by Daniels, Viv
“Hey, congrats!” I said. “I’ll come.”
“Please don’t.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s humiliating.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “but the singing will be good.”
Sylvia rolled her eyes again, but this time, she was smiling. “And we should make a plan for the big two-one, right? Next week?”
I nodded. “Monday.”
“What do you want to do?”
Get drunk and sleep with Dylan. “I don’t know. Nothing fancy. Or gross. I hate those twenty-first birthday parties where they make the person do shots and stuff.”
“Absolutely not,” said Sylvia. “We should go to a fancy bar where they card and order gourmet cocktails.”
I made a face. “Don’t you think we spend enough time at a bar? Seriously, why does the theme of every twenty-first birthday have to be alcohol?”
“What theme would you prefer, birthday girl?”
Silk sheets and candlelight. “I don’t know. Maybe I won’t even drink on my birthday.” The last two times I’d had so much as a sip of alcohol, I’d wound up making out with my secret sister’s boyfriend.
But I couldn’t tell Sylvia that. First of all, she didn’t even know I had a sister. Second, she’d probably cheer me on. Hannah, to her, was a Lady Who Lunched.
Sylvia frowned. “I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”
“I’m sick of the rules,” I said, probably more vehemently than I needed to. But I was. I was sick of rules that kept the most important things about my life from the people I cared about. I was sick of rules that meant I couldn’t tell Dylan exactly why this whole situation freaked me out. I was sick of all of it.
She raised her hands in defeat. “Fine. Fine. We’ll have balloons and a cake and those little pointy paper hats. Like you’re six. Better?”
I gave her a weak smile. “You win. We’ll go out. Maybe that new fancy Mexican place? Pitchers of margaritas and bottomless bowls of guac sound about right.”
“Yay!” She squeezed my shoulder. “There’s the spirit.”
The rest of the day passed as Fridays do, with the genteel lunch crowd making way for the rowdy college kids at night. On Saturday, the cycle started all over again. I didn’t hear from Dylan—not even his usual “Eureka” emails where he told me about every new thought or plan he had for our project. I was simultaneously relieved and terrified. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? For Dylan to leave me alone while he sorted everything out with Hannah? This was what I’d begged him for, right before he’d done exceptionally naughty things to me from half a town away…just to prove that he could.
He wasn’t teaching me a lesson this time. He was just doing as I asked. I’d wanted him to leave me alone this weekend, and he was. But he was still right. I didn’t need him around to think about him, to miss him, to long for him with an ache so strong I could barely sleep nights. Every time a dark-haired guy came through the front door at Verde, I looked to see if it was him. I thought I heard someone call his name a dozen times that weekend. It never was, and I hated myself for wanting it to be. I hated the times I picked up my phone, scrolled to his number, and almost pressed Call. I hated the times my mouse hovered over the Reply button of the last email he’d sent me. I hated the fact that if we did make contact again, if I did break down and call him, if I so much as glimpsed him on the street, I’d lose every shred of my self-control and leap into his arms.
Worst of all, I didn’t actually hate any of those things. I just wished I did.
SEVENTEEN
On Monday morning, I awoke to the smell of butter and cinnamon. Still wrapped in my robe, I padded out into the kitchen, where I found my mom hard at work at the counter.
“Sweetie!” she cried. “Happy Birthday!”
I gave her a kiss. “French breakfast puffs?”
“For my girl? You bet.”
I had no idea why we called them French, but they were a house specialty. The “puffs” were essentially little muffins dipped in butter and then rolled in cinnamon sugar, and they were every bit as decadent as that sounds. Mom reserved the treat for holidays and birthdays, and I could eat two or three at a sitting. “Mmm. Is there coffee?”
“Yes, and I used some of that chicory your father brought back from New Orleans last month.”
I poured two cups of the fragrant, rich coffee as my mom rolled the last of the puffs in the cinnamon-sugar mixture. The secret to French breakfast puffs was eating them warm.
“Besides,” Mom said. “I figured it was important to get some nice, fatty food in you today before you go off and do tequila shots with your friends.”
“Sylvia promised no one would make me do shots,” I said, snatching a puff off the plate. “But yes, we will be having a ton of tequila.”
“Who is your designated driver?” When I rolled my eyes at her, she held up her hands. “Sorry, I’m your mom. Can’t turn it off.”
“Annabel. She has a big test tomorrow and wants to make sure she’s rested. Thank you for volunteering to watch Milo, by the way.”
“No problem. I remember those days,” said Mom, taking a sip of coffee. “Desperate to find anyone to watch you while I went out with my friends once in a while. And I remember being the designated driver at all my friends’ twenty-first birthday parties. It’s easy when you’re pregnant.”
I nodded, realizing I was now the same age Mom had been when she’d had me. There’d been no tequila on her twenty-first birthday and no fancy dinner out with her boyfriend, the father of her child. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if I were facing the same choices my mom had been at this age. Pregnant? Babies? Dropping out of school? No way.
“Don’t go get pregnant,” she added, winking when she saw what was probably a look of horror on my face. “You need to get that PhD first.”
“You bet.”
“Are any friends from school going out with you tonight?” she asked.
Fishing, Mom? “I invited these two girls I went to the party with last week.”
“Any boys? What about that mysterious lab partner of yours? Dylan?” It had been a few weeks before I’d even been willing to tell my mom his name, I was so nervous she might mention it in front of my father. There were probably several Dylans at Canton, but the Bio-E connection might raise his suspicions that my Dylan was the same as Hannah’s boyfriend Dylan, and if I was lab partners with him, I must be hanging out with his girlfriend, despite our rules. Eventually, however, I decided that not saying his name was even more suspicious than just mentioning it offhand. But Mom seemed to think there was nothing more to our relationship than that.
It may have helped that I’d made a face when she’d asked if Dylan was cute.
I shook my head. “I think this’ll be a girls’ night out.”
“That sounds fun, too.”
Mom and I finished our breakfasts and made plans to meet after lunch for birthday pedicures, and then I got ready for school. My organic chemistry class started at nine.
I arrived at campus at ten ’til, parked, and walked over to the chemistry department, feeling good and filled with French breakfast puffs. It was my birthday, so I’d had four.
As I went to my usual seat in the classroom, I noticed something on top of my desk: a small red leather jewelry box with a silk ribbon tied around it, and an envelope sitting underneath.
“Where did this come from?” I asked Liz, the pre-med who sat across from me. Near the front of the class the TA, Jess, caught sight of me and came over.
“Your boyfriend brought it,” she said, bouncing a little bit, a big grin plastered on her face. She was the only chem student I’d met who ever bounced. “He asked me where you sat. Happy birthday, by the way.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I slid the card out from under the box.
“Black hair, blue eyes, super cute?”
And as if that wasn’t enough, I recognized the handwriting on the envelope immediately. “Oh. He’s just my Bio-E lab partner.”
&n
bsp; “Come on,” said Jess the TA. “Open it. We’ve all been dying for you to get here.”
I looked around. There were at least half a dozen pairs of eyes on me.
“It looks like a ring box is the thing,” Liz said. “Just your lab partners don’t give rings for birthdays.”
I shook my head to dismiss that thought from anyone in class who might be getting the wrong idea and opened the card.
Dear Tess,
There’s a good chance I won’t see you today, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to tell you Happy Birthday.
I hope it’s everything you want.
Dylan
“What does it say?” Jess asked dreamily.
“Happy Birthday.” I turned to the box and untied the bow, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth. It did look remarkably like a ring box. What was Dylan thinking? I opened it.
Inside, nestled against the crush of white satin, was a small silver charm, about an inch and a half long, of a capital letter T. The vertical line was in the shape of a double helix, and the bases—the “rungs” of the twisted ladder — sparkled as I held it in the light. The charm was attached to a silver chain, and I lifted it out, to the oohs and ahhs of my observers.
“Ohhhh, that’s so sweet,” cooed Jess. “And so perfect for you.”
It was. I traced my finger along the edge, staring at it in wonder, and then quickly caught myself. “It’s really nice,” I managed to say without the words catching in my throat. I found the clasp and fastened it around my neck. I swept my hair out of the way and let the T slide down over my collarbone to nestle just above the curve of my breasts.
“It is really nice,” Liz agreed. “I think ‘just your lab partner’ doesn’t want to be just anything.”
I waved her off.
“I have to go start class,” said Jess, “but I’m with Liz. That boy wants you bad.”
I wished they’d stop. There was a chance Hannah had a friend in this class. As the hour progressed, I caught myself fingering the charm around my throat—the smooth horizontal top, the jagged, sparkly edges of the helix. I had no idea where Dylan had found this crazily perfect piece of jewelry for me, but I loved it more than anything I’d ever worn.
After class, I met my mother for my birthday pedicure at her favorite nail salon. Like the breakfast puffs, it had become somewhat of a tradition. We picked our colors—shell pink for me, a fiery coral red for her—and climbed into the big leather massage chairs. As our footbaths filled, Mom told me all about the new commission she was hoping to get, and I stared off into the distance, touching the silver charm and wondering if it would really be that bad if I invited Dylan to dinner with us tonight. Just as friends, of course. There’d be plenty of people there. It was a chance for him to maybe mend fences with Elaine.
And he could see me wearing the charm and know how much his gift meant…
Yeah. No. Bad idea. Terrible. I dropped the charm back on my chest like it had burned me.
“Oh, that’s pretty!” my mom said. “How cute. DNA, right? Or…RNA?” She looked at me helplessly.
“DNA,” I assured her.
“Who is it from?”
I shrugged. “Secret admirer. I hope if I wear it, he’ll show himself to me.” Funny how easy lying came if you did it your whole life.
My mom laughed. “Oh, honey, let me tell you about secret admirers. Trust me, if they’re secret, it’s almost always because you don’t want to know who they really are. It’s probably some total geek who’s been making eyes at you all semester across the beakers.”
Right on both counts. Dylan had been making eyes at me all semester—eyes and much more. And he was definitely still a geek, even if you couldn’t tell to look at him. I mean, who got a girl a DNA necklace?
And what kind of geek was I for loving it so much?
“Well, it’s nice to imagine he’s some hot stranger,” I said again. “In my head, he looks like Henry Cavill.” Actually, that wasn’t too far from reality, though he had nowhere near the Man of Steel’s build. Where Superman looked like, well, an alien superhero, Dylan was a bit leaner, like a runner. Still, the eyes were right.
I shook myself free of the fantasy, realizing I hadn’t listened to whatever my mom had been saying.
“Actually, speaking of birthday presents, I have your father’s.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a long, narrow jewelry box.
I looked at her suspiciously and opened the box. Inside lay a big, beautiful string of vintage pearls. I swallowed. “They’re really nice.”
She looked relieved. “It was his aunt’s. He’s been feeling bad that you don’t have any of his family’s jewelry, but his mom’s stuff all went to Marie or…”
“Hannah,” I finished. I guess no one would notice one of his aunt’s necklaces missing, and a set of pearls weren’t distinctive enough to recognize if anyone ever saw it on my neck.
“Try it on,” she said. “I want to see how it looks!”
I hesitated. The pearls were pretty enough, but I didn’t want to take off Dylan’s charm.
“Come on, Tess.”
The manicurist started clipping my toenail cuticles, and I stiffened, my muscles tensing in spite of myself. I fastened the pearls around my neck. They were bulky, heavy. Clunking against my collarbone in a way I wasn’t entirely sure I liked.
“Oh, they look so beautiful!” My mom exclaimed as a woman went after her heel with what looked like a cheese grater.
“Yeah,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll have to find someplace nice to wear them.” I unfastened them and set the choker gently back in the box. I didn’t think I was the kind of girl who wore pearls.
After our pedicures, Mom and I went our separate ways, and I tried to get homework done while counting the hours until I met my friends for my first legal drink.
I’m proud to say I never once called Dylan.
***
Tuesday morning, slightly hung over, I popped two Advil, drank a large glass of Gatorade, and went to Biotransport class in a blouse cut low enough that the double-helix T was on full display. As I slid into my seat, I caught sight of a bleary-eyed Elaine across the room. She gave me a halfhearted wave. Even though she doesn’t usually drink, she joined in on the margaritas last night. Guess she was still paying for it.
“Hi,” Dylan said as he sat down beside me. If he saw what I was wearing, I didn’t notice.
“Hi,” I said. “Thank you.” It hardly seemed enough.
“Looks good on you.”
“I love it.”
He faced me then, his blue eyes hard and piercing.
I love you. I love you, Dylan. It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever given me and I love you. I tried to communicate it with my eyes, but telepathy, unfortunately, was not a real thing.
“I’m glad.” He turned to his notes.
I dropped my hands to my lap, rebuffed. Was he still mad about Thursday night? I’d thought, since the present he’d given me… I stole a glance out of the corner of my eye but he looked like the epitome of studiousness. My left hand migrated under the table to rest on his thigh. He put his hand under the table, too, and covered mine. Our fingers entwined. I squeezed.
He squeezed back.
We stayed like that for the rest of class, me taking notes one-handed on paper while he occasionally pecked something out on his laptop. It was worth it. From time to time, he’d brush his thumb in circles over the back of my hand, kneading that spot between my index finger and my thumb. I could hardly concentrate on what our professor was saying, but it was the best Transport class of all time. When the lecture ended, I reluctantly let go of his hand to pack up.
In silence, side by side, we put away our books and papers, not daring to look at one another. When all my stuff was put in order, I glanced up. “So, tonight? Lab?”
He nodded, his attention focused on his bag. “See you there.” I saw his forehead crease and then he looked up, and the force of his gaze almost blew me backward. “Tes
s?”
“Yeah?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. After a minute, he shook his head. “Have fun last night?”
“Yeah. Went out for Mexican.”
“Nice. How are you feeling this morning?”
Desperate. Impatient. Sexually frustrated. Crazy for you. “A little woozy, but otherwise good.”
There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “Yeah, that happens. Try to eat something greasy to soak it up. Do you want to go…?” He stopped himself. “I’ll see you tonight.”
And then he left. I stood there at the table, wanting very much to kick myself. All those stupid, high-and-mighty ideals of mine. I couldn’t see him, or I wouldn’t be able to control myself. Well, he was giving me what I wanted. Not even a hangover breakfast at a greasy spoon.
And he’d been right, last Thursday on the phone. It didn’t matter if I spent time with him or not. Especially not now, with the soft, T-shaped reminder resting over my heart. Maybe I hadn’t been giving my parents enough credit all these years. Lust you could ignore. Lust you could forget. But this was way worse. I was in love with him, and he was never, ever off my mind.
EIGHTEEN
At four forty-five that evening, a text appeared on my phone from Dylan.
Can’t make it tonight.
I wrote him back asking why, but there was no response, so I went to the lab and worked alone for a couple of hours. We were nearing the end of our project, and things were coming together nicely. With no decisions left to be made, the rest was just a matter of data compilation, analysis, and, of course, writing up our final report and presentation. I figured we’d be done in plenty of time for the December symposium—as long as my overenthusiastic partner didn’t decide we just had to include all kinds of extras.
I smiled, imagining it. That was the Dylan I’d always known, the Dylan of the 3:00 a.m. emails and the Eureka moments and the insistence on bumping whatever it was we were doing up to the “next level” by exploring a new avenue of research or upgrading our charts or including a whole bunch of unexpected extras. It was why I’d decided to work with him back at Cornell, when he was just a cute teenager in too-short pants. It was why I’d decided to work with him again here at Canton. He was a good partner, and it had nothing to do with how much I wanted him.
