EZRA
‘ B READ ?’
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a roll from the basket that Tomas is offering. He puts one on his own plate, only for Maggie to nudge him, eyes wide – she doesn’t approve of white bread, along with most other things that taste good. But Tomas just smiles, slapping on a pat of butter and taking a comically huge bite. Maggie’s mouth twitches, like she’s torn between laughing or telling him off, and he leans forward to plant a kiss on her cheek, crumbs around his mouth. I quickly glance away, see Caroline frowning at her menu like it’s written in hieroglyphs.
‘This all looks so good,’ she murmurs. ‘I don’t know what to get.’
‘I’ll pick for you,’ Romy says, leaning over. ‘Get the steak frites.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Because it’s basically impossible to screw up steak frites. You’re guaranteed a good time.’
‘ Or because you want to order something tiny and fancy then steal my fries.’ She laughs, tweaking Romy’s nose. I avert my gaze again, accidentally meeting Dad’s eye. He’s sitting at the opposite end of the table, looking about as discomfited as I am to be bookending happy couples.
Happy birthday to me , I guess. A family meal in a fancy restaurant isn’t my idea of a good time, but saying yes was the easiest way to mend fences with Caroline after our almost-fight. At least I’ve got a rock-solid excuse to leave within the hour, seeing as Mac has taken it upon himself to throw me a party. He discovered it was my birthday when they passed a card around at work, and trying to talk him out of it seemed like more effort than just letting it happen. The fact that I’m hosting again means I’ll probably resent him bitterly by the time tomorrow rolls around, but I don’t particularly feel like being alone tonight, so – yeah. Fuck it. Party on.
Silver lining, Audrey will be there. I messaged yesterday to invite her and Marika, and though it took her a (worryingly?) long time to reply, she’s coming.
‘So,’ Tomas says, glancing around the table. ‘A toast?’
I like Tomas. I still can’t make sense of his and Maggie’s decision to get married before either of them hit thirty, but he’s a cool guy. Maggie met him at university. He’d lived in Denmark for most of his life before moving to New York on a college scholarship, where they found themselves in the same political science class. Their first seminar, they apparently got into a heated debate about some niche school of thought that swiftly devolved into a full-blown argument. Neither was willing to concede their position by the time the session was over, so Tomas suggested that they continue the debate over coffee – the rest is history. I still remember when Maggie first told us the story, beaming like it was the most romantic thing in the world.
‘Yes, let’s.’ Maggie smiles, raising her flute. ‘Happy birthday, Ezra.’
‘Happy birthday!’ the others chorus. I raise my own glass after Caroline kicks me under the table and we all toast haphazardly. Dad ordered champagne, and I’m reaching for the bottle to top mine up when he clears his throat.
‘This is very special,’ he says, smiling. ‘Having everyone together like this – it really does mean the world to me.’
‘Not everyone,’ Caroline says mildly, and the room slips out of focus, briefly. Suddenly my glass is overfilled, foam spilling down the sides and on to the tablecloth. No one seems to notice, though, too distracted by the fact that Maggie has visibly paled. Tomas moves to place his hand on hers but she bats him away, gaze fixed on Caroline.
‘Don’t,’ she says quietly, and Caroline raises an eyebrow.
‘Don’t talk about her, you mean?’
‘Not today.’
‘Not today? Or not ever?’
‘Not on Ezra’s birthday,’ Maggie says hotly. ‘Jesus, Caroline.’
‘Why shouldn’t we talk about her? Especially today.’
‘Do you want us to hold hands and sing, too?’
‘Girls, please—’ Dad begins, but neither of them so much as glance his way.
‘You’re being so self-centred,’ Maggie hisses. ‘Just because you want to talk about her doesn’t mean that everyone else does.’
‘And you’re being a bitch,’ Caroline retorts. I see Tomas flinch, Romy stiffen – I drain the contents of my glass in one swift motion, reaching for the bottle again.
There’re meant to be five stages of grief, right? It starts with denial, ends with acceptance – anger, depression and bargaining are somewhere in the middle. Thing is, Caroline’s the only one of us to ever reach that final milestone. I don’t know that Dad’s even cleared the first hurdle, and Maggie – Maggie’s been stuck on anger for a long time now.
‘Fine,’ Maggie says curtly. ‘I’ll be the bitch, if that’s what you want.’
‘What I want is for you to act like a normal human being. You know, with feelings?’
Maggie laughs, though it’s a sound devoid of humour. ‘You know, I’ve just realised that I don’t actually give a shit about what you want,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘Excuse me.’
I watch as she strides across the restaurant, jaw tight, head held high. My guess is that she’s going to go and rage-cry in a bathroom stall before eventually calming down, touching up her make-up and returning to the table like nothing happened. Then her and Caroline will pointedly ignore each other for the remainder of the meal, forcing the rest of us to make aggressively cheery small talk. There was a similar blowout two Christmases ago, and I should have known that there’d be conflict today. We’re too close to the anniversary for this to have been anything other than a disaster.
My thirteenth birthday was the last good day. Mum picked me up from school at lunchtime and let me skip the rest of my lessons. We got cannoli and coffee at her favourite bakery before going to the cinema in the Village to watch a matinee of Some Like It Hot , the two of us laughing louder than anyone else. The whole time I remember thinking how happy she seemed. How herself. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself wonder if everything might finally be okay.
Two days later, she was gone. I don’t see the point in pretending that it doesn’t colour the day, or that it wasn’t a mercy that my birthday used to fall slap bang in the middle of a school term. I got sent cards and presents, of course, but we didn’t have to spend it together as a family – didn’t have to sit around a table and pretend that no one was missing. Or not pretend, in Caroline’s case.
‘So, Ezra,’ Tomas begins, throwing out a conversational life-raft. ‘Do you have anything else planned for today?’
‘Just some friends over,’ I say, slightly distracted by the fact that Caroline has also gotten up from her seat. She’s heading outside, presumably to chain-smoke. Romy watches her go, expression unreadable.
‘Well, that sounds great!’ Dad says, smiling forcefully. It makes my chest hurt – I wish he’d stop.
‘Yeah,’ I manage. ‘Should be.’
‘Tomas,’ Romy interjects suddenly. ‘I’ve just realised I don’t actually know what you do for work.’
‘I’m a data analyst,’ he replies cheerfully.
‘Oh, wow,’ she murmurs, eyes already glazing over. ‘And … what does that involve?’
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket as Tomas launches into an incomprehensible explanation of his unfathomable job. It’s a message from a number I don’t recognise.
Happy birthday, Ezra. Hope you’re doing well. Can we talk soon?
Edie x
Happy fucking birthday indeed.