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Authors: Diane Rinella
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you’re having some kind of episode and that I’m shipping you back?”
Propelling himself off of the metal table, he takes my hands in his, drawing my gray-violet eyes into his oceanic sapphires. “Happy Seventeenth Birthday.”
My eyes roam over the display, noticing that one of the faux cakes has the number seventeen poorly scribbled on the side in pink icing. A flutter overtakes my heart as the meaning of the spectacle sinks in. Donovan always kick-started my birthday in the most obnoxious ways, that is, until he was forced to stay away from me. His only contact for my seventeenth birthday was a card containing a sterile sentiment and a pastry book wrapped in the same paper my parents used to wrap their gift. It was so unlike Donovan that I should have known he was forced into being someone else. Instead I foolishly assumed he had forgotten about me. Later I learned that my mother wanted to examine the contents to ensure he hadn’t enclosed a message.
“Why now? Why my seventeenth birthday?”
“Because it was the first birthday of yours that I ever missed. We’ve been robbed, and I want back what we lost.”
Dear God, so do I. “It’s been a long time since you did something like this. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.” My arms slide around him, my face glowing in happiness.
“Since Robert was the one who slipped me the extra key, I was afraid he’d come in early and I’d be the one with the surprise,” he muses, rocking me in his arms. My favorite scent—the blend of his cologne with his pheromones—coupled with the music of his heart, cause my soul to latch onto his essence and try to retain a drop so that I may forever cherish it. God how I wish I didn’t feel this way for a man who is more off limits now than ever.
“Yeah, right,” I snicker. “You’ll cave to that the day he goes into the closet.” I pull back and feel flush at the glorious display, now noticing more of his attempt at decoration. Bright icing ribbons scroll and splatter throughout the pans. He even tried piping a heart on one of the cakes, but it looks more anatomically correct than iconic. “Speaking of which, wow, you really don’t have a gay molecule in your body. This is incredible.”
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a disaster.”
I try to disguise the depths of emotions that reside in my words. “Honestly, I’ve missed you so much that I don’t mind the tsunami of icing.” Keeping one arm securely around him I run a finger through a sugary ribbon then stick it in Donovan’s mouth. I relish in his eager glow, only to be struck by a wave of remorse for the action that occurred without premeditation.
“I’m starving,” he claims. “Let me take you to breakfast. I almost grabbed a fork and started attacking everything in the fridge. I’d kill for some chocolate mousse right now.”
Dear God, he’s not the only one. Sadly, what I define as exquisite chocolate mousse is wearing a suit and is completely off limits. He needs to fasten those alluring top buttons.
Forcing my eyes off of the drool-worthy man they return to the display of aluminum confections. “I shouldn’t. I didn’t schedule time away, and to leave people with this and have to compensate for my not being here is unfair.”
“Come on,” he pleads. “It’s your do-over birthday.” His hand rises to my cheek, his thumb gracing just under my lashes, as if wiping away the tears shed the day I turned seventeen and felt abandoned.
I nod to him and force an excuse to pull away. “I need a picture of this before we go.”
“Here,” he says, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. Pressing the on button, the screen illuminates with an extreme close-up photo of his daughter sporting a silly, and slightly spitty, smile.
“You old softie,” I chuckle as he poses in front of the counter. “Oh, no. You need to sit up there among the carnage.”
“You’re not going to yell at me? Your rant from six Thanksgivings ago still rings in my
Propelling himself off of the metal table, he takes my hands in his, drawing my gray-violet eyes into his oceanic sapphires. “Happy Seventeenth Birthday.”
My eyes roam over the display, noticing that one of the faux cakes has the number seventeen poorly scribbled on the side in pink icing. A flutter overtakes my heart as the meaning of the spectacle sinks in. Donovan always kick-started my birthday in the most obnoxious ways, that is, until he was forced to stay away from me. His only contact for my seventeenth birthday was a card containing a sterile sentiment and a pastry book wrapped in the same paper my parents used to wrap their gift. It was so unlike Donovan that I should have known he was forced into being someone else. Instead I foolishly assumed he had forgotten about me. Later I learned that my mother wanted to examine the contents to ensure he hadn’t enclosed a message.
“Why now? Why my seventeenth birthday?”
“Because it was the first birthday of yours that I ever missed. We’ve been robbed, and I want back what we lost.”
Dear God, so do I. “It’s been a long time since you did something like this. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.” My arms slide around him, my face glowing in happiness.
“Since Robert was the one who slipped me the extra key, I was afraid he’d come in early and I’d be the one with the surprise,” he muses, rocking me in his arms. My favorite scent—the blend of his cologne with his pheromones—coupled with the music of his heart, cause my soul to latch onto his essence and try to retain a drop so that I may forever cherish it. God how I wish I didn’t feel this way for a man who is more off limits now than ever.
“Yeah, right,” I snicker. “You’ll cave to that the day he goes into the closet.” I pull back and feel flush at the glorious display, now noticing more of his attempt at decoration. Bright icing ribbons scroll and splatter throughout the pans. He even tried piping a heart on one of the cakes, but it looks more anatomically correct than iconic. “Speaking of which, wow, you really don’t have a gay molecule in your body. This is incredible.”
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a disaster.”
I try to disguise the depths of emotions that reside in my words. “Honestly, I’ve missed you so much that I don’t mind the tsunami of icing.” Keeping one arm securely around him I run a finger through a sugary ribbon then stick it in Donovan’s mouth. I relish in his eager glow, only to be struck by a wave of remorse for the action that occurred without premeditation.
“I’m starving,” he claims. “Let me take you to breakfast. I almost grabbed a fork and started attacking everything in the fridge. I’d kill for some chocolate mousse right now.”
Dear God, he’s not the only one. Sadly, what I define as exquisite chocolate mousse is wearing a suit and is completely off limits. He needs to fasten those alluring top buttons.
Forcing my eyes off of the drool-worthy man they return to the display of aluminum confections. “I shouldn’t. I didn’t schedule time away, and to leave people with this and have to compensate for my not being here is unfair.”
“Come on,” he pleads. “It’s your do-over birthday.” His hand rises to my cheek, his thumb gracing just under my lashes, as if wiping away the tears shed the day I turned seventeen and felt abandoned.
I nod to him and force an excuse to pull away. “I need a picture of this before we go.”
“Here,” he says, pulling a phone out of his back pocket. Pressing the on button, the screen illuminates with an extreme close-up photo of his daughter sporting a silly, and slightly spitty, smile.
“You old softie,” I chuckle as he poses in front of the counter. “Oh, no. You need to sit up there among the carnage.”
“You’re not going to yell at me? Your rant from six Thanksgivings ago still rings in my
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