"You shouldn't have to pick up your own birthday cake, Cory."
"No, this'll be good. We'll go get the cake, then we'll stop at 7-Eleven really quick so I can watch my boy buy his first scratch-off." His dad turned and smiled at us. "We'll get Kenzie some too. There's perks to turning eighteen after all."
I didn't want to burst Mr. Wallace's bubble and tell him I'd driven, at midnight, to the closest gas station and purchased scratch-offs and a pack of cigarettes. Holly and Becca had gone with me, but none of us smoked, so the cigarettes were shoved in my glove box. We didn't win any money on our scratch-offs either.
"No, I need Kenzie here to help me with dinner if you are all leaving." She looked to me, eyes pleading.
"I'd love to help," I said, and stood up.
Mr. Wallace kissed his wife's forehead, then moved to swipe his car keys off the counter. "Let's roll, birthday boy. The bakery closes in thirty minutes."
Cory came up behind me, his hands landing on the curve of my waist, and his lips kissed right where my jaw met my neck. "I'll be back soon, Kenz." His fingers dug into my hips gently as he said, "Love you."
I lifted my shoulder, effectively pushing his face out of my neck, laughing as I said, "Get out of here." I watched as he and his dad left, feeling just the slightest twinge of guilt for not telling him I loved him back. I'd still never been able to say it, but I didn't think saying it simply because it was his birthday was right. So instead, I'd playfully pushed him away.
He wrapped an arm around his mother's shoulders, giving her a side hug and a sweet kiss right on her cheek. "Bye, Mom, we'll be back soon. Hopefully, we'll be millionaires."
"Bye, sweetie. I'm sorry again."
"Don't worry about it," he said as he kissed her again. "Love you, Mom."
I watched as he and his father left the house, trying to imagine in twenty-five years if Cory would look anything like his father from behind. Mr. Wallace still had an inch or two on Cory, but their hair color was identical. Mr. Wallace's shoulders were a little broader, but Cory was definitely the better built of the two, naturally, being an eighteen-year-old athlete. Just before he closed the door, Cory turned his head and caught my eye, winking and grinning, then disappeared.
"I'm making Cory's favorite," Mrs. Wallace said as she tied an apron around her waist, covering the skirt and button-up blouse she had worn to work.
"Lasagna," I said with a smile.
"Lasagna," she replied. "Why couldn't he like pizza the best?"
I laughed. "It's only his favorite because you've never made him help you make it. He doesn't understand the process."
"Something tells me that even if he did," she said, pulling ingredients out of her refrigerator, "he still would want me to make it for him on his birthday."
"Probably," I agreed, laughing again.
Forty-five minutes later the lasagna was in the oven, the table was set, and I had returned to the couch to wait for Cory and his dad to get home. Mrs. Wallace had gone to her bedroom to change.
"Where are those boys?" she asked when she finally emerged ten minutes later.
"Maybe they really won a million dollars." I laughed.
"If they come home with a winning lottery ticket I'm quitting my job tomorrow morning." She walked to the oven, opening the door to check on the lasagna. I got up from the couch and wandered to the kitchen island, leaning my elbows on the butcher-block top. "So," she said, leaning back against the countertop opposite the island, "what did Cory get you for your birthday?"
I immediately blushed, thinking about how he was planning on giving me his virginity, but I managed to keep a straight face. "We decided not to exchange gifts. You know, what with Christmas being, like, two weeks ago."
"Ah," she said, a grin moving across her lips that it looked as though she were trying to hide. She picked up her phone and started thumbing the screen. "I'm going to call them, see what's taking so long."
As she did, I sent a text to Cory.
**Are you almost home? And why did your mom give me a weird look when I told her we weren't exchanging gifts?**
"He didn't answer," she sighed. "Want to start an episode of Downton Abbey while we wait?"
"Sure."
We spent the next hour watching TV. Halfway through the episode, the kitchen timer beeped and Mrs. Wallace got up to remove the lasagna from the oven.
"You don't think Mr. Wallace took Cory to one of those, you know, juice bars, do you?"
"What's a juice bar?" she asked.
I blushed, not wanting to have to explain to my boyfriend's mother what a juice bar was. "Um, it's pretty much a strip club that doesn't serve alcohol, so the age requirement is only eighteen."
"What?" she practically shouted. "That's a real thing? He better not have … ." Mrs. Wallace slammed the lasagna down on the stove and picked up her phone again. I watched her as she waited for her husband to pick up his phone, but she must have gotten his voice mail. "I swear on everything holy, if you've taken my baby boy to a strip club, you better not even bother coming home tonight." She paused, took a deep breath, then continued. "But seriously, honey, where are you? Call me."
"They've been gone almost two hours now," Mrs. Wallace said, unable to keep the concern from her voice. It was the same concern that had been creeping into my thoughts for a while.
"Do you think we should go look for them?"
Before she had a chance to answer me, there was a knock at the door.
I didn't know it at the time, but the feeling you get when you've just gotten on a roller coaster and it's climbed that very first peak, and you're waiting to plummet down-that feeling you get in your stomach as you crash forward, that's your body reacting to its instinct. Your body thinks you're about to die, that something really terrible is about to happen, and everything prepares for impact. I got that feeling the moment I heard a knock on the door, and looking back I would tell myself I should have been more prepared. I should have run, should have done anything I could have done to prevent the next few minutes from ever happening.
Mrs. Wallace opened the front door and all I saw was her face go blank and lose all color.
"Are you Mrs. Mark Wallace?" a deep voice asked.
"What's happened?" Her voice was a whisper.
"Ma'am, I'm Officer Davenport with the Florida State Police. Are you the wife of Mark Wallace?"
"Yes, he's my husband. Where is he?"
"The mother of Cory Wallace?"
My heart stopped at the mention of his name.
"What's going on?" she asked, her voice on the verge of breaking.
Another deep voice from outside.
"Do you think we could come in?"
"Sure, is everything all right?" Mrs. Wallace stepped aside and I watched as a policeman entered the house with another man at his side who wasn't in uniform.
The police officer motioned to the couch as the other man closed the door. Cory's mom came to sit next to me, her hands shaking, legs trembling. Without much thought I reached out and took her hand. Something was tragically wrong.
"Mrs. Wallace, it is with great regret that I have to tell you that your husband and your son were both victims in a robbery this evening. And I am sorry to tell you they were both killed in that robbery."
Victims. Robbery. Killed.
"No," she said firmly, shaking her head back and forth. "No, they went to get Cory's birthday cake and then to buy a scratch-off lottery ticket. That was all. I made lasagna."
I could hear her words, could feel the vibrations of her strong argument tingling in my hand, but it was as if I were stuck yards behind her, my feet slowly sinking in quicksand. Or in the ocean as the waves move over your feet and you look down and it feels like you're moving, looks as though the ground is rushing underneath you. But in reality, you are just sinking deeper and deeper into that sand.
"Mrs. Wallace," the other man said, "I know this is difficult to hear."
"There's been some sort of misunderstanding. Let me call him." She stood up, and she took all my balance with her. Her hand was holding me up. My arm fell limply to the couch as I looked at the two men sitting across the room from me.
"They're dead?" I yelled, but the words came out hushed and whispered.
"Are you related?" the officer asked.
"Cory is my best friend," I said automatically. "He's my boyfriend."
"I'm so sorry for your loss." The other man said, confirming my previous question.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
"I'm Father Ryan. I'm the chaplain with the police department."
"Mark, please." Mrs. Wallace's voice was shaking, and I knew she was crying. "The police are here and they're telling me you were in a robbery. Please, come home. Bring Cory home, Mark." She started sobbing and I watched the chaplain stand to go to her.
I didn't need to hear any more.
I stood up, walked to the door, ripped it open, and started running.
I heard someone yelling at me, telling me to come back, but I didn't stop. I ran all the way to my house, flung open the front door, and stopped just inside as I saw my parents sitting on the couch in the living room.