Page 53 of Slow Burn

It was not, however, a distraction from Lyla.

The feeling of her hands on my body as she guided me into the right posture was almost more than I could take. It’s a good thing there were other people around, that Austin has been around. Otherwise it would be all too easy for me to step over that line, to cross into territory I told myself I’d stay far away from.

“Lyla really went all out for this party, huh,” he points out, snapping me out of my train of thought.

Lyla is standing in the kitchen, surrounded by Sutton and Skye, and the way she throws her head back with untamed laughter makes my chest squeeze.

She’s felt almost restrained around me at times. I’ve had this urge like I want to shake her, like I want to demand she tell me what she did with the girl who didn’t care what anyone else thought about her.

Not today, though. Today she’s felt more like the girl I never stopped thinking about. She’s felt more like the woman I’ve always been in love with. The woman I can’t be in love with.

“Yeah, she did.” I study Austin’s face for any sign that he’s onto me. I find nothing, no hint whatsoever that he thinks it might be weird that his little sister threw a party for his best friend.

To be fair, even I’m not sure why Lyla threw me this party. I think she did it to annoy me. Or to prove a point, though I couldn’t say what that point is, exactly.

I’m saved from the conversation with Austin when Lyla announces it’s time for dessert. Everyone makes their way over to the kitchen, and Lyla pulls a homemade chocolate cake out of the fridge.

She must have spent hours baking and decorating. It’s triple layer, double chocolate, and decorated with piped green icing to look like grass, a red plastic barn and tiny cow figurines.

She carefully lights three sparklers and pokes them in the top. Sparklers. Not candles, like a normal birthday. She got me sparklers. Because Lyla doesn’t do anything halfway.

I lean in and inhale, getting ready to blow the sparklers out, when Lyla snatches the cake away from me.

“Uh, not yet,” she snaps. “We haven’t sung happy birthday yet.”

Fuck me.

There is one thing I’m convinced is universally hated, and that is standing in front of a crowd of people singing to you. Add to it the fact that I generally hate crowds of people, and it’s my waking nightmare.

And they fucking do it anyway.

It’s off-pitch, Nash does too much by trying and failing to harmonize, and someone isn’t even singing in the right tempo. It’s terrible, and yet, something strange happens.

I look around at the group of people singing. I look at my dad, my siblings, my best friend, the woman who planned this for me, and a lump forms in my throat. I’ve never had anyone go out of their way to do something like this just to celebrate me, let alone have everyone I love come together for it.

Lyla is smiling big and wide as she sings the last few notes, and it occurs to me why she did this.

It’s okay to let people in.

You’re a softie, and I’m going to prove it to you.

My eyes burn and I blink to stave off the sensation as I lean in to blow out the sparklers, and everyone claps. Lyla claps the hardest.

My walls come down around me a little more, and it hits me how valuable, how special it is to have all these people in my life, here, willing to go out of their way for me for something as trivial as a birthday party.

The ranch may be suffering, we may not have enough money to fix all the things that need fixing, but right now, I am rich beyond belief.

Fat, heavy drops pound on the roof covering the porch where Dad and I sit side by side, wordlessly watching the deluge while we each sip on a chilled beer.

The mountains are shrouded in misty grey clouds, completely obscured now. It’s amazing how fast the weather in the foothills can change. A few hours ago, we were all out in the yard doing bunny yoga in the sunshine, and now the lawn is turning into a boggy mess.

The change in the weather is at once a relief and a warning. As much as the crispy, brown grass needs it, too much rain on parched ground isn’t good either. It creates run-off, which in turn can lead to flooding.

“How’d you like the party?” My dad asks, setting his beer down on the arm rest of his patio chair with a clink.

I let out a short huff of breath. “I’m relieved it’s over.”

Dad shakes his head and lifts his bottle to his lips. I listen to the rain drumming on the overhang.