Chapter 25
Mia
It has been a perfect birthday.
I slept in, my friends threw me a party, I ate half a Colin the Caterpillar cake myself and the guy I like wrote me a song.
Which sounds great on paper but having listened to it at least ten times now …
I really don’t know how to feel. Abandoning my reading before I’ve begun, I pick up Oliver’s gift and pop the earbuds back in my ears.
Whatever I thought Oliver’s music was going to sound like, I do not know, but it wasn’t this.
Between the acoustic guitar and all the male singer songwriters on his playlists, I had assumed something closer to Noah Kahan or Bon Iver, but this is not that.
My lips pinch with confusion as the beats kick in, followed by a screech of guitar and Oliver’s frantic vocals.
It’s difficult to make out any of the lyrics but if this is his idea of a love song, I am afraid.
Maybe I just don’t get it. My musical tastes don’t run to the sophisticated depths of Radiohead rarities and B-sides.
I prefer music that makes me feel something real.
This only makes me feel like I’m about to have a stroke.
Truly, as I lie back and close my eyes, trying to grasp Oliver’s lyrical genius, the song sounds more and more like nightmare fuel.
Why is there a chainsaw in the middle? And if it’s not a chainsaw, what the hell is it?
On my desk, I see the bags containing my other gifts.
Thoughtful tokens from people I’ve only just met.
Some fancy shower stuff from Alice to wash away the smell of a long shift at Members, handmade scrunchies from Jenna, a hilarious green tote from Bryn and a pale blue leather-bound notebook from Michael with whisper-thin pages that feel way too expensive for a casual gift.
But I remembered Alice telling me his family is from old money and accepted it graciously, knowing I will treasure it forever and never write a single word in the thing. And there, on my desk, is Ethan’s gift.
Ethan baked me biscuits.
When I let myself wonder what that could mean, my brain starts to make sounds like Oliver’s song.
Senseless whirring and high-pitched squeals that I cannot compute.
Most likely he’s homesick, I reason, and yes, it’s a sweet gesture but just as much something he did for himself.
The shirtless presentation on the other hand really seemed like more of a treat for me.
Tomorrow, I’ll work out what to say to Oliver. Something smart and insightful. Or at least something that makes it slightly less obvious that I have no idea what I’m talking about. But for now I give up on Oliver’s song and pick up my phone to call my dad.
‘Mia?’
He answers all his calls this way, like he isn’t convinced it’s me even though my name is written across the screen of his cell in big bold letters.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say, moving to my desk chair to stare out of the window.
‘Did you try calling your mom? She’s in bed, she has a migraine.’
It’s the strangest version of ‘happy birthday’ I’ve ever heard.
‘No.’ My brows knit together as I wait for him to correct himself. He does not. ‘We already talked today. She called me this morning, before Pilates.’
‘She went to Pilates?’
There’s tinny cheering in the background, excited male voices. Of course, it’s Sunday. Where else would he be but at home, watching a football game?
‘Is she okay?’ I ask, allowing the distraction. If the Panthers are playing it could be his own birthday and he wouldn’t remember.
‘She’s worried about you. We both are.’
I can’t do this again, not today. So I rest my forehead against the cool glass of the window pane and force a smile he can’t see but I hope he hears.
‘You don’t have to worry about me, I’m doing great. My friends threw me a birthday party today and my roommate made biscuits.’
‘That sounds swell, hon, but I’m more interested in how you’re doing in class. We’re not paying for you to spend your time throwing birthday parties and baking.’
‘No, my friends threw me the party—’ I cut myself off because what’s the point? Either my dad has forgotten it’s my birthday or he’s decided not to acknowledge it and really, which of those is worse?
‘Everything’s going great,’ I assure him. ‘Classes are good.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure, I’m sure.’
I never have been able to get anything past my dad.
‘Good. Nice of you to find the time to call since you’ve been so busy and all.’ He sounds gruff as the cheering in the background cuts to a car commercial. ‘Better go and check on your mom, we’ll talk to you next week, I guess.’
‘Is Hudson there?’ I ask before he can end the call. ‘Or Kane? I haven’t heard from them today.’
‘They’re playing video games, I’m sure they’ll check in when they have the time.’
They won’t. Unlike my parents, as far as my brothers are concerned, I’m out of sight and out of mind.
‘Gotta go. Happy birthday, Mia.’
The call cuts off, the phone still pressed against my ear, warm and uncomfortable. I leave my desk and lie down on my bed, waiting for him to call back. Mom will say something, and he’ll call back. He’ll apologize, ask me how my day has been and wish me happy birthday like he means it.
Two minutes pass. Then five. Then ten. Before I know it, tears are pouring down the sides of my face, tickling my ears.
Tossing my phone across the bed, I scrub at my face with my sleeve, the fabric of my sweater scratchy against the sensitive skin, then pick up my book.
I don’t want to think about my dad. I don’t want to think about anything.
I didn’t acknowledge their birthday card, I lied about spending time in bars and now I’ve stressed my mom into a migraine.
Why would he want to talk to me? He didn’t want me to leave and I couldn’t wait to get away.
He must hate me. But not nearly as much as I hate myself.
My room is deathly quiet as I stare at Charles Dickens’s words, turning the pages without taking in a single sentence.
When I reach the end of the chapter, I can’t remember a thing I’ve just read and carrying on is pointless.
Reading has always been my escape but right now, I can’t even lose myself in a book.
I don’t want to be alone with all these awful thoughts but I can’t go to my friends. How do you explain a birthday crash-out when it’s all your fault? I can’t think of a way to frame things that don’t make me look like a terrible daughter and no one in their right mind would have sympathy for that.
I look over at the biscuit on the desk. The jacket slung over my chair.
It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense but there’s only one person I want to see right now. With a choked sob, I rise and take myself into my bathroom to wash my face.
The last thing I want is for Ethan to know I’ve been crying.