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“Where’s my phone?” She patted the pockets in her dress and then surveyed the kitchen with a frown.
I grabbed the bottle, cutting the wax seal and prying open the cork. “Probably in your purse.”
She stared longingly down the hallway. “I’ll remember to check in the morning.”
“You won’t,” I laughed, pouring the wine.
“I will,” she said, picking up a glass. “I have a very good memory.”
“When you’re sober.”
She took a sip before pursing her lips. “Good point. Do you think we should buy more wine now? Or wait until we’re not broke? Will wine be more expensive then?”
I shrugged. “Well, I’m always going to be broke, so no sense waiting on me. And you could afford a crate of twenty-seven-year-old wine now. Or we could just switch to hard liquor. Ride into the retirement home on a crate of tequila?”
“Tempting.” She rolled her eyes. “We should probably save a couple of bottles of wine, though. Your dad thinks we’re waiting to pop them open when one of us has a kid, or gets married.”
“In that order?” I laughed.
“I don’t think either of your parents cares much about the order. They’re just desperate for it to happen.”
I took a sip as Thea drained her glass, pouring herself another full serving and topping mine off.
“One A.M.” she said, voice bright and bubbly. “Happy 27th Birthday to you.”
“Happy 27th birthday to you, too.” I said.
We held up our glasses, toasting each other with a sip and beginning a tradition that neither of us could pin to a specific year. Instead, our joint birthday had evolved over a lifetime. Year one, a cake we’d share at my house one year and Thea’s the next. Until Thea’s mom died and then the cake was always at my house.
The birthday wish was one of my oldest memories. Thea and I burrowed under a mountain of blankets, holding hands, closing our eyes, and wishing for…well, the wish changed. Barbies and Legos. Four more inches to better fit sample sizes and a C in calculus. Admittance into the Fashion Institute and not to bankrupt my grandparent’s business.
The annual wine had only become a tradition when we turned twenty-one. My father presented us with the crates, bought while our moms were pregnant and hidden in my dad’s office until we were old enough to drink the stuff.
Finally, sometime tomorrow early in the morning came a gift. Just one and always homemade. For Thea, that meant brilliantly stitched outfits. For me, shoddily constructed shoe racks and poems.
“What’s your wish this year?” I asked, reclining back against the cool countertops, a wave of contentment washing over me and leaving me relaxed. Although, that also might have been the alcohol.
“You first.” She copied my stance, arm brushing against mine, her fingers playing on the top of the wineglass.
Unlike previous years, I hadn’t given the wish much thought. None at all, actually. In my teens, I’d wanted to leave Franklin Notch to hike the Appalachian trail. I’d wanted to become a park ranger and disappear into the woods.
Then, in my early twenties, I inherited the roadside stop from my grandparents and I wished to turn it into something new. So, I gutted the tourist trap with its cavalcade of old, neglected animals. Cage by cage, with the help of federal funding, independent donations, and specialty grants, I turned the roadside attraction into an animal sanctuary. One that provided injured animals a place to recover before returning to the wild and a home for animals that could never go back.
And now, in the backend of my twenties, I had run out of wants. And needs, for that matter.
“I don’t know, Thea,” I said with a shrug, the silence dragging on too long to not answer. “Maybe I don’t need to wish for anything this year.”
She scoffed loudly, spitting wine back into her glass. She set it down on the counter, hitting the countertop a little too enthusiastically. “You don’t want to wish for anything? Seriously?”
“My job is going great. I finished remodeling the kitchen so I’m happy with my house. Everyone’s healthy. I don’t know. I feel pretty good about my life at present.”
She narrowed her gray eyes at me, searching my face for something to betray my indifference.
“You’re ruining this,” she decided, picking the glass back up and draining the contents. “You can’t be happy.”
“But I am happy. Aren’t you?”
She corkscrewed her lips, eyes on the glass and her voice slurring. “I’m not unhappy.”
