Chapter 5: Birthday girl
“Reminding me that you existed.”
The words hung in the dark living room, a raw, exposed nerve. She hadn’t meant to say it, not like that, but it was out now, quivering in the space between them.
He looked at her. The moonlight from the deck cut across his face, sharpening his features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said it looking down, his gaze fixed on the bottle in his hands.
“You cared where I was, who I was with.” Her voice was quieter now, but it trembled with a conviction that surprised her.
“No, I didn’t.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I don’t care.”
“Stop lying.”
“Stop being such a baby.”
“Oh, and you’re such an adult?” The anger surged back, hot and defensive. “You spent your Saturday night crashing my ‘date’” —she used air quotes for the word, her fingers slicing the dark— “for fun.”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. He took a slow sip of beer, the movement deliberate, a wall going up. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.
“Fine.” The fight drained out of her all at once, leaving her hollow and tired. “Forget it.”
She turned and walked away, her feet carrying her across the familiar floorboards, up the creaking stairs. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She felt his eyes on her the entire way, a physical pressure between her shoulder blades until she rounded the corner and was gone.
Sunlight, the kind that promised a perfect beach day, poured through her window. Belly blinked awake, the remnants of the argument a sour taste in her mouth.
She pushed the thick comforter back. The flower dress was laid over her chair, a spill of yellow and pink cotton that Susannah had bought for her last summer. She put it on. The fabric was soft, familiar. She looked at herself in the mirror. The girl who stared back had the same brown eyes, the same long hair, but something felt different. The bruise on her cheek was a faint, greenish shadow. She touched it lightly, then turned away.
The smell of frying bacon and coffee pulled her downstairs. The kitchen was a riot of noise and motion. Steven was attempting to flip a pancake and missing the pan entirely. Jeremiah was chanting “Floor-cake! Floor-cake!” as it slid down the cabinet. Susannah was laughing, her head thrown back, and Laurel was calmly wiping splatter from the stovetop.
Belly paused in the doorway, the scene a vivid, comforting painting.
“Morning, everyone,” she said.
Jeremiah spotted her first. His face broke into a huge, genuine smile. “Hey! Happy birthday!” He abandoned the floor pancake and bounded over, wrapping her in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet.
“There’s the birthday girl!” Susannah exclaimed, wiping her hands on a towel before sweeping Belly into a cloud of gardenia perfume. “Sixteen. My God, where does the time go?”
“Happy birthday,” Jeremiah said again, squeezing her shoulders.
“Happy birthday,” Steven called from his post at the disaster zone of the stove, offering a greasy spatula salute.
Laurel came over, her smile warm and steady. She placed her hands on Belly’s shoulders, her touch solid and real. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Belly said, leaning into the hug, inhaling the scent of her mother’s shampoo and clean cotton.
“Shall we open gifts?” Susannah clapped her hands together, her eyes sparkling. “Before the pancakes become entirely inedible?”
They migrated to the living room, the site of last night’s confrontation now transformed by morning light. Belly sat in the center of the worn sofa.
Laurel went first, handing her a gift wrapped in simple brown paper. Belly carefully unwrapped it. It was a beautiful leather-bound notebook, the pages empty and smelling of potential.
“Thanks, Mum,” she said, running her fingers over the creamy, blank paper.
“For all your thoughts,” Laurel said, her voice warm. Conrad rounded the corner then, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen, silently watching the scene. He leaned against the frame, a cup of coffee in his hand.
Susannah got up, her movements full of excitement. She presented Belly with a little black velvet box. The hinge gave a soft sigh as Belly opened it. A single strand of perfect pearls gleamed against the satin lining, each one catching the light.
“Wow,” Belly breathed, the word coming out hushed. “It’s gorgeous. Thanks, Susannah.”
“For your debut,” Susannah said, her eyes misty. “Every woman needs real pearls.”
Jere gave his present next, a small lumpy package wrapped in comic pages. She tore the paper away. It was a tiny, intricate silver seashell.
“It’s a good luck charm,” he said, his grin easy and bright.
She smiled back, unclasping the silver bracelet already laden with trinkets from summers past. She threaded the new charm on and fastened it back on her wrist, the shell settling among the others with a soft click.
Steven tossed his gift into her lap, a soft package in a crumpled bag. She pulled out a thick, grey cable-knit jumper. It was obviously expensive, far nicer than anything he usually owned.
“Because I steal yours?” she questioned, holding it up.
He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said. “Now you have one I haven’t stretched out.”
A comfortable silence settled for a moment, filled only with the rustle of discarded paper. Belly’s gaze drifted to Conrad, still standing apart. His eyes met hers, then flicked away.
“Conrad,” Susannah said, her voice gently nudging. “Do you wanna give Belly your present?”
Belly looked at him, a tentative smile touching her lips. He pushed off the doorframe. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, his fingers closing around something small. She saw his knuckles whiten.
He couldn’t give it to her after last night. The memory of his words in the dark — Stop being such a baby — felt like a wall right there in the sunlit room.
He took his hand out of his pocket, empty. “It’s uh, upstairs,” he said, his voice flat. He turned and took the steps two at a time, disappearing down the hall.
In his room, he shut the door quietly. He pulled the small black velvet bag from his pocket. He stared at it, his jaw tight. Then he yanked open his top drawer and shoved the bag deep inside, beneath a tangle of socks.
He stood there for a second, breathing. He turned and grabbed a different box from his closet shelf, something he’d saved from a while back. It was already wrapped, clumsily, in blue paper.
He came back down, his expression carefully neutral. He handed her the box without meeting her eyes. “Happy birthday, Belly.”
“Thanks,” she said, her voice small. She peeled the paper back. Inside the box, nestled in tissue, was a toy jellyfish. It was made of clear, glitter-filled plastic, with long, flowing tentacles of iridescent ribbon.
She lifted it out. The ribbons shimmered, catching the light like the ocean at dusk. She looked at him, her breath catching in her throat.
She remembered instantly. Last summer, at the county fair. The sticky night, the blinding lights of the midway. She’d seen it hanging as a prize at the ring-toss booth, glowing under a blacklight. She’d wanted it so badly. Conrad had tried, tossing ring after ring, but someone else, some grinning stranger, had won the last one.
He’d shrugged it off then. Stupid toy anyway, he’d said. She’d pretended to agree.
Now he stood there, his hands shoved back in his pockets, looking at a point just past her shoulder. He’d remembered. He’d gone back and gotten it, or found one just like it, and he’d kept it for a year. The gesture was so vast and so utterly Conrad it made her chest ache.
The jellyfish dangled from her fingers, its ribbons swaying. She didn’t know what to say. The ‘thank you’ stuck behind the memory of I don’t care. The room waited, the happiness suddenly fragile and thin.
Conrad cleared his throat. He looked at her, his blue eyes flat and distant. “I’ve gotta go help a friend I promised, but uh, happy birthday Belly.” He said it fast, the words all jumbled together, and was already walking towards the front door before she could form a reply.
The screen door slapped shut behind him, a sound like a punctuating period. The jellyfish ribbons shivered in the draft.
“Well,” Susannah said, clapping her hands together once to break the spell. “Who wants more pancakes before they fossilize?”
An hour later, the dishes were done and the silence Conrad left behind had been mostly papered over with noise. Jeremiah tossed the car keys in the air and caught them. “I’ll drive,” he announced. “We gotta go get the birthday reinforcements.”
The station was all concrete and echoing announcements, smelling of diesel and hot asphalt. They leaned against Jeremiah’s car, watching buses sigh to a stop. “Twenty bucks she calls you Jeremy again?” Belly said, squinting against the glare.
“I think she learned from last time,” Jeremiah said, adjusting his sunglasses.
“You think? That’s how she flirts with you.” Belly nudged him with her elbow.
Taylor got off the bus, balloons in her hand, a bright cluster of pink and blue bobbing above the crowd. She spotted them and her whole face lit up. They hugged, a tight, laughing squeeze. “Happy birthday,” Taylor said, her voice muffled against Belly’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Belly said, the simple warmth of it feeling solid and good.
“Oh uh, here let me get your bag,” Jeremiah said, swooping in for Taylor’s oversized duffel.
“Thank you, you’re such a gentleman, Jeremy,” she said, batting her eyelashes with exaggerated innocence.
“Of course.” He bowed with a flourish.
“Um, it’s actually Jeremiah,” Belly said, fighting a smile.
Taylor looped her arm through Jeremiah’s free one. “I like Jeremy better.”
They got in the car, the balloons taking up the entire backseat. Taylor immediately thrust a festively wrapped package into Belly’s lap. “Open it now. I can’t wait.”
Belly tore the paper. Folded inside was a blue bikini, the bottom cut high, the top intricate with knotted ties. The color was a deep, impossible ocean blue.
Jeremiah glanced in the rearview mirror and laughed. “Belly’s not gonna wear that.”
“I will,” Belly said, running her fingers over the sleek material. “I love it.”
Back at the house, they changed quickly. The blue bikini fit perfectly, the fabric smooth and foreign against her skin. She looked at her reflection, at the girl in the sophisticated suit, the fading bruise on her cheekbone the only familiar thing.
They ran outside and jumped into the pool, the cold water a shocking, glorious relief. Belly and Taylor floated off to one side, on a pair of inflatable loungers. Jeremiah and Steven claimed the other side, engaged in a splash war.
The sun baked Belly’s shoulders. She trailed her fingers in the water, the new silver seashell charm glinting just below the surface. Taylor nudged her float closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur meant to carry over the laughter.
“Conrad is going to lose his mind when he sees you in this bikini.”
Belly looked at her, the cool water lapping at her ribs. “I doubt it,” she said, the words tasting like the chlorinated pool. “I honestly think he couldn’t care less.”
“Come on, Belly.” Taylor gave her float a shove, sending a small wave over Belly’s shoulders. “Let’s play chicken.”
“I’m down,” Jeremiah called from across the pool, already hoisting himself out. Water streamed from his shorts.
“I call dibs on Jeremy,” Taylor announced, swimming to the edge.
“It’s Jeremiah,” he muttered, but he was smiling as he offered her a hand up.
Taylor went over to Steven, tapping his shoulder. “You’re my steed.” He groaned but stood, letting her scramble onto his shoulders with a grunt. Her knees locked around his head.
“You’re going down,” Jeremiah said, looking up at Taylor with a competitive glint. He positioned himself in the deeper end, steadying himself.
Belly got on Jeremiah’s shoulders, the world rising suddenly. She gripped his damp hair for balance, then quickly shifted to his forehead. “Sorry,” she whispered.
“Just win,” he said, his voice muffled.
“Okay, 3, 2, 1, go!” Steven yelled.
The game was a clumsy, laughing battle of shoves and near-misses. Taylor grabbed Belly’s wrists, their hands slick. They swayed, a tottering column of limbs and laughter. Belly felt Jeremiah shift beneath her, his footing solid on the pool floor.
She pushed hard, a surge of stubborn energy. Taylor’s grip slipped. With a shriek, Taylor tumbled backward, yanking Steven off-balance. They fell into the water in a chaotic, splashy heap.
Belly and Jeremiah cheered, her shout echoing off the house. She slid from his shoulders into the water, the victory bright and uncomplicated.
“You guys wanna play water volleyball?” Belly asked, treading water.
They agreed, retrieving the faded net from the deck box. Taylor and Belly versus the boys. The sun beat down, painting dancing light on the pool’s surface.
Belly served the first point, a clean arc that slapped the water just beyond Steven’s frantic dive. She high-fived Taylor, the smack loud and satisfying.
R The game wore on, a series of lunges and spectacular misses. The ball was heavy, the net sagged, and the rules were loose. After half an hour, slick with effort and laughing too hard to spike properly, Belly and Taylor won.
The boys conceded, floating on their backs. The afternoon sun dipped lower, painting the sky in washes of gold and peach. The easy triumph fizzed in Belly’s veins, a pure, simple joy. For a moment, everything else—the bruise, the jellyfish, the sharp words in the dark—felt very far away.
Inside, the kitchen was a sanctuary of aromatic steam. Susannah stood at the stove, stirring a large pot that smelled of garlic and thyme. Laurel was arranging cheese and crackers on a wooden board, the sharp cheddar gleaming under the pendant lights.
Through the window over the sink, they could see Conrad on the back deck steps. He was hunched over a large steel bowl, methodically stripping husks from a pile of sweet corn. His movements were efficient, detached.
“Is Conrad done shucking the corn?” Susannah asked, glancing over at him. The late afternoon sun gilded his bowed head.
Laurel looked. “No, not yet.”
“He’s been shut down since he quit football.” Susannah’s voice softened, losing its usual musical lilt. She kept stirring, her eyes fixed on the simmering pot. “He won’t talk to me about what’s going on. I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”
“Remember that time he broke his arm and didn’t tell anyone because he didn’t wanna be a bother?” Laurel said, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. “Carried that paper route for a week with a greenstick fracture.”
“Classic Connie.” Susannah sighed, turning to look at Laurel, her expression pleading. “Do you think maybe you could talk to him? You’ve always had a way of making him open up.”
“I’m on it.” Laurel wiped her hands on a dish towel and pushed through the screen door.
The hinge creaked its familiar song. Conrad didn’t turn around. The pile of husks beside him was growing, pale green and silky.
“What’s up, Laurel,” he said, his fingers not stopping. He tore another husk down with a crisp, fibrous rip.
“I just want to check in with you.” She came down the steps and leaned against the rail, facing him.
He looked up at her, his ocean-blue eyes guarded. “Okay.”
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Fine.” He went back to the corn.
“Fine,” she said, mocking his flat tone. She sat down on the step next to him, the wood still warm from the sun. “We used to talk”.
He set an ear of corn, now naked and yellow, into the clean bowl. “We still talk.”
“Barely.” The word was gentle, but it wasn’t a question.
She reached out then and gently grabbed his chin, turning his face toward hers. His skin was warm under her fingers. He didn’t resist, but his gaze was wary. “You’re still my special guy, you know. You were the first baby. You can talk to me about anything.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. He held her look for a beat, then his eyes dropped. “Thank you.”
She released his chin, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “You know, you don’t have to hold everything in all the time. You don’t always have to be the strong.”
He looked at her for a long while, the sounds of the kitchen and the distant laughter from the pool fading into the hum of the coming evening. His throat worked. “I know,” he said finally, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the rustle of the sea grass.
Laurel gave his shoulder a final squeeze before standing. The screen door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the corn and the distant roar of the ocean. He stared at the half-filled bowl, his fingers pausing on the next ear.
Inside, the evening shifted into preparation. “Party at the Keating’s boat house!” Jeremiah announced, reading a text aloud. “We’re going, right?” The energy in the kitchen instantly pivoted.
Upstairs, Taylor twirled in front of the mirror. The pink dress was indeed skin-tight, a shiny second skin that stopped mid-thigh. “Damn, I look good,” she declared, applying a final coat of gloss.
Belly pulled on her favorite jeans, the denim soft and worn. She chose a blue and red crop top that skimmed her ribs, the fabric thin and casual. She examined herself, the outfit a deliberate armor against the memory of the silk debutante gown hanging in its plastic shroud.
“You’re not wearing that,” Taylor said, looking her up and down.
“I am.”
“Fine. Be comfortable.” Taylor shrugged, grabbing a small sequined clutch. “Let’s go.”
The boat house was a sprawling, shingled structure built on pilings over the water, pulsing with bass-heavy music. Light spilled from every window, carving yellow rectangles into the damp sand. They parked down the beach and walked toward the noise, the cool night air raising goosebumps on Belly’s arms.
Inside was a wall of heat and sound. Bodies packed every room, shouting to be heard. The air smelled of sweat, spilled beer, and coconut sunscreen. Belly and Taylor pushed their way to a makeshift bar—a plank over two kegs—and got cups of something fruity and strong.
They drifted through the crowded rooms, the music a physical thrum in the floorboards. Belly scanned the faces, a habit she couldn’t break. Then she saw him.
Conrad was in the far corner of the main room, leaning against a wall of mounted fishing rods. He was with two guys she vaguely recognized from other summers. One was talking animatedly, but Conrad’s gaze was detached, fixed on something in the middle distance. He ran a hand through his fluffy blonde hair, a gesture of fatigue or irritation.
As if he felt her watching, his head turned. His ocean-blue eyes found hers across the steaming, shifting crowd. He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. He took a slow sip from his beer bottle, his eyes never leaving her face.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t smile, but something in her chest loosened, a tiny, hopeful unfurling. He looked at her for a long, suspended moment—a silent conversation in the chaos.
Then he pushed himself off the wall. He said something short to his friends and walked away from them, melting into the throng, his path unreadable.
“I’m gonna find the toilet,” Taylor shouted in her ear, her breath warm. “Don’t move!”
Belly nodded, taking a sip of her drink. She stayed where she was, hoping, waiting. But Conrad didn’t appear. Minutes ticked by. Taylor didn’t return.
The party swirled around her. She checked her phone. No texts. A prickle of annoyance replaced the earlier flutter. She started moving, scanning the main floor, then the deck overlooking the water. No Taylor.
She headed for the stairs. The second floor was quieter, a labyrinth of closed doors and a long, dim hallway lined with faded nautical charts. Laughter and music seeped up from below. “Taylor?” she called, her voice swallowed by the noise.
She tried a door. It was a small study, dark, smelling of old paper and brine. Empty. She tried another. A linen closet. The third door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
The scene imprinted itself instantly, a stark, fluorescent flashbulb memory.
Taylor was pinned against a large wooden desk, her sequined clutch discarded on the floor. Steven was kissing her, his hands gripping her hips, her pink dress hitched up. Taylor’s fingers were tangled in his hair.
“Oh my god.” The words fell out of Belly’s mouth, flat and dead.
They broke apart, gasping. “Belly?” Taylor’s voice was a shocked squeak.
Steven stumbled back, his face a mask of pure panic. He didn’t speak. He just ran, shoving past Belly in the doorway and disappearing down the hall.
The door swung slowly on its hinges. Belly stared at her best friend. “You’re hooking up with my brother?”
“I swear it just happened.” Taylor’s hands flew to her smudged lips, then to smooth her dress. Her eyes were wide, guilty.
“What, you got bored?” Belly heard the venom in her own voice, cold and sharp. “Is that why you threw yourself at my brother?”
Taylor’s expression hardened, defense snapping into place. “How do you not know that I’ve had a crush on Steven for years?”
The question hung in the stuffy room. Belly blinked. She thought of all their conversations, every whispered secret. She couldn’t recall a single hint.
“If you weren’t so obsessed with Conrad—” Taylor continued, her voice rising.
“Shh!” Belly cut her off, stepping fully into the room and shutting the door. The music became a muted throb. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? You’ve been blind to anything that isn’t him since we were twelve!”
The truth of it was a physical slap. Belly’s breath hitched. The room felt unbearably small, the air thick with betrayal and a shame that was entirely her own.
“I can’t deal with this right now.” She turned, fumbling for the doorknob.
“Belly, wait—”
She didn’t. She walked out, her steps brisk and echoing in the hallway. She took the stairs two at a time, needing air, needing escape. She burst out the front door onto the gravel drive, where a circle of people had gathered around a beer pong table set up on the grass.
Jeremiah was lining up a shot, his tongue between his teeth in concentration. Conrad stood across from him, holding a cup, his posture relaxed. He was smiling faintly at something Jere said. The normalcy of the scene was a surreal contrast to the turmoil churning inside her.
She walked straight up to the table, her vision tunneling. The game paused. Both brothers looked at her, their expressions shifting as they registered her face.
“Can someone take me home please.” It wasn’t a question. It was a brittle statement, close to shattering.
Jeremiah set his ball down. “What’s wrong?”
“Now. Please.” Her voice broke on the last word. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly freezing in the night air.
Conrad was already moving. He put his cup down on the plywood table. “I’ll take her.” He didn’t look at Jeremiah. His eyes were on Belly, a silent intensity replacing the earlier detachment. He pulled his keys from his pocket. “Come on.”