I don’t make a wish when I blow out the candle. I have no idea what to wish for. I’m supposed to talk and laugh, to eat, but my stomach is churning and I have the beginning of a headache. Still, I cut a bite with my knife, spear a strawberry, and force myself to smile. The chocolate hazelnut cream sticks in my mouth and threatens to gag me, but I murmur my thanks and make eye contact with each person in my family. Everyone looks wary to me. Suspicious.
As if we’re all choking back secrets.
* * *
Late in the afternoon, a storm rolls in. For hours before the bank of dark clouds becomes visible and the thunder starts to rumble on the horizon, I can feel the electricity snapping in the air. It pulls everything tight, winding the atmosphere until it seems as if we’ve all been drawn and are about to be quartered. When fat drops finally begin to fall and a gust of wind blows the scent of cool water and hot asphalt across the farm, it’s such a relief that I head to the porch to watch the lightning crackle against the seething boil of charred sky.
I opened presents after church. A thick sweatshirt with the University of Iowa logo proudly embroidered across the chest from Mom, and an emergency car kit filled with disaster essentials from Law. Practical and thoughtful, exactly what I’ve come to expect from my parents. Jonathan doesn’t say anything about the little package he gave me, so I slip it out of my pocket while I’m sitting alone on the porch and open it in the watery gray light of the storm.
It’s a small, leather-bound journal with a thin braided tie. The pages are thick hand-cut paper, and the whole thing is not much bigger than a deck of oversized cards. It’s the perfect size for slipping into pockets, purses, small spaces. I love it instantly, but I can’t help wondering what prompted Jonathan to give it to me now. The journal seems like the perfect place to pen all the frustrations I have with him. All the questions. It’s almost like an invitation.
I begin to crumple up the wrapping paper, but stuck amid the glossy wrap is a small square of lined notebook paper. I hadn’t noticed it before. Picking it out, I squint at the single line written on it.
For all the things you can’ t say. Love, J
It’s a form of apology. Jonathan knows he’s killing me with his silences and secrecy. He knows that everything has changed between us this summer. But instead of reaching out to me and confiding in me, he’s given me a pathetic substitute. As if writing down my feelings is going to make everything better.
A part of me would like to throw the book out into the rain, where it’ll be ruined by the thunderstorm. But even though I’m annoyed, I know it’s too pretty for that, so I wad up the paper and slip the journal back into my pocket.
I can’t help feeling melancholy. The storm certainly doesn’t help, though the relentless sheets of water seem to have passed, and now the rain is falling soft and steady, the sound a music all its own.
When a car turns down our driveway, I look up in surprise. Sundays are quiet in Jericho. People don’t mow their lawns or disc their fields or pop by unannounced. But it only takes me a second to realize that it’s Sullivan’s truck, and somehow, although he’s the last person I expected to see, his presence makes perfect sense. My gratitude is swift, the desire to see him overwhelming any sense of misgiving or twinge of conscience. I’ll be gone in just over six weeks. Ashley can have him then. And Jonathan has abandoned me—in more ways than one. He left hours ago. He can’t expect me to spend the remainder of my birthday alone.
I stand up from the porch swing and go to lean against one of the pillars framing the wide steps. From here, I can feel a mist of rain and it raises goose bumps along my bare arms. Sullivan waves at me as he parks, and I wave back, then laugh as he leaps out of the truck and sprints through the rain. He takes the stairs in two huge bounds, and lands hard on the porch, shaking his head like a dog and scattering droplets all over me.
“Looks like you were expecting me,” Sullivan says with a grin. His shirt is splattered and there are rivulets of water running down his cheeks. Without thinking, I reach and brush the rain away as if I’m wiping tears. It stuns us both, and I take a step back as Sullivan stares at me.
After a moment he seems to get his bearings back. “Happy birthday,” he says.
“Thank you.” I’m suddenly shy, ashamed of the way I touched him and my obvious pleasure at his unexpected arrival. “Are you looking for Jonathan?” I know he’s not, but it gives me a burst of satisfaction when he shakes his head.
“I’m here for you, Baker. I was hoping I could talk you into going for a drive with me.”