Chapter 22
Delta's Birthday
Renée
The weather on the day of Delta’s tenth birthday party couldn’t have been better.
Not a cloud in the sky and just warm enough for shorts—not that I’m wearing any.
Delta insisted the four of us wear our matching sequined jumpsuits that were originally purchased for a roller rink party. Amber insisted on it, too.
Leaves have barely started turning into their autumn palette, and without fail, just as I have done every year since she arrived, I think of her birth.
I remember all the trees were green before she was born, then all at once they turned.
At least, that’s what it felt like. It’s entirely possible I was so focused on the tiny human that I was madly in love with that I didn’t notice the world around me changing.
I prayed having children with Greg would be my answer to a better life with him.
He wanted children so badly, and I hoped giving him children would change him, change our marriage.
I thought... maybe I could feel safe again.
Through no fault of their own, our kids were not the answer to a better marriage, but having them forced me to find my way—our way—to safety. A better life for all of us.
I finish refilling a bowl of chips inside Jonah’s kitchen only to look up and find Thelma clomping her hooves through the door yet again.
Some of Delta’s friends have a habit of leaving the doors open when they’re running in and out of the house, which has led to the occasional goat or duck finding their way inside.
The Pyrenees are doing their best to keep every animal and child wrangled, but it’s a hard job.
On top of that, Jonah acquired an old alpaca named Timothy last week, so the dogs’ protection services have grown.
I place the bowl of chips on the dining room table and chat with some parents inside. I have to explain several times, this is not my home, but that of our friend Jonah. It’s easier that way.
Curious eyes and wandering feet meander through the main floor, and I don’t blame them.
I myself wandered about when I realized his moving boxes were gone, replaced by upscale decor.
Every room has beautiful new furniture, all of it looking like it’s been there forever.
Rich leather cushions the color of mahogany.
Reds, creams, and dark green sprawling area rugs warm the rooms, and soft throws lie haphazardly across furniture.
A solid wood coffee table, end tables, and desk—all stained the perfect shade to complement the home’s stonework.
Very rough-hewn Pennsylvania-winery-core.
I guess he’s really doing it—planting his life right here, next door to me.
As I listen to a few parents talk about their children’s budding sports careers, my eyes catch on a framed picture sitting on a bookshelf. They’re engrossed in their conversation, so I don’t feel bad stepping away to get a closer look.
I would know this artist anywhere. When Lo made this and gave it to him, I don’t know. It’s a drawing of Jonah and all his animals—each one labeled with a name above its head.
Then I notice all the little painted rocks sitting next to the picture. Smooth stones no bigger than a Post-it, all painted like ladybugs and frogs. The work of my girls. I know this because my girls have scattered dozens of them in my backyard and home over the years.
He may not be right for me (no one is), but I can’t deny he’s right for my children.
The crackling laughter of fourth graders leaping through a sixty-foot-long inflatable obstacle course greets me when I walk outside.
Limbs peek over the side as kids tumble over each obstruction, racing each other to the end.
Rugger sits next to King, the pair of them watching between the obstacle course and the pony rides.
Parents and kids stand along the fence watching kids take turns riding the sweet old mare. Jonah leads them around, encouraging the riders to take in the beauty.
“See?” he says, smiling up at Delta’s friend Clementine. “You’re a natural! And you know what? If you scratch right there next to her mane—yeah, right there!—she loves that.”
Clementine giggles when Ginger huffs appreciatively and bobs her head. “Mom, look!” she hollers.
Her mother, Zoey, calls back. “I can see!” She smiles, and I don’t miss the way she’s watching him more than her daughter. My skin prickles when her gaze dips to his ass as he walks away from her. When she bites her bottom lip, I have to walk away and cool down before I embarrass myself.
Inside the barn I find one kid feeding Timothy apple chunks from her palm.
Lo and three other kids are petting the goats and the Quack Pack under Amber’s supervision.
Thelma and Louise wear party necklaces around their necks—an addition by their father early this morning—and streamers and party decorations are hung all over the barn and fences.
It takes considerable effort to convince everyone to leave the inflatable obstacle course and animals and come to the porch for birthday cake and presents.
But once the stragglers hear Jonah strum his guitar and play a few riffs, they’re racing to join, their eyes wide and gap-toothed smiles bright.
He plays “Happy Birthday” while everyone sings, and I capture the happiness of a ten-year-old on camera, including the blush spreading across her face as she tries to hide behind a party hat.
People devour cake and ice cream in minutes before Delta shreds her presents. Her friends ooh and ahh over everything. After all the presents are opened and fawned over and stacked in a heaping pile on the table, some kids race for the outdoor activities again.
“Hold up,” Jonah shouts. “Everyone come back here! I got something for you!”
What did he do now?
He pops around the corner with a massive box before opening it with a flair. “Everyone gets a Nerf gun! Go go go!”
I can’t hold back my laughter as all the kids grab a new, preloaded plastic gun and leap for the backyard.
“Come on,” Jonah yells, grabbing one for himself, tossing one to me, and shoving some into the hands of parents. “Scatter!”
I’m too caught up in his rally cry and the thrill of a chase to guard my emotions. Foam bullets whiz past me as I aim at any kid in range. Everyone’s running around like gas molecules when an idea strikes.
I jump inside the unoccupied inflatable and scale one obstacle shaped like a triangle. From up here, I have a perfect vantage point and pop one kid in the back. He doesn’t feel it, but the tiny victory is sooo satisfying.
When I pull the trigger on Delta, nothing shoots out, and I curse.
“Looking for this?” a familiar voice asks. Jonah runs over the unstable floor and falls over with a laugh before throwing a magazine of pink bullets at me. “Reload, soldier!”
He hops up on the triangle behind me, mirroring my position on the west side, and unleashes his toy weapon with a maniacal laugh. “Happy birthday, ya filthy animal!”
We shoot off round after round until we exhaust our supply.
“We need more ammo,” he says.
My heart is pounding as I look around for a solution.
“There!” I shout. “On the floor!” Like scuba divers sitting on the edge of a boat, we fall backwards and land softly among stray bullets.
Of course, the floor is made of air and plastic, and with each other’s weight counteracting the other’s stability, we’re falling over at every attempt to stand.
I’m laughing so hard I’m in danger of peeing my jumpsuit, and Jonah’s in no better shape.
At the same moment, we realize there aren’t enough bullets for both of us to reload. Kids giggle and shriek outside our walls as we tear through every nook and cranny for spare ammo. When I spot three lonely rounds in the far corner, I lunge—and so does he.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I cackle, sharper than I mean to. But the usual patient, sweet Jonah is gone; in his place is a chaotic, competitive gremlin, and he’s ready to throw down.
We collide before either of us can claim victory, tumbling in a ridiculous tangle of elbows and determination. Our combined weight plummeting into the bouncy floor causes the three precious Nerf bullets to go flying, then reappear in Jonah’s fist as if he manifested them by sheer competitiveness.
“Unfair!” I gasp, scrambling after him. He rolls, I roll after him, and we’re a whirlwind of limbs, laughter, and way-too-serious grunting for a fake foam-dart apocalypse.
He clamps his hand tighter around the three bullets. “Mine,” he declares, breathless and triumphant.
“Over my dead body,” I snap back.
I lunge, trying to pry his fingers open. He’s stronger. He’s faster. He’s smug. And I realize I’m officially out of moves.
On pure impulse, I do the most ridiculous, desperate thing imaginable.
I kiss him.
It’s quick—just a press of the lips—but the effect is nuclear. Jonah goes completely still, like someone yanked his batteries out. The tension in his hand releases and the foam bullets slip.
I’m frozen too, because I absolutely, definitely did not think this through.
Our eyes are wide and unblinking.
“Uhhh…” I manage to say.
Jonah opens his mouth to say something—or maybe to short-circuit like me—but before either of us can recover our brain cells, a volley of foam bullets patter against the walls.
We both jolt like we’ve been struck with real gunfire.
“Right. Battle. Birthday party,” I huff, clambering upright because apparently I process emotional shock by not addressing it at all.
Jonah blinks hard, shakes his head as if someone’s shoved his batteries back in, and then crawls toward the front flaps. “We should, um… secure ourselves.” His voice cracks, and it’s honestly adorable, which is a very inconvenient thought at the moment.
He reaches for the zipper, ready to seal us in, but before he can, the flaps are yanked open, and my daughters tumble in like tiny raiders in rainbow jumpsuits.