Chapter 21
I hate birthdays.
Why do we feel the need to celebrate being born? We didn’t even do anything to make it happen. I had no part in the fact that someone, well, two someones, decided to procreate and deliver me into this world.
And the singing? I hate singing. I can’t think of anything more mortifying than a group of people singing at me while I sit in front of a cake.
And opening presents? In front of people?
What if I don’t have the correct reaction and then someone thinks that I hate their gift?
And what if I do hate their gift and I have to pretend that I don’t?
It’s one terrible cultural tradition after another.
Thank God there’s only one person in this town who knows that today is my birthday. If I stay home, I can avoid him completely and only have to worry about the obligatory “Happy birthday!” texts from my parents.
In fact, my phone buzzes with one of them now. A little earlier than usual… I wasn’t expecting to hear from them until dinnertime.
Ben
Happy birthday, Red *red heart emoji*
Fuck off, Benjamin.
Ben
Thirty.
Big birthday.
Anyone to celebrate with?
You are an asshole.
Ben
I love when you’re mean to me.
There is something seriously wrong with you.
Ben
Stop with the dirty talk, Colette.
I’m blocking your number.
Ben
That’s fine, I’ll be by in a bit to help you celebrate. *wink emoji*
What?
NO.
I won’t let you in.
Why aren’t you responding?!
“Ugh!” I scream, startling Ernest where he was napping on his dog bed. “Fuck.”
I don’t want to see Ben. I don’t want to think about our pact. I don’t want to celebrate my birthday!
As if he was standing right outside of my door when he texted, I hear a knock less than thirty seconds after I send my last text. Begrudgingly, I shuffle over the door and peek through the peep hole.
Benoit Bardot is standing there, his slutty little glasses sitting high on his nose. His arms are full of gift bags, and he has a fucking cake in his hands.
“Go away!” I yell through the door.
He smirks, looking directly into the peep hole. “Open the door, Colette.”
“No,” I reply, turning the lock anyway.
Annoyingly, he looks like the perfect gift when I finally do pull the door open. His hair is effortlessly tousled and he’s wearing a striped button-down and khaki shorts. The cake in his hands is covered in red icing with “HBD Red!” in white icing across the top.
“That cake looks like blood,” I remark, scowling.
“You like blood, murder, crime, et cetera, et cetera.” His lips tip up at the corner, knowing he caught me.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Are you going to let me in?” he asks, cocky as ever.
“Do I have to?”
“No.” His reply is quick and I actually believe him. If I turned him away right now, he’d leave.
My eye roll is overdramatic as I move out of his way.
He walks in like he owns the place, setting the cake on the counter and arranging the presents just so. “Come sit in front of your cake,” he commands, pulling a candle and a lighter out of his pocket.
I narrow my eyes, walking toward him. I don’t know why I’m letting him boss me around. Why I’m letting him acknowledge a day that I rarely ever acknowledge. He pulls out the chair for me, nodding in satisfaction when I take a seat.
He steps back and holds up his phone for a picture. “Smile and say, ‘Thirty’!” Instead, I scowl and flip him off. “Perfect,” he mutters, and when he sets the phone down on the counter beside me, I see that he’s set it as his background.
“I won’t sing to you,” he promises, leaning down to whisper in my ear. “But I do want you to make a wish.”
“I wish that you’d leave me alone,” I reply, blowing out the candle.
“Bummer. You told me so now it won’t come true. Oh, well.” He smirks. “Guess I’ll have to stick around.”
Ben takes it upon himself to locate a knife and two plates in my kitchen. When he slices the cake, I see that it’s red velvet inside.
“What’s your obsession with red?” I ask.
He pauses, eyes darting up to my hair. “I would think it’s obvious.”
I scoff. “Red… What an unoriginal nickname, too.”
Ben considers me for a moment. “Maybe for some. But when I look at you, all I see is red. The color of your hair, sure. But also the flush that runs up your neck when you feel anything—and you feel so deeply, though you don’t let many people see that—excitement, frustration…
desire. It’s the color of your toes when you allow yourself the frivolity of painting them.
The color of your tongue when you drink diet cherry cola.
It’s your hair, yes… but it’s so much more than that. ”
I’m momentarily stunned, speechless. Where the fuck did that come from?
“I’ve been paying attention, Red.” He winks, pushing a slice of cake toward me.
I take a bite because I don’t know what else to do. “Mmm, damn that’s good,” I mutter, unable to control my reaction.
“Great. Have as much as you want. Then I’m going to go to the grocery store and pick up something to make for dinner tonight. Any preferences?”
“You’re making me dinner?” I ask, surprised.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to go out in public, so I’ll bring dinner to you. And you need to open your presents.”
Eyeing the bags he’s arranged on the counter with trepidation, I tell him, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know.” He punctuates the statement by taking his own bite of cake. “Fuck, this is good.”
“Did you think I was lying?”
He doesn’t respond, instead pushing the first present toward me. I slowly remove the tissue paper to reveal new Irish coffee candles. The exact same brand that I already own and love. “Figured you’d need some replacements soon, all the baths you’ve been taking.”
“That’s… that’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”
He nods before nudging the second present my way.
This one is a little bigger which makes me nervous.
I unwrap it and find a sweatshirt. It’s light purple, but other than that, pretty unremarkable.
“A sweatshirt… in July. Thank you?” I can’t help the way my voice goes up at the end so it sounds more like a question than a statement.
This is exactly why I don’t like opening presents with people.
“It’s a sensory sweatshirt,” Ben explains. “It’s a heavier weight material and there are built in stress balls in the sleeves. I may or may not have been targeted by an ad on social media.”
Underneath his cocky exterior, Ben looks almost…
shy. Like he’s not sure how to interpret my reaction.
Honestly, I’m not sure how to handle these feelings either.
I can feel the telltale flush creeping up my neck and my eyes feel oddly prickly.
No one has ever bothered to accommodate me the way Ben has ever since he learned of my diagnosis.
Popping up from my seat, I start to pace the floor. Ernest senses my agitation and hobbles over to press against my legs.
“Cole?” Ben questions.
“I’m fine. I just need a second.” I bend down so I’m eye level with Ernest. He pops up onto his hind legs, his one front leg pressing into my shoulder in a way that grounds me.
Emotion, even a positive one, can be overwhelming sometimes and, even though he isn’t actually trained to be, Ernest has proven to be an excellent form of therapy.
“I’m sorry if I was overstepping,” Ben whispers.
I take a few deep breaths before I respond. “I’m not used to people… knowing me. Caring enough to take the time.”
“That’s really shitty, Cole. I’m sorry that’s been your experience.” He comes around the counter and sits next to me on the floor, both elbows propped on his knees.
“I’m not under the illusion that I’m an easy person to be around. It takes a lot of work to have any sort of relationship with me.”
He shrugs. “I think you’re the easiest person in the world to be around. Everyone else can fuck off, that’s completely fine with me.” When I look up at him, he’s smiling. “I’d rather keep you all to myself anyway.”
“Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Because I don’t want to like you.”
He hums in response. “Ready for another present?”
“No.”
“I think I’ll give you one anyway. Stand up?” he pleads, so sincerely I actually listen instead of arguing with him.
I start to stand and he follows, but he stays down on his knee instead of getting all of the way up.
Then he’s reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a small, square box.
Then he’s opening the box to reveal a ring.
It’s set on a delicate gold band, but the stone in the middle is an obscenely large black gem with three triangular diamonds framing it on either side.
I watch this all happen as if I’m an outside observer, completely detached from the situation.
Because there’s no fucking way Benoit Bardot is proposing to me right now.