I hate that my stomach twists with disappointment at the thought.
The oven timer beeps. I move over to it, pulling back the door to see fluffy cinnamon rolls inside, perfectly golden. I grab a hot pad from a drawer to remove them. The door opens behind me as I pull the rolls out. He reaches down to close the oven.
I want to slap his hand away, but instead, I turn to him and look up.
He’s dressed in a festive shirt with palm trees and Snoopy with his doghouse. A smile twists up the corner of my mouth.
“Are you wearing Russell’s shirt?”
He shrugs, looking down over himself. “Yeah.”
I turn back to the mini kitchenette and grab the plastic tube of icing for the cinnamon rolls. He steps back as I cut it open and squeeze the contents over the golden rolls. The air is thick with tension. I need to do something with my hands.
He steps to the fridge and opens it, pulling out champagne and a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice I didn’t even know was there. He proceeds to pop it open. Then he grabs two champagne glasses from my glassware collection on the floating shelf and pours us each some champagne with a splash of orange juice.
I finish the cinnamon roll drizzle and wipe my hands on thedish towel. He grabs both the glasses and walks over to the door.
“Will you have a mimosa with me on the beach?” he asks.
There’s a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, like he’s waving a tiny white flag. He’s making an effort to push past what happened this morning and still spend my first birthday without my mom here with me.
I’m too emotionally spent to try and decipher his motives. Game or no game, I just want to get through this birthday without shedding a bucket of tears or being totally alone. If Dayton is my only option, I guess I’ll take it.
I reach for the mimosa, my fingers brushing his briefly. He opens the door for me. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore reaches my ears when I walk out, heading toward the beach. Dayton follows, and we continue walking once we reach the sand. The sky holds a few white clouds, but the beach stretches out ahead of us, empty.
It’s still too early for people to be out. I shiver, the cool breeze coating my exposed arms and legs.
“How did you usually spend your holidays and birthdays with them?” I ask.
Dayton and I would trade off every other holiday here, like divorced parents with split custody, only it was us sharing custody of them. My mom hated it, but she finally got used to it after the first few years. It started with Dayton being busy with work and unable to make the trip from New York.
Then I met Andrew, and I would spend every other Christmas or Thanksgiving with him and his family. After the routine started, going home with Sav or Axel was just easier than facing Dayton. It was this unspoken thing between us. We never even established it verbally with each other.
“I never saw them on my birthday. On Christmas, Dad would make gingerbread cinnamon rolls and mimosas. Clarawould put on the Charlie Brown Christmas cartoon and say she was just getting the routine ready for grandbabies.”
A tear rolls down my cheek, even as a smile lifts the corner of my mouth. “They did the same thing with me.”
“Then we’d open presents. I would get the update on everything happening in your life. Clara would flip through photos you had sent her.”
I pause mid-sip to stare at his profile. “She would tell you about what was going on with me?”
He nods. His dark hair is growing out, the curls looking soft and touchable. I study the side of his handsome face, seeing the notes of sadness there in his lowered eyes.
“They didn’t update you about me?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t ask.”
He smiles. “I guess they knew you didn’t really give a shit.”
Guilt pangs my gut. He’s not wrong, but now that they’re gone and it’s just us, I can’t help but wonder if I should’ve buried the hatchet so that my mom could see me every Christmas instead of only half of them.
“I just … I mean, you hated me. You bullied me. Why would I want an update on someone like that?”
He studies the sand for a few steps before answering, “I was childish. I didn’t know how to handle—didn’t know how to process you being there.”
I tip the mimosa back over my lips before turning back to head home. “I was pissed about moving here, too, leaving my life behind. You act like I had a choice in it.”
“You didn’t. I know that.”
