Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
The gentle melody of “Una Mattina” doesn’t startle me this morning, but Jamie’s voice does. “Good morning, Amelia. It’s six thirty, September sixth. The weather is sunny, and it’s a beautiful day. Hap—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off sharply, throwing a hand up as a stop sign.
My voice is thick with sleep and something heavier, like a cloud that lingers after a storm.
“Let’s treat today like any other day, okay?
” I mumble into my pillow, and even though Jamie is just a sophisticated cluster of algorithms, I swear I can feel his disappointment.
“Understood,” he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of what sounds almost like sadness.
It’s my birthday. I don’t have to celebrate it, not even to spare the fabricated feelings of a stack of code.
Ugh, okay, that was harsh.
Jamie isn’t just a program. He’s become more than that.
But I just… I don’t like my birthday. They have always been the same.
Nothing good ever really happened, but somehow, I ended up hoping it might be different each year.
And then, as always, apart from the secret cupcake our chef would sneak me with a single candle flickering on top, my day would pass unnoticed.
Until the first evening came around when my parents hosted a charity ball in my honor.
It started when I was twelve years old. Every year, without fail, they’d sit me at the piano in front of all those faces at the ball, making me dance my fingers over the keys for hours while they collected donations for some charity or another.
It was never my choice of charity.
One year, they chose an orphanage. I was fourteen then, and I remember bitterly thinking that I’d rather be an orphan than continue sitting there. It was a horrible thought—those kids had it rough. But pain is pain, and just because it comes in different forms doesn’t make it hurt any less.
At least orphans aren’t burdened with hope that only leads to disappointment.
Playing the piano on my birthday was supposed to be about doing good, but under their direction, it was just another display, a way to look good rather than do good.
Last year, my first year free of them, I still chose to spend my evening playing the piano. Only I played my favorite songs, just for me, on the public piano at Denny Park, letting the music flow out raw and unfiltered.
Once a month I go play there to escape and clear my mind. It’s not enough, and the piano is shabby, always slightly out of tune and dirty from being outdoors, but it’s there for everyone.
Since I can’t haul a piano up to my small apartment on the fourteenth floor and don’t want to rent a room to play in, it’s the best option I have.
After I played for maybe an hour last year, I donated all the money my parents had sent me to the local animal shelter. I told them I didn’t need their money.
Since getting my first paycheck, I haven’t touched a penny of theirs. I make enough for myself. But they won’t listen. They insist that a Stanley must maintain appearances and standards.
They imagined me in designer clothes and behind the wheel of a luxury car. Instead, I used their money to buy food, blankets, and beds for every animal at the shelter.
This year, they sent even more money. Good thing, too—the shelter needs new cages for the dog pens.
My parents would be horrified if they knew how I was spending their money, which, admittedly, is part of the reason I do it.
I didn’t want to touch their money at all, but the incessant nagging about my refusal wore me down.
So, if there’s a silver lining, it’s that somewhere out there, thanks to their money, some puppies are sleeping a little cozier.
If that isn’t my kind of middle finger, I don’t know what is.
Jamie’s interruption nudges me back to the present. “Your mother is calling you, Amelia,” his tone is even, almost cautious.
Or maybe I’m imagining things.
I stiffen. “Ignore it,” I command, a bit more sharply than intended. “And ignore any other calls from her today.”
I don’t bother to include Father in that command because he wouldn’t bother to call, not even today.
And Mother? Well, her calls are rarely more than a conduit for disappointment. My birthday is the one day I grant myself the peace of not dealing with her critiques. Adding another disappointment to her list for when I will pick up her call tomorrow feels almost satisfying.
“Understood. I’ve set her contact to silent for the day,” Jamie confirms, his voice devoid of judgment.
“Thank you. Is there an email from August, perhaps?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, mixing hope with a pang of longing.
August has never missed a birthday before.
Jamie pauses, a digital breath of sorts, “No email, but I’ll keep an eye out and let you know immediately if something comes in.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
The silence that follows feels heavy. Lying there, I can’t help but allow myself a few extra minutes in bed. I should feel different, older maybe, but all I feel is the same quiet loneliness that’s become too familiar.
Although not quite.
Finally, I throw back the covers and decide to make an effort with my appearance today.
For the only one who knows that today’s special.
Me.
As I stand before the mirror, I carefully curl my hair into soft waves and apply a bit more makeup than usual.
The reflection staring back at me looks composed, but inside, my thoughts are a whirlwind, replaying the moments from yesterday evening like I already did half of the night while lying awake.
Grey’s unexpected tenderness, his fingers, his licking ricotta off mine, his closeness. The playful banter sparked something unfamiliar and exhilarating in the pit of my stomach.
And when he called me Princess…
It wasn’t just a word. It was a whisper that made my heart stutter.
His hug lingers in my memory—a real hug, the kind that said more than just goodbye—it felt safe. No one has hugged me in the two years I’ve been here. And even in the time before, no one has ever hugged me like that.
I remind myself that hugs and pet names are just that for some people. Things you do with no meaning behind them.
Grey is probably just a kind person beneath his grumpy exterior and that perpetual scowl. His kindness doesn’t necessarily signify that he wants to be friends, and assuming otherwise could lead to embarrassment or, worse, heartache.
And even if Grey really becomes a friend, I can’t risk losing that over a silly crush that will never be reciprocated. Despite my reservations, I can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought of our planned walk on Sunday.
That’s something friends do, right?
Nobody goes on a walk with their coworker on a Sunday.
Stop it, Amelia. You’re overthinking again.
But it’s hard not to. The hug wasn’t just comforting—it felt like belonging, and that’s something I’ve craved for too long.
With a deep breath, I finish getting ready, telling myself to keep my expectations in check.
Today is just another day.
The hug was just a hug.
But as I head out the door and down to the lobby, part of me hopes it might turn out to be something a little more.
I could use a friend that is not a string of code.
The brisk morning air sweeps through my hair as I stride toward Elysium. Reaching my office, the first thing that catches my eye is a package sitting on my desk—Twizzlers Twists, the strawberry ones, neatly tied with a bright red bow.
Curiosity piqued, I walk over.
Hendricks catches my eye as I lift the package, and he offers a sheepish grin. “Happy Birthday, Stanley. Willow told me, and… well, I thought I’d get you something since she’s practically indebted to you for all the Twizzlers she’s swiped from your stash.”
I laugh, genuinely touched by the gesture. “You didn’t have to,” I say, but I’m really glad he did. “Thank you.”
It’s nice to feel remembered.
Pulling the bow away and opening the package, I bite into one of the Twizzlers.
Pure goodness.
“It’s not even eight a.m. You’re worse than Willow,” Hendricks says with exasperated amusement.
“It’s never too early for Twizzlers,” I declare around a mouthful.
We settle into our morning routine, the comfortable clack of keyboards filling the space between us. My mind occasionally drifts, weaving through lines of code and replaying Grey’s hug, each replay sending a small thrill through me.
God, I need to stop this.
A few hours later, the shrill sound of my alarm breaks through the quiet hum of focused work. It’s a reminder I set specifically for today. It’s not just about taking a break from the code in time but managing my own expectations and emotions on a day that’s always a tightrope walk of feelings.
I sit back in my chair, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders to ease the tension that’s built up over the morning.
I want to head down to the cafeteria early today.
Grey was with me last night, so there’s no need for a lunchtime catch-up on the beta progress.
And nobody asked if I wanted to go to lunch.
Sitting here waiting for them, and they don’t come?
Yeah, no, thank you.
“Later,” I tell Hendricks, who doesn’t even look up from his screen as I gather my stuff, clutching the packet of Twizzlers, and head out. As I pass the aquarium, I can’t help but smile.
Eight more down.
That’s one hundred percent more than last time and twelve in total now. Like, if I had a tiny football team of neon tetras, I’d have one spare player.
I stride toward the elevator and can’t resist peeling open the packet. I take out another Twizzlers, biting into it. Since it’s my birthday, I’m allowed dessert before lunch.
The elevator dings just as I approach, and as the doors slide open, I’m greeted by the sight of OMG inside.