Trey held me close to him last night, his arm tightly encasing me, attempting to protect me from my worries, but as his breathing evened out, my eyes never closed.
A million things were running through my head, and I felt sick to my stomach. I love Trey, so much. He’s always been amazing, but being here almost seems wrong, and I don’t know if it’s because my life is in Binghamton or if it’s because I’m second-guessing my feelings.
Which . . . God, it makes me such an awful person. I know it does. Maybe if Trey had said no to work and was here with me, I wouldn’t have such strange feelings. Maybe if I hadn’t had to clean up hardened and smushed pie off the hallway floor at six forty on my birthday, I’d be okay too. He did say he’d do it later, but really? Maybe all I need is some solid time with him to recharge my brain, because when we’re hanging out having a good time, it’s awesome.
Sighing, I watch a couple stroll in front of me, holding hands with cups of coffee in the others. That should be Trey and me. Why is he working so much lately? Everyone has the day off after Thanksgiving. It’s some weird American tradition. Eat yourself silly and then go spend a boatload of money on Christmas.
Ding.
My phone startles me when a text message comes in. I pull it out from my jacket pocket. Maybe Trey is done with work, and I can tell him to meet me here and we can start my birthday celebration. He said he had plans to make my day wonderful. Feeling a little bit of excitement now, I check my phone.
Aaron: Happy Birthday, Amelia. I hope you’re having a good time in the city this weekend. Mrs. Ferguson left a package at your door so I brought it into my house in case Mr. Mullins sees it and tries to steal it. He’s been known to snatch packages that aren’t his.
I giggle and think about Mr. Mullins, the old man four houses down that has the epitome of old-man butt, accentuated by his red suspenders and dockers.
Amelia: Thank you. And why am I not surprised by Mr. Mullins? He has package stealer written all over his face.
He texts back immediately.
Aaron: I think it’s the mustache. It curls out. You can’t trust a man with a curly mustache. It just screams deviant.
Amelia: Oh one hundred percent. It’s the mustache.
Not sure what else to say, so I press send. When he texts back, I feel a little relieved. I need this conversation. It’s so much better than the loneliness I’m feeling right now.
Aaron: Are you having a good birthday?
Not really, but for the first time since this morning, I actually have a small smile on my face.
Amelia: It’s okay. Trey had to go into work for a bit today so I’m hanging out at Central Park, people watching.
The little bubble indicating he’s texting back doesn’t appear and my heart drops as I wonder if I shouldn’t have told him about Trey, especially since Aaron wanted nothing more than to spend the weekend with me.
Shoot, that was stupid. I should have told him I was having the time of my life, but then that would have been a complete lie.
Pondering—and hating—that I’m so up and down with my decisions, my phone startles me when it rings in my hand.
Aaron.
“Hey,” I answer softly and lean back on the bench, my feet still tucked up close to me.
“Hey birthday girl,” he answers, his voice low and sultry. God, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to talk to him on the phone. I spent many nights lying on my bed, Aaron’s voice filtering into my ear while we spoke about nothing and everything. I’ve missed hearing him like this. “What are you, thirty-three now?”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. I wouldn’t be talking about age since you’re the one who’s actually in his thirties.”
“But damn, thirty looks good on me.” If that isn’t the truth. There is no denying he’s grown finer in age.
“Trying to rub your six-pack in my face?”
“I would love to rub any part of my body in your face.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I can tell there’s a little bit of light in your voice and that’s all that matters. So you’re alone on your birthday? That sucks.”
“Yeah, but it’s okay. I know Trey won’t be very long.” Lie. But Aaron doesn’t need to know when Trey left. Six fucking thirty. This is the first time I’ve spoken to anyone since six fucking thirty . . . on my birthday.
“That’s good.” He clears his throat and asks, “Remember the first birthday of yours we celebrated together?”
“Yeah, you were late and never told me why.” I recall the elation I felt when I finally saw him walk through the club, dressed sexy as sin with a smile on his face only for me.
“My mom.” He’s sullen, quiet, and I’m actually surprised he’s opening up to me now, so many years later. “She was having a bad day and needed me. Found out she was high and paranoid. Thought someone was trying to kill her. When I arrived at her house, she was fast asleep. I checked her vitals a few times, wanting to make sure she wasn’t overdosing. She was fine, but before I left, I raided her house and threw out all of her drugs.”
Pain funneled into my heart from the thought of Aaron having to take care of his mom that night. When he arrived at the club, he didn’t look like he’d just dealt with something that heavy. This surprises me.
“You could have told me. You could have stayed with your mom to make sure she was going to be okay.”
“No. She was fine and didn’t deserve my attention. You, on the other hand, you deserved it all and to hell if I was going to let you down on your birthday.” He pauses and then says, “But I don’t want to talk about my mom; she’s not worth our time. What I want to talk about was what happened after we left the club.”
My face heats up from the memory of Aaron stripping me down in his apartment, his hands gliding over my skin, the way he slowly made love to me that night, his sole focus on pleasing me. By the time it was his turn, his cock was beyond hard, his was ready to snap. I felt loved, full, and adored when we made eye contact the moment he drove into me.
My legs clench tight, the memories making me feel hot all over again.
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask, my voice soft, a little shy.
“Remember how you wanted to go back to my place right away?”
“But you refused because I hadn’t had a proper birthday cake,” I finish for him.
“Exactly. So we went to Coldstone Creamery and got birthday cake sundaes.”
“Yeah, and you sang to me while we sat on the hood of your car.” I laugh. “You have a terrible singing voice.”
“Can’t be perfect at everything, babe.” My stomach flutters from the pet name he used to call me. “Do you still go to Coldstone on your birthday?”
“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Just wasn’t the same without you.”
He’s silent and then asks, “Want to know something?”
I’m not sure if I do but before I can stop myself, I say, “Yes.”
“I still go to Coldstone on your birthday and order the birthday cake sundae. I eat it in the parking lot on the hood of my truck and think about you.”