Sitting down, I notice that there’s a stark white envelope with my name on it, but there’s a note in all-bold: DON’T OPEN UNTIL...
“Until what?” I ask him, holding up the envelope.
“Until we get on each other’s nerves again.” He smiles. “It’s just a list of reminders as to why you should get over yourself.”
I laugh and tuck it into my purse. “I’ll be sure to never open it then.”
I notice that there are other cards on the table, another three from him, one from Eric with an “I’ll take you out tomorrow to celebrate, Aim :-)” note, and a penis-shaped one from Autumn. I reach over my plate to grab them, but Dean grabs my wrist.
“I think you should blow out the candles, first,” he says. “I don’t think I can re-light them anymore.”
“Right.” I lean forward and blow them out repeatedly, until the last candle is done playing the “can’t put me out” trick.
As Dean uncorks a bottle of wine, I count the candles.
“Do you know how old I am?” I ask.
“Twenty-eight.” He sets a full glass in front of me. “Why?”
“There are only eleven candles.”
His eyes meet mine and he’s silent for a while. “One for every year I’ve missed, plus the one I didn’t get a chance to celebrate with you in high school.”
I can’t prevent the tears from falling down my face if I tried, and he’s at my side wiping them away, before I get the chance to.
“Happy Birthday, Mia.” He kisses my lips through more of my tears, and I immediately decide that nothing else matters tonight but this. Us.
The talk about the past can wait until later.
Much later...
Chapter 29
MIA
A few weeks later...
The soft sound of waves crashing against the coast is the only thing that can be heard this late at night at Portland’s waterfront. There are no straggling tourists on this side of the pier, no lovers sneaking away to make love behind the numerous rocks. It’s just me and Dean walking underneath a dark night sky that seems to be cluttered with one too many stars.
We’ve been walking in silence for the past hour, and most of our recent dates have been more on the quiet, reflective side than our usual upbeat and sarcasm-filled type. As a matter of fact, this is our third trip to the waterfront in a row this week, and just like the two times before, we haven’t said much to each other.
As we cross the path that leads us back toward his car, I decide to break the ice.
“We need to talk about something,” I say. “Something very important.”
He stops walking and looks at me. “What is it?”
“It’s about you and me, us...”
“I’m listening.”
“What happened between us in high school, Dean?” I leave the ‘slowly ease into the conversation’ approach lodged in my throat. “I mean, you clearly feel bad about how you treated me on my birthday, but what about the other stuff? What about prom? The rumors? Why did you go so cold on me all of a sudden? Why did you willingly let us go and make me hate you like that?”
“Do you still need an actual explanation?” His face is stoic. “You know what happened, Mia. You know exactly what happened.”
“I really don’t. I need you to explain it to me.”
“Can we talk about this some other time? Outside of how I treated you on your birthday, which I admit was completely fucked up on my part, the rest of it is still painful to think about.”
“For you or me?”
“Are you being serious right now?” His expression goes cold.
“Yes. It’s important that I understand what changed. The last thing I remember before everything going south is you and me making plans for the summer and figuring out how we were going to visit each other in college.” My voice cracks because, right now, it feels like that moment was just yesterday; the memories still fresh in my mind, the pain still raw.
“Mia, please drop it.” He’s nearly glaring at me. “Let’s not do this right now.”
“Let’s not do anything right now.” I storm off, rushing away from him, but he catches me by the waist.
“I just don’t want to ruin our fucking night.” He spins me around. “Is that okay with you? We haven’t argued in a very long time, and we’ve been getting along for the most part, so can we just pretend that things are perfectly alright for a little while longer?”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s the thing. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of feeling like we have another chance at being together, but not knowing how much damage needs to be repaired first. I’m tired of feeling like I love you all over again, but not knowing if you’re going to fuck me over all over again, just because. And I’m tired of...” I stop. If I keep going, we will argue, and we probably won’t talk for a long time. “Let’s just go.”