Birthday Girl Page 2

  I turn my head, eyeing him with apprehension. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

  He pinches his eyebrows and looks at me. “Are you?”

  “They’re usually anti-social, Caucasian men.”

  Good-looking male here all alone? Hmmm…

  He arches a sharp brow. “And they look just like everyone else,” he adds, suspicion in his voice as he looks me up and down.

  The light from the ads on the screen play in his eyes, neither of us flinch, but I can’t take it anymore. I break into a quiet chuckle.

  I finally hold out my hand to him. “I’m Jordan. Sorry about the wine.”

  “Jordan?” he repeats, taking my hand and shaking it. “Unusual name for a girl.”

  “No, not really.” I relax into the seat and fold my arms over my chest, lifting my knees and planting my shoes into the crevice between the two empty seats ahead of me. “It was the name of Tom Cruise’s love interest in Cocktail, remember?”

  His eyebrows raise in question.

  “Cocktail?” I repeat. “1988 movie about flair bartending?”

  “Oh, right.” But he has this unsure look in his eyes, and I’m not sure he knows what the hell I’m taking about.

  “Do you like 80’s movies?” I ask, gesturing to the film that we’re about to watch on the screen.

  “I like scary movies,” he clarifies and holds the popcorn over to me. “This one’s a classic. You?”

  “I love the 80s.” I take a small handful and put a piece in my mouth. “My boyfriend hates my taste in movies and music, but I can’t resist. I’m here whenever they show something from the decade.”

  I feel awkward slipping in a random mention of a boyfriend, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. I quickly glance down at his left hand, thankfully not seeing a wedding ring. It would be wrong to sit here with a married guy.

  But he just looks at me knowingly. “Breakfast Club is your favorite, right?” he says. “And every other John Hughes creation?”

  “You have something against The Breakfast Club?”

  “Not the first ten times I saw it, no.”

  A smile pulls at my lips. It is on TV a lot, I guess.

  He leans in. “The 80s was the age of the action hero,” he points out, his deep voice close and hushed. “People forget that. Lethal Weapon, Die Hard, The Terminator, Rambo…”

  “Jean-Claude Van Damme,” I add.

  “Exactly.”

  I bite the corner of my mouth, so I don’t laugh, but my stomach shakes anyway, and I let out a snort.

  He frowns. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Nothing,” I reply quickly, nodding. “Van Damme. Great actor. Very relevant films.”

  I can’t keep the laughter off my face, though, and he furrows his brow knowing I’m full of shit.

  Just then I hear a giggle somewhere behind me, and I turn my head over my shoulder, seeing Jay turned away from the screen and leaning into the girl, both of them full-on making out now.

  “You know them?” the man next to me asks.

  I shake my head. He doesn’t need to know my business.

  We fall silent, and I finish the popcorn in my hand, letting my head fall back as I look up to the high ceiling and the antique gold arches overhead. He sits next to me, and I breathe in and out slowly, despite the hammering in my chest.

  Why am I nervous? Is it Jay?

  No, I’m not even thinking about him at the moment.

  People chat around us, waiting for the movie to start, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, and I don’t really care. My skin feels warm.

  “So, what are studying at Doral State?” he asks.

  I shoot him a surprised look. How does he know where I go to school?

  Serial killer.

  But then he gestures to my bag on the floor, and I see the keychain hanging off it with the university emblem emblazoned on the face.

  Oh, duh.

  I sit up. “Landscape Design,” I tell him. “I want to make outside spaces pretty.”

  “That’s nice. I work in construction.”

  I flash him a half-smile. “So, you make inside spaces pretty then.”

  “No, not really.”

  I laugh at his forlorn tone like he’s so bored with what he does.

  “I make them functional,” he corrects me.

  He turns hazel eyes on me, warm and piercing, but then his gaze drops to my mouth for a split moment, and a flutter hits my stomach. He quickly looks away, and I drop my eyes, having a hard time catching my breath.

  Clearing my throat, I bend down and pull out the box of donuts from my bag and place them on the tray, swinging the little table in front of me and lifting the lid.

  The sweet scent immediately hits my nose, and my stomach growls.

  I glance back at the projection window, wondering if the movie is starting soon, because I was saving these for that, but now I’m starving.

  I feel the guy’s eyes on me, and I glance at him, explaining the donuts, “It’s my birthday. In addition to the wine, my boss gave me the only cake she could get at a drive-thru.”

  I pick one up and lean back, putting my feet back on the arm rest in front of me.

  “You’re going to eat all six donuts?” he questions.

  I stop the pastry two inches from my mouth and glare at him. “Would that disgust you or something?”

  “No, I’m just wondering if I get one.”

  I smile and wave at the box, telling him to help himself.

  He picks up the plain glazed, and I’m not sure if he’s the no-frills type or just trying to save the special sprinkle ones for me, but either way, I kind of like it. We sit back and eat, but I can’t help stealing glances at him every once in a while.

  His brown hair is light, and his eyes look blue, green, or hazel depending on what kind of light is flashing across them from the screen. He has a little stubble on his oval-shaped face, a sharp nose, and my gaze is drawn to the way his angular jaw flexes as he chews. There’s the faintest of lines around his eyes, so he might be more than thirty, but it could just be all his time working in the sun, too. He’s tall, strong, fit, and tan, and his eyes suddenly flash to the side as if he senses me staring. I turn my eyes forward again.

  Dammit.

  That’s okay, right? It’s normal to find other people attractive. It happens. I mean, Scarlett Johansson is attractive. That doesn’t mean I’m interested in her.

  I take another nibble of my donut, my gaze darting to the side again, taking in his arms and the various tattoos. Black gears and bolts, like a robot skeleton, some tribal work that definitely says he was a 90’s kid, and I can just make out what I think is a pocket watch that looks like it’s trying to break free of his skin. It’s like a hodgepodge without any discerning theme, but it’s beautiful work. I wonder what the story is behind them.

  I take another bite, the pink glaze and rainbow sprinkles sending electric shocks to the back of my jaw and making me crave the whole damn thing in my mouth at once.

  “You know, I really kind of want abs,” I say, chewing, “but these are really good.”

  He breaks into a laugh, looking at me and chuckling.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You’re just…” He looks away as if searching for words. “You’re just kind of, like, interesting or…something?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I mean. And then he blurts out, “Cute,” as if just remembering. “You’re cute, I mean.”

  My stomach flips, and heat warms my cheeks like I’m in fifth grade again when it was such a compliment for a guy you like to tell you you’re cute. I know he means my personality and not how I look, but I kind of like it.

  He finishes the donut and takes a sip of his soda. “So, what are you?” he asks. “Like twenty-three, twenty-four?”

  “Sure, eventually.”

  He breathes out a laugh.

  “Nineteen,” I finally answer.

  He takes a deep b
reath and sighs, something far off in his gaze.

  “What?” I take the last bite and brush my hands together, slouching and leaning my head back on the chair.

  “To be that young again,” he muses. “Seems like yesterday.”

  Well, how old could he be? Nineteen couldn’t have been that long ago for him. Ten years? Maybe twelve?

  “So, you’d do some things differently if you could go back?” I inquire.

  He quirks a tight smile and looks down at me, his eyes serious. “Let me tell you something…. A little advice, okay?

  I listen, looking up at him and my gaze locked with his.

  “Hit the ground running,” he tells me.

  Huh?

  He must see the confusion on my face, because he goes on.

  “Time passes by you like a bullet,” he says, “and fear gives you the excuses you’re craving to not do the things you know you should. Don’t doubt yourself, don’t second-guess, don’t let fear hold you back, don’t be lazy, and don’t base your decisions on how happy it will make others. Just go for it, okay?”

  I stare up at him, and unfortunately, that’s all I can seem to do. I want to smile, because my heart is swelling, and it feels good, but I’m also filled with something I can’t place. It’s like a dozen different emotions flooding in at once, and all I can manage are short, shallow breaths.

  “Okay,” I whisper to him.

  I’m not sure if what he said was what I wanted to hear or needed to hear, but I feel my shoulders square a bit more and my chin rise with readiness. For however long it lasts, I’m a little braver, and he’s my new hero.

  I watch as he pulls out a small box and proceeds to light a match, the small flame burning bright. He sticks it in one of the donuts, all the pink frosting Shel asked for, because she knows it’s my favorite color, glowing in the light. I feel my heart warm at the gesture.

  Taking my feet down, I lean forward, close my eyes, and ask for what I want in my head, and then I blow out the flame.

  I didn’t wish for what I usually wish for, though. My mind is suddenly blank, and I’m not remembering all the things I need and want right now outside of this theater. Just the only thing I can think of.

  We both sit back and settle in, each having another donut as the lights finally dim, and the surround sound hits us from both sides of the theater.

  Over the next ninety minutes, we eat and laugh, and I hide my face a couple times when I know something’s coming. I jerk here and there and laugh at him when he does, too, because he looks embarrassed. After a while, I notice my head lays inclined toward him, and he has his foot up on the empty chair ahead of us with his head laid back, as well, and we’re completely comfortable. It hasn’t even occurred to me to keep a certain distance.

  I don’t watch a lot of movies with other people. I’m not used to just sitting in silence with someone else. Cole’s and my schedules don’t always mesh, my sister, Cam, doesn’t have any free time anymore, and most of my high school friendships didn’t last past graduation about a year ago. It’s nice to hang out.

  By the time the credits roll, I’m not sure I remember much of the movie. But I haven’t been this relaxed in a long time. I laughed and smiled and joked around and forgot everything that’s going on out there, and I needed that. I don’t really want to go home yet.

  The lights start to come up, and I slowly sit up, bringing my feet back to the floor as I swallow the lump in my throat and glance over at him. He sits up, too, but he barely meets my eyes.

  Standing up, I hook the strap of the bag over my head and pick up my garbage.

  “Well, they’re showing Poltergeist in a few weeks,” he says behind me, rising and taking his trash with him. “If I see you, I’ll make sure to sit at higher ground.”

  I laugh under my breath, thinking about the wine. We both exit the row and walk for the doors, and I notice Jay and his date aren’t in their seats anymore. They must’ve left already, but truth be told, I forgot they were here a long time ago.

  Poltergeist. Does that mean he’ll be here then? Is this his way of nonchalantly letting me know in case I just happen to want to come, too?

  But no, he knows I have a boyfriend.

  I can’t help but think, though, if for some reason Cole and I didn’t make it another month, would I come to the movies then, knowing he’d be here?

  I blink long and hard, guilt washing over me as I trail up the aisle. I’d probably be here. There aren’t a lot of “catches” in this town, and I had fun tonight. This guy is interesting.

  And good-looking.

  And employed.

  I should set him up with my older sister. How he’s gone by undetected under her radar all this time is a mystery to me.

  We push through the door, the last ones out of the theater and stop in the lobby, tossing away all our trash.

  I look up at him, my heart skipping a beat at seeing him in the brighter light and standing tall in front of me. Hazel eyes. Definitely hazel. But more green around the outside of the irises.

  His hair is styled with minimal product and just long enough to run your fingers through, and I drop my eyes to his smooth, tan neck. I can’t see if there’s a tan line under the collar of his T-shirt, though. Is he like that all over? An unbidden image of him hammering and hauling lumber without a shirt on flashes in my mind and I…

  I close my eyes again, shaking my head. Yeah, whoa, okay.

  “Um, I better head back,” I tell him, gripping the strap of my bag. “Hopefully my boyfriend is waiting at the bar to pick me up by now.”

  “Bar?”

  “Grounders?” I answer, thinking he probably should know the place. It’s one of only three bars in town, although many favor Poor Red’s or the strip club over the dive I work at. “I got off a little early tonight—unexpectedly—but he’s my ride, and I couldn’t get a hold of him. He should be there now, though.”

  He pushes the door open, holding it for me as I leave the theater, and follows me out.

  “Well, I hope you had a good birthday, despite having to work,” he says.

  I move to the right toward where Grounders is, and he veers left.

  “And thanks for keeping me company.” I tell him. “I hope I didn’t ruin the movie for you.”

  He gazes at me for a moment, his breathing growing heavier as a torn look crosses his face. Finally, he shakes his head, averting his eyes. “Not at all,” he says.

  A moment of silence passes, and slowly, we both steer farther apart but neither of us turns our backs on one another.

  The silence gets longer, the distance farther, and finally he raises a hand, giving me a little wave before hooking both hands in his back pockets. “Goodnight,” he says.

  I just stare at him. Yeah, goodnight.

  And then I turn away, my stomach twisting into a tighter knot.

  I didn’t even get his name. It’d be nice to say ‘hi’ if I run into him again.

  I don’t have time to dwell, though, because my phone rings, and I slide it out of my pocket, seeing Cole’s name on the screen.

  I stop on the sidewalk and answer it. “Hey, you at Grounders?” I ask him. “I’m almost there.”

  He doesn’t say anything, though, and I pause, calling his name. “Cole? Hey, are you there?”

  Nothing.

  “Cole?” I say louder.

  But the line is dead. I go to call him back, but I hear a voice behind me.

  “Your boyfriend’s name is Cole?” the man from the theater asks. “Cole Lawson?”

  I turn around to see him slowly walking back toward me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You know him?”

  He hesitates for a moment as if coming to terms with something, and then he holds out his hand, finally introducing himself. “I’m Pike. Pike Lawson.”

  Lawson?

  He pauses a moment and then adds, “His father.”

  My lungs empty. “What?” I breathe out.

  His father?

  My m
outh falls open, but I clamp it shut again, looking up at this man with new eyes as realization dawns.

  Cole has talked about his father in passing—I knew he lived in the area—but they’re not close, from what I understand. The impression I had of Cole’s father from his son’s brief mentions doesn’t match the guy I talked to in the theater tonight. He’s nice.

  And easy to talk to.

  And he hardly looks old enough to have a nineteen-year-old son, for crying out loud.

  “His father?” I say out loud.

  He gives me a curt smile, and I know this is a turn of events he wasn’t expecting, either.

  I hear his cell vibrate in his pocket next, and he digs it out, checking the screen.

  “And if he’s calling me now, he must be in trouble,” he says, staring at the phone. “Need a lift?”

  “A lift where?”

  “Police station, I’d assume.” He sighs, answering the phone and leading the way. “Let’s go.”

  Jordan

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I tell Cole, pulling out my stacked milk crates from the back of his car. “I feel like a freeloader.”

  My boyfriend brandishes that quirky tilt to his lips where you only see the left side of his teeth. “So, what are you gonna do then?” He looks up at me, sliding my collapsible drafting table toward him and lifting it up. “Stay at your parents’?”

  His blue eyes are hooded, probably from the lack of sleep, as we both walk over and set our loads on the porch steps to Pike Lawson’s house.

  Our new home.

  The past few days have been crazy, and I can’t believe that guy is his father. What are the chances? I wish we’d met a little differently. Not driving down to the police station at two o’clock in the morning to get his son—my boyfriend—out of jail.

  “Come on, I told you,” Cole says, walking back to the car for another load. “My dad was the one who offered to let us stay here. We just chip in on chores, and this gives us a chance to save up for a new place. A better place.”

  Right. And how many kids move back home to do just that and end up staying for another three years instead? His dad had to know what he was opening himself up to.

  I’ll make every effort to be gone as soon as possible, but Cole doesn’t save money. Setting up a new place, with a deposit—which we lost at the previous apartment due to minor damages to the carpets—and utilities will take substantial cash. Once we get a place, Cole can help pay for it, but actually getting in there and set up will be on me.