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“Not this year, Dad. Kinda hard to get reservations, you know.” For a Valentine’s Day on a Friday. Fat fucking chance of that, even if I’d wanted to get dinner with friends—I’d have had to admit that it was my birthday.
“You’re going to celebrate, though, right, sweetie?” Mom asked.
“Of course, Mom. In fact, a friend and I are doing dinner here.” Okay, he was a dog, but she didn’t need to know the details.
“A friend?”
Oh, shit.Let this be a warning to you to not ever use the wordsa friendwhen talking to a Midwestern mother if you didn’t have a long-term significant other. Because my mother was like a fucking shark with blood in the water when it came to possible romantic relationships.
“Yeah, Mom, a friend.” I had to shut that down before it went anywhere. “From work.” My mother knew my very strict rules about not dating other cops.
“Oh.” I almost felt bad, she sounded so disappointed.
It was definitely good that she couldn’t see the expression on Taavi’s doggy face. It did make me feel a little tiny bit better, though.
“I meant to get home earlier so we could chat longer, Mom, but… stuff happened.” My mother hates swearing. Ironic, I know. “And I should really get dinner started.” Dinner was going to be frozen pizza, as soon as I managed to drag my ass off the floor. “I’ll call you guys again in a couple days and we can talk more, okay?”
“Oh.” She was really disappointed now. “Well, okay, sweetie. You have a good birthday, okay?”
“Thanks, Mom. Love you both.”
“We love you, too, Val!”
I let the phone fall the couple inches to the rug and took another long drink from my beer.
Taavi barked at me.
I lifted my head to look at him. “Yeah? You gonna give me shit because I didn’t tell you it was my birthday?”
He chuffed at me, loudly.
I couldn’t help it—I let out a laugh. “Right, doggo. I don’t tellanybodywhen my birthday is because it’s fucking ridiculous.” I pushed myself up, bringing my beer with me. “Who the fuck names their goddamn kid Valentine when he was born on February fourteenth, huh?”
Taavi followed me, his head tilted to the side. He made a grumbly noise.
“My parents is who,” I told him. I opened the freezer and pulled out two pizzas. I drained the beer and pointed at Taavi with the empty bottle. “Don’t you go telling people, either,” I told him.
He chuffed, still watching me.
“Fuck.”
I put the bottle in the bin, then turned on the oven and put in the pizzas, knowing I’d probably make more later.
Then I got another beer out of the fridge.
Taavi whined.
“We got fuckingshot at, Taavi,” I told him. “I’m forty-fucking-one years old today, and my parents named me fucking Valentine Hart. I get to get drunk on my birthday if I want.”
He whined again, but followed me back to the living room, where I flopped down on the sofa. Now cast-free, he jumped up to join me, using his butt to shove my leg out of the way to make room for himself.
I reached out and ran a hand down his back. “I’m glad you’re okay,” I admitted, two and a half beers in quick succession on top of adrenaline going to my head a little faster than usual.
He chuff-whined, then leaned into me. I took another pull from my beer and closed my eyes. “Think you can work a remote, bud? I can’t handle any more decision-making tonight.” I took another long drink. “I’m too fucking old for this shit.”
19
Forty-one is apparentlyold enough for a sad, middle-aged beer-hangover after consuming eight bottles, half a carton of ice cream, and only one frozen pizza because you’re too tired and cranky to bother making a second one.
