“I’m fine.” I look up from the spread of college brochures I’ve been pretending to study. “Just some growing pains, I guess you could say. Nothing to worry about.”
Mimmy frowns. “Noah?”
I nod. I want to smile, but my face refuses.
She doesn’t ask more about it, just drops a small plate of fresh ginger raspberry muffins on the table as she makes her way to the door. Mama’s incessant honking must be scaring off every living creature in a mile radius of the woods. “Think about something happy, my darling. Think about how you want to ring in eighteen tomorrow. What special meals you might want us to make. Mama and I took off the whole day to be here.” She kisses the top of my head and walks out the door. The horn stops. I listen to the sound of tires crunching on gravel and then the quiet that comes after.
Ginger has stopped asking about any grand and elaborate plans. I’m not sure I want to acknowledge a birthday without Noah there with us. Birthdays have always been more a celebration of the three of us, a time to honor fate for bringing our mothers together.
I’ve eaten two and a half muffins and not tasted a bite of any of them when there’s a cheery knock at the door.
Max is there when I open it, grinning at me.
“Good morning! I don’t think there could ever be a better way to start my day than walking through woods to eat whatever delicious treat Margo might have whipped up since my last visit. And to see you, of course.” He winks, that grin growing even wider.
“You have uncanny timing. I was just about to mindlessly inhale the last few muffins when you knocked. Ginger raspberry. The raspberries were lovingly plucked from our backyard yesterday by yours truly.”
Max clutches his heart. “Goddamn it, Calliope. I am a country boy. It’s official. Morning walks through the woods and muffins made with handpicked raspberries. I even fell asleep last night before I remembered to turn on the city-sounds loop. I never thought this would happen… But it did.” He shakes his head, looking simultaneously bedazzled and bewildered.
I roll my eyes and start back toward the kitchen, Max trailing me. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I’m not sure this is technically considered country. Rural suburbs, maybe. That’s probably more accurate. I’ve had this debate with Ginger and Noah too many times.”
“Trust me,” he says, wagging his finger while chewing the whole muffin he shoved in his mouth, “this counts as country.” He picks up a second muffin, eats it more slowly. Savors it with his eyes scrunched up tight. He explained to me the other night that he tastes things more clearly with his eyes closed—he can see and feel the colors of each flavor. A bursting, ripe palette on his tongue.
I pick at another muffin, but I don’t close my eyes. I watch Max chew with a closed-mouth smile that looks almost reverent on his lips. I’m not sure anyone has ever had such a deep appreciation for Mama’s baked goods.
“So, today,” Max says, opening his eyes and brushing crumbs from his hands. “Today, we celebrate seventeen. Not eighteen. Seventeen. The new year always gets all the attention, but I say we honor this old one properly first. The last three hundred and sixty-four days.”
I smile, dropping the last bit of muffin. “Kind of a pre-birthday birthday?”
“More of a birthyear celebration. Not just about one day. Happy birthyear to you!”
“It was a good year, I guess. I got a new neighbor, for one.”
“Yep. A neighbor and a friend, all wrapped up in one sweet package.”
“So how exactly does someone celebrate a birthyear?” I ask. “I’m new to the concept.”
“Me too. I invented it yesterday. Just came to me in a flash. I was thinking about you, and how to make this birthday special enough, and poof. Genius descended. Don’t worry—it might be fresh, but I have grand plans. And I’m all set up for birthyear activity number one, so if you’ll follow me…” He waves me out the kitchen door, into the yard, and then he takes the lead. We pass the turtle pool and keep walking toward the woods.
I hope that birthyear activity number one is not taking place in the Jackson house.
“Close your eyes,” he says as we step up to the tree line.
I must look uncertain about the idea of blindly traipsing over rocks and fallen branches because he says, “Trust me, Calliope. How about I hold your hand?”
I nod, and he reaches for my hand, his fingers winding around mine. His palm feels familiar and steady and I realize I do trust him, fully and completely. It’s a jolt—another reminder of how close I feel to Max.
The walk is slow and smooth, and I am aware of little but the feel of Max’s hand in mine. He tells me when to step, when to stop, when to pivot, and after a few minutes I almost forget that I’m only seeing through his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “You can look.”
I open my eyes, and we’re at the tree, my tree, but it’s more than that. There are two canvases set up on back-to-back easels and a TV tray covered in acrylic-paint tubes and brushes.
“I thought it could be fun to paint together,” Max says, watching me nervously, like he’s afraid I won’t be as excited as he is about this plan. “See your favorite tree in two different styles and perspectives.”
I’m too busy taking it all in, Max, the easels, the tree, the sun filtering in through the leaves. It’s cooler today, the air is fresher. Everything is so perfect it’s hard to find words.
When I don’t answer, Max looks down at his feet, kicking a clump of moss.
“This
