When we pull apart, he leans his head on my shoulder. We sit like that, not talking, for a long time.
It’s just moonlight and flames and him, me, us.
Chapter Ten
“EIGHTEEN!” Mama cheers.
“Eighteen,” Mimmy echoes, sounding notably weepier.
Mimmy has outdone herself this year. Chocolate chip cookie dough cake, with a cloud of marshmallow icing—lightly torched to give it toasty brown tips—and crumbled graham crackers and chocolate shavings on top. My birthday cake is served for lunch, as it is every year—so I can appreciate it fully as a meal of its own, and then have a second serving later at night for dessert. A Silversmith tradition.
Ginger slides an arm around my waist as I lean in to blow out the flickering flames. Two tall, sparkly purple candles—a one and an eight.
Max stands across from me, Mimmy and Mama on either side of him. Three big grins shining down on me, full wattage.
There is so much love here in this kitchen, but I can’t help but feel the absence. Noah.
I haven’t seen him since the night at Max’s. I was hoping he’d come over to celebrate—that we could all act normal. Be normal. At least for this one day. But he told Ginger he had a last-minute Wawa shift he couldn’t skip because there wasn’t anyone else to sub in. I did get a happy birthday text from him this morning. Just like that—no exclamation points, no capital letters, no emojis. It’s the first year of my life that Noah isn’t here next to me. It feels wrong in the pit of my stomach.
I smile anyway, try to focus on who is here, not who isn’t. I have Mimmy and Mama and Ginger like always. I have Max. The boyfriend I vowed not to have, not before college. But no regrets. None at all. Though if I have to hear Ginger gloating about how she was right one more time since telling her the news this morning, I may be tempted to run off to a convent after all.
I close my eyes and think of a wish.
“Sweetie?” Mimmy says quietly. “Those candles might melt all over the cake soon if you don’t blow them out.”
I take a deep breath. Blow.
I wish to know who Frank is.
Is that true?
Wishes don’t matter, though. They aren’t real. I’ve wished to be as good at handstands as Mimmy and Mama both are—never going to happen. I’ve wished for a trip to Thailand—those plane tickets never showed up. And I remember wishing once that nothing would ever change between me and Ginger and Noah. That was the summer before the valentine, the rule—the first time I wondered if Noah might have too many feelings for me, even if he wasn’t bold enough to put it in writing quite yet.
So wishes—wishes clearly mean nothing.
“I hope you picked a good one,” Max says, walking around the table to hug me. “I hear wishes for your eighteenth have more power than other birthday wishes.”
I wish to know who Frank is.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone what it is!” Ginger claps a hand over my mouth. “Can’t risk it not coming true if what Max says is right.”
“Ha ha,” I say, the words muffled around her palm. I lick her hand and she yanks it away, making a gagging face.
“Gross. I don’t care if you are the birthday girl. Still gross. Only Penelope could get away with licking my hand like that. Or maybe a cute dog. But it would have to be a very cute dog.”
Mama goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of champagne. “I think the occasion calls for a proper toast, don’t you? I’m going to assume this is the first toast ever for the three of you,” she says, smirking. “But if you’re old enough to sign up for the army or get a tat, you’re old enough to drink. Responsibly. With people you trust. And no fake IDs, please. Ever.” She turns pointedly to Ginger, giving her patented scorching squint. “And yes, I’m looking at you, Ginger.”
Ginger gasps. “Stella! I would never. I can’t believe you would even suggest it.”
“Right. I’ll remember that.”
“Besides, I doubt places around here even card all that much, so we should—”
“Nope. Stop yourself right there. Not any better.”
Mimmy claps her hands. “Let’s eat cake!”
“A toast first,” Mama says, gripping the top of the champagne bottle with a cooking mitt. There’s a brief moment of struggle before the cork flies off with a loud pop, bouncing against the back door.
When all the glasses are filled, Mimmy passes them out. Mine comes last, and it looks like the fullest of the five. Mimmy winks at me.
Mama lifts her flute in the air: “To my precious eighteen-year-old baby, you have made our lives richer and more meaningful than we ever knew possible.”
“You make us complete,” Mimmy chimes in. She wipes a tear with the hand not holding her glass. “We were meant to be three. Not two. Three Silversmiths.”
“Yes,” Mama says. “Thank god for science. And for doctors who helped bring us our miracle baby.”
I almost think she’s going to thank Frank. But she doesn’t go that far.
Or if she’s going to say more, it gets cut off, because Ginger adds, “And thank god for Lamaze classes that brought three pregnant women together. Even if one of those women turned out to be a total dud. Because I don’t know who I’d be without Calliope holding my hand every step of these last eighteen years. You make living in this small town feel okay. Much better than okay. And you make me happy to be myself.”
I’m pretty sure, Ginger being Ginger, she would have found a way to be happy with or without me. But saying so feels like it would take away from her toast.
“And thank god for old family houses.” Max steps up to my side,
