Chapter Fifteen
Sam
“Haaaaaappy birthday!”
Amy’s voice blasts through my headphones, and I quickly turn the volume down as she blows a party horn at the screen. The rest of my team, represented by their boxed-off heads, all do the same.
“Thank you for that,” I say when she’s done. “If anyone starts singing, I’m logging off.”
“What are you doing to celebrate?” she asks. “Are you taking the day off?”
“She inquires on a work call.”
“I don’t know what time it is over there!”
“Happy birthday, Sam,” Laura interjects. “We’ll get some cake when you’re back in the office. Are you going out later?”
“Probably not.”
She frowns at me, ever the mother. “But you’ll do something to celebrate.”
“I don’t like to make a big thing of it.”
At that, Amy scoffs. Loudly. I guess I understand why.
Last year, I booked out the bar in the building next door and invited the whole office.
I may not seem like the type, but birthdays are kind of my thing.
My parents always made a huge deal about them when we were kids and it’s something neither Lizzie nor I ever fully managed to grow out of.
“It’s fine,” I say as Laura’s frown deepens.
“This is sad now,” Amy says. “You’re making me sad.”
“I’ll probably go for a drink later,” I lie before she can continue. “Did I tell you I’m staying above a pub?”
“You need to have a party, Sam.”
“He’s thirty-six years old,” Deborah says. “He doesn’t need to have a birthday party.”
“I’m thirty-one!” I say, affronted.
Deborah just peers at me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes?”
“You should wear a party hat,” Amy says. “Or some kind of large button announcing your special day.”
“I won’t be doing any of that. Can we work now, please?”
Deborah makes a thank you motion with her hands, and I’m relieved when the attention moves off me. But almost as soon as Laura starts reviewing the agenda for next month’s acquisitions meeting, my mind starts to wander.
It’s my birthday.
It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning, and the knowledge was surprisingly anticlimactic.
My birthday.
I thought about taking a long weekend for it this year, but that plan obviously went out the window. It didn’t occur to me when Casey sent me over here, but now here I am. Over three thousand miles away from my family and friends and no one to celebrate with.
Well, I’ve got someone to celebrate with.
But for some reason, when Ciara gave me the perfect opportunity to do a casual little Hey, I’d love to hang out on Friday. It’s the anniversary of my dad breaking numerous traffic laws as he drove my mother to the hospital. No big deal, but it would be nice to have a beer, instead, I froze.
And I have no idea why.
“Sam.”
I snap back to attention to see the rest of the team staring at me.
“What do you think?” Laura presses.
“It’s because he’s old now,” Amy says, saving me from replying. “His mind is starting to go. But as a young person with my whole future ahead of me, let me just say that I think that’s a great idea.”
I do my best to refocus for the rest of the meeting, but it’s useless, and, by the time we finish, even Deborah looks concerned. Laura pointedly suggests I log off a few hours early, but I have a whole other conversation to get through first.
Casey doesn’t do video calls, so I have to get in touch the old-fashioned way, but at least that means I don’t have to worry about my facial expressions this time.
“Sam!” he greets me when I dial his number. “My computer tells me it’s your birthday.”
“Your computer is correct.”
“I hope you have a good one,” he says, and thankfully leaves it at that. No streamers from Casey. “How’s our project coming along?”
“Great,” I say automatically. Except that the author completely freaked out at two readers yesterday and then started typing so hard I thought she was going to punch a keyboard-sized hole into her desk. “Barring any major disasters, she should be on track for a first draft by late September.”
“I’m glad to hear it. How would you feel about letting the rest of the team know? I think it’s about time I let Laura in on this at least.”
“Laura?”
“Unless you have a problem with that,” he says, clearly enjoying himself. He knows about our rivalry, just like everyone else in the office. Hell, he practically encourages it sometimes. But this isn’t about that.
“Ciara doesn’t want people to know yet. She’s been pretty clear about it.”
“I think we can manage one more person. And we’ll need to start thinking about publicity.”
“She doesn’t want to do publicity.” I say the words without thinking and there’s a moment of silence.
“You’ve discussed that?” Casey asks.
“Not exactly. But you’ve got to know she doesn’t have the best relationship with his fans.”
“She’ll have to do some appearances around the announcement. We can book her in for some media training, but we’ll need to put a face to a name for something like this.”
“Can’t she just write some articles or something?”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, and I’m grateful there’s no video as I drop my forehead to the dresser.
“I understand the instinct to protect your authors,” Casey says eventually. “But it’s important that she’s onboard with this. And it’s your job to make sure she is.”
“No, I know,” I say, backtracking. “I’m sure she’ll come around to it once she gets the draft finished.”
Except I don’t think she will, but before I can dig myself into an even deeper hole there’s a sharp knock on the door. I take the out, saying goodbye to Casey, only to find Mary waiting impatiently on the landing.
This place really needs a peephole.
“Hello again,” I say before noticing the plastic bag in her hands. “What’s—”
“Mange-tout,” she announces. “It’s in season. Do you have any laundry?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” The nearest laundromat is by a gas station forty minutes away. It was still my first choice.
She doesn’t seem put out, though, just peers behind me like last time.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” The question comes out more like a plea, but she just purses her lips.
“Just wanted to drop these by,” she says, handing me the bag. “You should use them in a stir-fry.”
“I will.”
“And you’ll need to be out by six p.m. Monday.”
“I— Wait. What?”
“Five thirty if possible.”
“What are you talking about?” I stop her as she turns to leave, almost dropping the vegetables.
“Room’s booked up.”
“Yes,” I say, alarmed. “By me.”
She just shakes her head. “You paid for the month.”
“But on a rolling—”
“Got someone else coming. We’ve had a lot of interest.”
I glance back at the tiny space behind me. “You have?”
“It’s a very popular room,” Mary says, suddenly defensive. “Competitively priced.”
“It is,” I agree quickly. “I just thought—”
“Very popular,” she repeats.
“Right.” I look down at the mange-tout. Shit. “Okay. Well, do you know any other places nearby that I could—”
“No,” she says with a disapproving look. “You should have planned ahead.”
And I tell her as much, trying to be as polite as possible as I close the door.
I spend the next hour Googling places nearby and coming up short.
Unless I want to move to the nearest city, which is well over an hour away, my best shot is a campsite down the road.
When I find myself seriously considering it for more than ten seconds, I know I’ve lost my mind and decide to make it tomorrow’s problem.
But that, plus my conversation with Casey, only puts me in a worse mood than I already was, and by the time I’m finished for the day a strange kind of loneliness has settled in.
The type I’ve never had before. The birthday messages that filtered in from home over the afternoon just make it worse, and for the first time since I arrived I feel homesick, longing for New York, for my apartment and my things and my people.
When I can’t take another minute of being alone, I have a quick shower and change my shirt before heading downstairs to the pub. It’s still early, so I’m expecting to be the only one there as usual, but to my surprise I see someone already sitting at the bar.
The burger guy. Or at least that’s what Ciara referred to him as. It isn’t hard to remember the bulky, should-have-played-football man who now stares my way as the door shuts behind me.
We size each other up, but in the end he just sighs.
“I only wanted a drink.”
“Hey, no argument here,” I say. “I’m just a tourist.”
“That makes two of us,” he says. “Shane.”
“Sam.” I take a seat two stools away from him. “You get your ketchup back?” I ask, and he grimaces.
“Found the delivery waiting for me by my truck a few days later. A real mystery,” he adds flatly. “She a friend of yours?”
“Maddie? No. I’m with the other one.”
Shane just grunts.
“For what it’s worth, I’m told she’s not usually so…passionate about her job,” I say. “She thinks you’re trying to close her business down.”
“I am,” he says bleakly, and on that cheery note he knocks back his Guinness. “Is that what her friends call her? Maddie?”
I nod just as Ronan emerges from the back room.
“Sam!” He greets me like we’re old friends. “Haven’t seen you about.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been busy.” I spent the past few nights working with Ciara. I’ve barely been back here.
“Ah well, young love and all that. Another Guinness Zero?” he asks Shane.
“Please,” the burger guy says, and Ronan grabs him a fresh glass.
“Fancy a drink? Something independent?” His voice lowers. “I’ve been tweaking the recipe. Or if you’re up for it, a friend popped round with something a bit stronger.”
He gives me one of his scrunched-up-face non-winks, and it hits me that I like this guy. I like this guy, and I like this pub, and Shane I don’t really know, but honestly, I can think of worse places to spend an evening in this world.
“All perfectly aboveboard,” Ronan is saying to Shane. “I just can’t sell it to you. Monetarily.”
Shane looks a little green. “I just don’t think a bathtub is the best place to be brewing—”
“It’s my birthday.”
Both men stop their conversation, turning to me.
“I mean…today,” I finish. “It’s my birthday today.” And I have never felt less my age.
“Happy birthday,” Shane says, straightening on his stool. “You should have said something.”
“You should have,” Ronan says, clearly unhappy at this development. “Where’s Ciara?”
“Oh no,” I say quickly as he reaches for his phone. “She’s busy.”
“Busy?” He looks confused. “On your birthday?” And then, before I can think of an excuse, his expression shutters. “You didn’t have a fight, did ye?”
“We…yes.” That makes sense. Okay, it makes no sense at all, but…“We had an argument.”
He tsks as Shane whacks a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Well, don’t you worry about that,” Ronan says, rummaging beneath the bar. “We know how to celebrate here.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I begin, wishing I hadn’t brought it up, but Ronan just shakes his head. A second later, he lines up five shot glasses before me.
Shane examines them warily, and, when he meets my gaze, gives me a look as if to say you’re on your own, pal.
I jump as Ronan thumps an unmarked bottle of clear liquid onto the bar. A second later, another joins it.
“Now, then, birthday boy,” he says, deadly serious. “Where would you like to start?”