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It had been that way for as long as I can remember.
When she died, Dad still made his cup of coffee. Every morning he’d have his sip and then it would sit untouched for the rest of the day. One morning, I woke up earlier than usual (not on purpose) and found him crying, talking to the cup as if it was mom. It broke my heart.
I started sharing the coffee with him the next day. It was the only way I knew how to help. And it did. Little by little, dad pulled himself back together. So now, most mornings, we share a cup of coffee. Making sure to always leave some for mom.
I take a sip and shrug.
For everyone else in the world, today is just another day. The fact that this is the day I turn eighteen doesn’t make a difference to anyone but me. It sucks that my first birthday without mom, dad has to work, but there’s no sense in making him feel bad about it. He’s shouldered all of the burden since mom got sick. The least I can do is understand we can't have dinner tonight. “No big deal. You bought me a car. I’d say we’re good.”
He pushes back from the table and stands. He kisses the top of my head then reaches for his briefcase on the counter. “I’ve got to get going.”
I fight the crushing hurt twisting in my chest. Not doing my birthday dinner is one thing but leaving me alone all day… that creates a new pain I haven’t felt. I thought we’d at least spend the day together. He’s my dad. My birthday might not matter to anyone else, but it’s supposed to be important to him. I swallow the lump in my throat, pretending to be curious yet indifferent. “Your shift doesn’t start for, like, twelve hours.”
“I know, but I have a meeting with Sheriff Tomlinson this morning.”
I don’t know how long dad’s been gone. I’ve laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. I cried myself to sleep once but now I’m awake, and drained, and too deep in my pool of self-pity to call anybody and beg them to hang out with me.
I don’t expect Sarah or Logan to remember my birthday. It’s been years and I don’t have social media to remind them it’s today. I also realize, counting the popcorn bits on my ceiling—so far, I’m at four-hundred and twelve—that I’ve been back for almost three months and only have two friends.
Two. If you don’t count Cooper and Piper. Sometimes I feel like they’re only nice to me because I’m with Logan.
How pathetic am I?
I’m so lost in my thoughts and the popcorn pieces on the ceiling, I don’t hear my bedroom door open, don’t notice Logan until he’s lying next to me. “What are you doing?”
“Counting the little popcorn specks.” I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll cry. Then he’ll ask what’s wrong, and I’ll have to make up some stupid excuse because I don’t want Logan feeling bad for not knowing it’s my birthday.
“How many are you up to?” he asks, the edge of his lips quirking into a grin.
‘Four hundred and seventy-five.”
We lay in silence. Me counting and him staring up at my ceiling too. After a few minutes Logan says, “This is worse than watching paint dry.” He stands then grabs my hands, pulling me into an upright position. “You look like you’ve been run over by a car. What’s wrong?”
I yank my hands free and shove them under my armpits, hugging myself. I probably look like a five-year-old having a fit, but at this point I don’t care. “Nothing. Go home if you’re bored. This is what I’m doing today.”
Logan grunts and lays back in bed beside me. He tucks his arms under his head and closes his eyes. “I’m just saying, there are way better ways to spend your birthday. But it’s your day. If this is what you want to do then so be it.”
I jerk upright, my insides tingling with excitement. “What did you say?”
Logan chuckles, the sound rippling through me in the best possible way and pushes onto his elbows. “I mean I thought we’d go to the beach and then the haunted house tonight, but if this is what you’d rather do…”
He remembered! I don’t know how, but Logan remembered. I cup his jaw with my hands and bend down, placing a very big very thankful kiss on his lips.
40
Logan
Danika has a death grip on my hand while hugging close to my arm. We’re barely out of the school’s parking lot and she’s freaking. Every year our school turns into a massive haunted house either the weekend before or the weekend of Halloween. It just kind of depends what day the thirty-first falls on. It’s a huge event that’s open to the community.
Our school is three stories tall and sectioned off for themed scare zones. The second floor is zombie themed, with two scare rooms. The third floor is basically a living tribute to Steven King. The committee picked five movies, all of which are a secret until tonight.
Our classrooms are naturally grouped together in pods of two, connected by a bathroom. If the flow is the same as last year, the guide will lead everyone on a predetermined path through each room and then back down to the first floor.
Down on the first floor, the cafeteria has morphed into a ghoulish dance party, hosted by the cheerleading squad. Outside, leading back towards the parking lot, the football team has set up a series of carnival games. Basically the whole place has one way in and one way out.
People flock by the bus load to us because we are the closest haunted house that’s actually scary in a fifty mile radius and because all of the proceeds are sent to one of the children’s hospitals in south Florida.
Danika squeezes her eyes shut and damn near cuts off circulation to my hand. “Baby, relax.” I shake free of her death grip and drape my arm across her shoulders. “This is supposed to be fun.”
