“Curse of being the older sister.” She leans over and pats my thigh. I’m distracted by the move, and before I can stop her, she’s taken the bottle from my hands. I pout but don’t fight it. She’s right, I’m not much of a drinker and don’t really want to push it tonight. Puke-y twenty-firsts are so pedestrian.
“Look, you’re going to get your ass up and go in there and celebrate your twenty-motherfucking-first birthday with your friends like you’re supposed to. You’re going to flirt with the hot single firefighter, and you’re going to let Royal convince you to do a shot with her. You’re going to smile when it’s time to cut your cake, and you’re not going to waste one more minute on a man who’s unavailable.”
I nod and pull myself up in the lounger so I can stand, giving her leg a little kick on my way to my feet. She stands and shifts the bottle to her right hand and wraps her left arm around my shoulders. We walk into the brightly lit house that’s full of people I actually like and care for, but it feels empty.
“He said he’d come,” I say quietly. Obviously, I crossed a line the other day that there’s no coming back from.
Claire squeezes me closer to her and places a kiss to the top of my head as she whispers, “I know, Sissy.”
Granted, I didn’t tell him it was my birthday, but he should have come. He said he would, and I picked out beach games and music I thought he might like. It was stupid to plan my birthday to suit him, but I do stupid things, and this is just one more to add to the list, so it’s really no big deal. I know Jameson has a girlfriend—one he lives with, which is like way adult—and even though he still calls me Lulu every time he sees me, he’s given no further indication that he wants anything more than friendship from me. I’ve just allowed myself to concoct this alternate reality where he’s secretly pining for me and is waiting for the right time to make his move.
But he hasn’t broken up with Lydia even though, by all accounts from his family, she’s not exactly a winner. Beautiful, sure, but rather cold, which doesn’t fit the Hayes family one bit. They’re a tightly wound unit, and each member cares for their family as a whole very deeply. It’s one of my favorite things about them.
Enough about Jameson, I mentally chastise myself. I deserve better. I deserve a man who wants me enough to complicate his life to be with me. Not some stupid, hot, crazy, complex, difficult, swoon-worthy, gorgeous man with a pretty, awful girlfriend who doesn’t want me, or at least not enough to actually be with me.
Claire and I move around the dining table toward the living room where she breaks off from me and darts toward the kitchen. The living and dining are open concept with the kitchen half tucked away around a corner. There are close to ten people here. Claire and two of her friends who’ve always been nice to me, a few of my friends from high school—you know, the ones I actually like and haven’t blocked on Facebook because of their petty bullshit—my cousins on my mom’s side, and of course Hennessey and Royal. It’s a small gathering, which suits me just fine. We only have four bedrooms, but thankfully not everybody is staying the night, or we’d run out of room. Even if we did have the room, I don’t have many people. I guess it’s a curse of being a serious homebody who prefers hanging with her sister to meeting new people. I got lucky with Royal and, by extension, her brothers and parents. Everybody is paired up and talking amongst themselves. How lame is it that I can’t bring myself to talk to my own party guests?
“I hope I’m not too late,” Jameson’s voice sounds from behind me. My body tenses and ignites in a crazy excitement that I can barely contain. The grin that finds its way to my face is shameless. For the first time all day it feels like a day to celebrate.
“No, not at all.” I spin around and let my eyes travel up and down his solid frame. I try not to be too obvious as I survey the scene before me. No signs of Miss Cranky Pants.
“When you invited me, you forgot to mention that it’s your birthday.”
“That was intentional,” I say. He tilts his head to the side, and his blue-gray eyes ask questions he won’t verbalize. “There’s always that discomfort about gift-giving and the added pressure to show up for birthdays. I chose to skip the hassle.”
“Well, your plan sucked because . . .” He leaves his sentence hanging midway through and digs into his front pocket. He pulls out a small rectangular velvet box and hands it to me.
Slowly, I reach out and take the box in hand. It’s an unusual shape—neither a traditional ring box nor a traditional necklace box—but it’s definitely a jewelry box.
“You didn’t have to.” I’m almost afraid to open it. If it’s a great gift, it’s only going to make it harder to deal with being so close to him and yet so far from being able to have him.
“Yeah, I did.” His eyes are full of sincerity and his voice is steady. He eyeballs the box in a nervous way, but everything else about him is so assured and calm. I force myself to look away and refocus my attention back on the box in my hands. I open it to find a brilliant gold wishbone attached to a sturdy-looking but feminine chain. It’s beautiful.