Chapter 69 Jansen
Jansen
Planning a birthday party while everyone is in mourning is a challenge. But I like challenges, especially ones without major stakes attached to them. I’ve had enough high stakes to last a lifetime.
Or at least a month or two.
The meds seem to have settled, but now I’m not sure if they’re working right. I should schedule another checkup. And maybe ask the guys to watch me and make sure I’m not losing it again.
I did just spend more than a week mostly sitting on a couch, but that was strangely meditative, having Clara so close to me after being apart for so long. So, I’m not sure that counts one way or another for my sanity.
Weird to be outsourcing that to others, but hey—it’s not like I can trust myself with my own mind.
Either way, I need to make this party awesome, but also low-key.
It’s going to be the celebration we should have had after Clara and Trips got free.
Obviously, that party had to be postponed.
I might not have had a ton of respect for Clara’s dad, but he was a good guy who came through at the end. I can respect that about him.
Climbing in the attic window early one morning with another load of random stuff from Black on my back, I figure out exactly what we should do for this party.
We never took down our decorations from last New Year’s Eve, the swaths of gold and black still covering the space, a few of the empty frames lying on the ground where their fishing line snapped.
But I spend the next few days tying them back up and dusting until I can hardly breathe, before sending Trips and Walker to buy an air purifier.
It turns out that fabric stuck to the walls holds on to a lot more dust than normal walls would.
I run out for drinks and I call up a few of our old catering contacts to order more food than we could possibly eat, not knowing what everyone will want. Grief messes with your tastebuds, apparently. And after conferring with the guys, I pick out four different kinds of dessert.
I’ve got a plan—for all of us. I’ll let the birthday boy go first, of course. It is technically his party.
Last, I dig out the masks Walker made for us last winter. For a minute, I consider inviting RJ’s sisters to celebrate with us, but then I think about how fragile Clara’s happiness has been since she came out of her funk, and I decide to keep it small. Just the five of us.
Our family.
Walker and I hit up the jeweler to pick up our gifts, and RJ spends the morning before the party sitting in the living room waiting for a delivery, faking nonchalance with way too much chalance.
I wrap my Clara gift and set it on one of the poker tables, but realize it looks a little naked all by itself.
So I finish the bonus surprise I’ve been working on for the last year, excited to share it with everyone.
The morning of the party, everything as ready as it can be, I sprawl out in my pillow nook, glad to have it back, and zone out staring at the ceiling. But a passing thought makes me jolt upright: I never got RJ a gift. And I have no idea what to get him.
Flopping back onto the pillows, I go through everything I know about RJ and what he likes. And after ten minutes of thinking while Fluffington pounces at my toes, I realize I haven’t seen the guy do anything besides work for way too long. Which gives me an idea.
Sneaking into Clara’s room, I find her sitting cross-legged on her bed with a notebook open on her lap. “What are you up to?” I ask, momentarily distracted from my goal.
“Making a list.”
“Of what?”
Her smile is welcome after all this time. “All the fun things I want to do.”
“Really? What’s on it?”
When I flop down next to her and try to take a peek, she tucks the notebook against her chest. “Maybe there are surprises in here, Trouble.”
I laugh, rolling onto my back. “If there are surprises for me, I’m all about this list.” I’m about to ask her to go shopping with me when the doorbell rings.
Not two seconds later, the back door opens, and we end up with one heck of a traffic jam in the hallway with four of the five of us there.
Luckily, Walker gets to the door while we sort ourselves out, and when we reach the front of the house, we find a puffy-faced Mattie on the doorstep.
“What’s wrong?” Trip half shouts, looking outside for whatever problem might be chasing his sister.
She shakes her head, then runs up to Clara and gives her one heck of a hug, almost knocking my girl down. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Clara’s confusion is as obvious as my own until something shifts in her gaze. She’s figured it out. “Mattie, why don’t you come in, have a seat, maybe some hot cocoa? We can talk. I promise you’re okay.”
“I don’t want to take anything else from you. I’m such an idiot. And the worst human possible.”
Clara ushers the girl into the living room, and I have a feeling this conversation is going to be a lot more important than running out to buy a new gaming console, games, and a party’s worth of controllers. So I skirt around to the kitchen to hear what I can.