Page 112 of Bloom

Soon, he silently promises. He’ll tell her soon.

I’m pretty usedto waking up alone on my birthday.

I was eight the last time I really, truly celebrated. The last time, and my favorite time. We didn’t do anything particularly special. I didn’t get anything out of the ordinary. But it was my last birthday with my mom, one of the last good memories of the three of us, one of the last times my family was normal.

Dad never remembered after that. I used to pretend he did, that he would whisk me away on some fun trip and that’s why I couldn’t celebrate with Jackson or my friends, when really, I would sit alone in my bedroom.

The disappointment I feel when I stretch out and find the other side of the bed—no, the patch of tent floor that served as a bed—empty, though, is new.

Yawning as I prop myself up on an elbow, I squint at the unzipped flap of door curling inwards, lifting a hand to shield my eyes against the sun encroaching through the gap. A lot of sun—that plus the thick, warm air clinging to my skin hints I might’ve slept in.

If I were a different person—if I were Luna or Lux—I would crack a joke about last night wearing me out. If Hunter were a different person—if he were literally any other man on the planet, likely—he would too.

But we are who we are, so when I crawl outside with a sheepish smile and red cheeks, I’m greeted by a grunt—and coffee. As I lift the mug to my lips, ice cubes clink against the metal edges, and I groan happily. Wrapping a hand around Hunter’s wrist, I squeeze a silent thank you as I chug the beverage that’s not quite cold enough to be refreshing, but certainly better than piping hot.

We don’t exchange any words as he leads me to the lakeshore. Nor as we sit on a grassy patch, me cross-legged, Hunter with those long, sturdy limbs stretched out in front of him, one bent at the knee. Only the sounds of nature and the rustle of him searching his backpack break the silence.

Something tickles my wrist. Glancing down, I find a slightly wilted chain of wildflowers looped around my wrist, a much larger matching one around Hunter’s.

A big palm floats into my eyeline, the slightly smushed lemon bar sitting in the center looking tiny by comparison. A single candle balances precariously in the baked good—myfavoritebaked good. A surprised breath parts my lips, my eyes wide as they flick up to Hunter, lingering on the soft upwards curve of his mouth as he mumbles, “Happy birthday, honey.”

And, even though it can’t be later than mid-morning, I think this might already be the best birthday I’ve ever had.

It’s midday by the time I make it back to Bloom—alone.

I didn’t invite Hunter to Aldo’s. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had; he has to work. He told me so before any offer to join me could be made, and I couldn’t even be disappointed, not when he sounded so genuinely regretful to part ways. Not when he already did more than I expected; not when he already gave me a perfect morning.

A perfect morning that, with one downward glance, is erased.

I don’t see it right away. I almost trample it, only coming up short at the last second, my foot hovering halfway to Bloom’s doorstep. At first, I think it’s a regular, singular red poppy. I think ‘how weird’ as I crouch to rescue it from certain floral death only to freeze when I get a better look—when I realize it’s not a real flower; it’s glass. My fingers tremble as I pick it up by its delicate stem, my stomach in my throat as I twirl it carefully.

I recognize it. Iownit. I was gifted it fifteen birthdays ago, back when waking up with a pretty addition to an artificial bouquet was the norm. The first birthday when I didn’t wake up with a new glass flower sitting on my bedside table, I sobbed for hours. Just like I did when I found the box underneath my bed housing my mom’s precious collection missing, discarded along with the rest of her things.

Confused and unsettled, I glance up and down the busy street, sifting through the throng of Sunday market-goers for the one person who could’ve left this on my doorstep. Who hasn’t contacted me in weeks yet somehow, suddenly, he comes up twice in as many days. Who hasn’t so much as said happy birthday to me in years, but today he chooses to leave me a priceless heirloom I thought lost forever.

As I let myself into Bloom, I loosen my tight grip on the cool glass. I almost… drop it. On purpose. Just let it go, let it shatter on the floor, let it become a mess I can tidy, I canfix.

Instead, I set it on the counter. Gawk at it a little. Wonderwhyso intently, so all-consumingly, I just about jump out of my skin when the loud ringing of my phone interrupts me.

Checking the caller ID through apprehensively squinted eyes, I breathe a sigh of relief at the name I find. “Hey,” I greet Lux, turning my back to the unexpected, unwanted blast from the past. Out of sight, out of mind—Iwish. “What’s up?”

It’s not like I’ve been waiting all day for my friend to acknowledge the day’s occasion. I’m not expecting birthday wishes. But I’m notnotexpecting them either. So when a request to come over is immediately followed by a frantic, “We’ve got a bit of an emergency,” I do deflate—but only a little.

Nevertheless, I take the stairs two at a time, wrenching my wardrobe open with my free hand and blindly picking out a change of clothes. Freeing my hair from its ponytail, I hurry into the bathroom, flicking the shower on as I toe off my shoes. “What happened?”

“The universe decided I was a little too comfortable and decided to smack me down,” Lux grumbles words I’ve thought to myself many a time. “It’s a mess. Can you come?”

“Of course I can.” I’m already awkwardly wriggling out of my clothes. “I’ll be, like, an hour.”

I make it in less time than that. I scrub myself clean of two days in the wilderness in record time, my hair still damp as I crush a thirty minute drive in twenty. Wearing jeans, boots, and a t-shirt I’m semi-positive belongs to Hunter, I’m ready for whatever carnage Serenity might throw on me.

I’m not, however, prepared for what I find in the Jackson family kitchen.

Balloons. A cake. Ten people who shout, “Happy birthday,” and a baby who gargles in his uncle’s arms, and a gaggle of dogs who bark emphatically too.

Feeling oddly faint, I hover in the doorway, my hand still on the knob. “What’s this?” I ask in a wobbly voice, shifting my gaze to Aldo where he stands with his husband and daughter. “What’re you doing here?”

The trio make some very Italian noises as they surround me, both of my cheeks kissed affectionately. “Is that how you greet your favorite men?” Aldo huffs, and I don’t think I imagine the sly look he shoots Hunter. Davide snorts and elbows his husband, telling me to ignore him as he hugs me and murmurs, “Buon compleanno, Lina.”

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