieking in protest. I fetch a step-ladder and take the battery out of the smoke detector, and then frantically fan at the air. The smoke has tears welling up in my eyes.
Damn it. I don’t have enough time to order a replacement cake for Ruby. I have a team meetup in a couple of hours.
I suck in a deep breath of dismay, and then start coughing on the smoke.
Okay. I am not going to let the fact that I ruined Ruby’s cake put a damper on things. I know this day is hard for her, and I am determined to put a smile on her face.
And I think it’s only a little burnt. I can at least make it look pretty, and she’ll know I made an effort for her.
I let the cake cool down while I start printing things out from the computer. When it’s cooled down enough, I frost it with my handmade vanilla frosting, and then carefully write one verse of Ruby’s poem on it. Then I put it in the glossy pink cake box I’ve purchased.
I grab the papers that I printed out earlier and put them in an envelope. I stick the envelope in a briefcase and call a cab. Sitting in the cab, I very carefully balance the cake on my lap.
The ride to Rowan and Mason’s apartment is a little rough, as we dodge potholes and rogue bicyclists, and the cake gets jolted a few times, but I am pretty sure it will be okay.
The doorman knows me, so he lets me in with a wave and a smile.
When I ring their doorbell, Rowan opens the door for me with a puzzled look. I hadn’t told them I was coming. Ruby told me she spends her birthdays holed up and hiding out from the world with her sister, though, so I knew she’d be here.
Puck comes running towards me, barking joyously.
“Back! Puck! No!” I shout. He leaps on me in greeting and I clutch the cake box to my chest.
“No! Puck! Down!” I yell, stumbling back. He’s jostled it even more.
Rowan rushes up and grabs Puck by the collar. “Sorry, sorry,” she says apologetically. “We’re working on training him. It’s a massive fail so far. What is that smell? Smells like charcoal from a grill.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I huff.
