35. Drew

THIRTY-FIVE

drew

The date circled on the calendar mocked me when I reached for the milk. What better way to start out my eighteenth birthday than eating cereal in the kitchen—alone?

My dad still wasn't home.

No texts or missed calls—but it was only seven.

He'd probably taken an early flight so he could be home by the time I got back from school. God, why did I care? I didn't even like the man.

The doorbell rang, and I tossed my bowl into the sink, then went to answer it.

A man with a clipboard stood on the threshold while a noisy trailer truck backed up to the drive. "Drucella Morgan?" he said, making checks on his paper.

"Yes."

"Just need you to sign." He passed the clipboard to me.

After I'd scribbled my signature over a dotted line, he passed me a set of keys, along with an envelope. Then he went to the truck and lifted the rolling door while I opened the letter:

My Darling Daughter,

Happy eighteenth birthday, sweetie. I hope you like the car. Love you!

Bisous,

Irina - x

A ramp lowered to the asphalt, and a few minutes later, a baby-pink Porsche, with a massive white bow stuck to the hood, reversed out.

The car probably cost a small fortune. In baby pink. God, I hated that color.

Gifts were how Irina showed her affection—because I'd never quite use the word love. Most kids would give their right arm for that car, but for me, it was nothing but a reminder of my absent parents. At least my mom had remembered. My dad couldn't even manage a simple message before his first meeting.

I closed the door, typed out a thank you text to my mom, then finished getting ready for school and went to wait on the porch for Nora.

Her car pulled in front of my house. I could see her sitting behind the wheel, gawking at the pink Barbie car before I reached the drive. When I got in, she let out a low whistle. "Nice car."

"Thanks. My mom sent it." I intentionally left out the "for my birthday" part. I didn't want the attention. Plus, my own father couldn't be bothered with it; why should anyone else? It was just another day anyway; it didn't matter.

The entire drive to school, I kept refreshing my phone to check for a text. And every time nothing popped up, I felt worse. I cared, and I didn't want to.

By the time we pulled up to Dayton, my mood was sour.

I swear, the only thing that made this school bearable was Bellamy. Even when we were enemies, he at least made it exciting, and his absence only added to my bleak outlook today.

Come lunch, there was still no text from my dad, but at least Genevieve messaged me Happy Birthday.

I grabbed my shitty lunch and didn't even bother with a Push-Pop, because only cherry was left, and that was worse than grape. On a huff, I tossed my tray to the table and sank to the stool beside Nora.

"You okay?" she asked, picking over her salad. "You seem mad or something."

"I'm fine." I unwrapped my sandwich then lifted the bun to inspect the meat.

"Why do you keep staring at Hendrix, Diane?" Nora nudged me in the ribs. "She's like ogling him."

"I am not!"

Nora started grilling Diane, her questioning coming to an abrupt halt when a rainbow sherbet Push-Pop dropped in front of me.

"Happy Birthday, baby girl," Bellamy whispered in my ear, low enough no one else could have heard. His warm breath tickled my skin as his lips pressed to my throat. Every nerve ending lit up, and there it was—the real reason I missed him. He wasn't just exciting. He set my soul on fire and filled the cold void that I hadn't even realized lingered within me until him.

Before I could thank him, he was on his way back to his table.

"Aw." Diane sighed. "He gave you a Push-Pop!"

"He probably stole it from a freshman." Nora shook her head.

Probably.

My phone buzzed on the table, and a text ribbon popped up at the top of the screen .

Dickhead: And don't think part of that gift isn't selfish. I like to watch you suck it.

I glanced across the cafeteria. Bellamy's attention was aimed directly at me, that smirk playing over his lips. I didn't care if it was selfish. I had no idea how he knew it was my birthday, but it didn't matter. He did, and he remembered. All while, I knew he was dealing with his own problems. It made my heart do a pathetic little cough.

Me: Thank you

When I got home from school, a package from Genevieve waited on my porch.

I took the box inside and untied the bright-purple ribbon, pulling out a slut-red dress.

A note fluttered to the floor, Genevieve's perfect handwriting scrawled across it wishing me a happy birthday. And still not a word from my dad.

I managed to hold it together until it was nine o'clock at night, and I sat alone in the living room, staring at the text.

Me: Hey

Dad: I'm at a business dinner. Is it important?

No, apparently, I wasn't important. Not like I didn't already know that, though.

Rejection sank in deep, like a blade wedged between my ribs, stilting my breaths, and I gave in to tears. Tears that I hated to spill over him. Tears he didn't deserve.

Swallowing hard, I pulled myself together and shoved my emotions down into that dark little hole where Black Mountain had taught me to hide them.

I typed out a text to Bellamy, then stopped halfway through and deleted it.

I was down and in need. A text now would be me starting to rely on him, and that was a slippery slope I couldn't afford to go down. Not with a guy like Bellamy—not with a guy I felt like I'd already lost control with.

I was used to having no one, and it was best to keep it that way for the next few weeks until Barrington and Dayton were distant memories.

So instead of inviting him over, I poured a glass of wine, necked it, and sent a text to Nora and Diane.

Me: Party at mine tonight. Invite everyone. Free drinks and a pool.

Screw my dad.