RAFAEL
~
I never gave a shit about birthdays.
When you grow up with a father who treats the anniversary of your birth like a reminder of everything he lost, you learn to let the day pass without fanfare. This year was no different.
Nineteen wasn't even a milestone, just another number, another year of existing in the shadow of my mother's absence.
I woke to the sound of rain drumming against my window and the familiar silence of an empty house. My phone showed three text notifications, one from Jen reminding me my shift started at noon, one from Damien with some crude birthday joke.
And one from Sam.
{ Happy birthday, Shade. Don't make plans for tonight. I mean it. }
Despite myself, I smiled.
Sam was the only person who never forgot, who insisted on celebrating even when I claimed not to care. I texted back a noncommittal
{ whatever you say Sunny } before dragging myself out of bed.
The kitchen was exactly as I'd left it the night before. No note from my father, no acknowledgment that today was different from any other day.
I wasn't surprised, but the familiar ache in my chest persisted anyway, a dull pain I'd learned to live with like a chronic injury.
My phone rang as I was making coffee. Dad's name flashed on the screen, and for one pathetic moment, hope fluttered in my chest.
"Hello??" I answered, hating the expectation in my voice.
"Rafael" my father's clipped tone came through, all business as usual.
"I've sent money to your account for groceries. The Williamson deal is taking longer than expected, so I'll be in Tokyo until next week."
Of course. Not even a mention of the date. "Fine," I said, my tone matching his detachment.
A pause. "Is everything alright there? Bills paid? House in order?"
"Everything's perfect," I replied, the lie automatic. The house was in order because I kept it that way, not that he'd notice.
"Good. I'll be in touch." He hung up without waiting for a response.
I stared at the phone, wondering why I still let it bother me after all these years.
Victor Moreno had checked out of fatherhood the moment my mother flatlined in the delivery room. The only difference now was that he no longer bothered with the pretense of caring.
Work was a welcome distraction. The garage was busy, a steady stream of oil changes and minor repairs keeping my hands occupied and my mind quiet. Jen didn't mention my birthday, but she slid a cupcake next to my toolbox during my break, store-bought but thoughtful.
I nodded my thanks, and she pretended not to notice when I actually ate it instead of rejecting the gesture like I would have a year ago.
"Plans tonight?" she asked casually as I wiped grease from my hands at the end of my shift.
"Sam's got something lined up," I admitted, shrugging like it was no big deal.
"Good," Jen said, surprising me with a quick, rough pat on the shoulder. "That girl's the best thing that ever happened to you." She walked away before I could protest, calling over her shoulder, "Lock up when you leave. And happy birthday, kid."
I drove home through persistent rain, Persephone's tires sending up arcs of water from the wet streets. The house was dark when I arrived, which wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was the text from Sam.
{ Be ready by 7. Wear something decent }
Something decent?
I stared into my closet, realizing most of my clothes fell into three categories, work clothes stained with engine grease, ripped jeans paired with faded band tees, and the one suit I'd worn to graduation.
I settled for my least-destroyed jeans and a black button-down I'd forgotten I owned.
At exactly 7:00, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Sam standing on my porch, sheltered from the rain by a large umbrella. She wore a simple blue dress I'd never seen before, her honey-brown hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual ponytail.
For a moment, I just stared, caught off guard by how different she looked, softer somehow, but also more grown up.
"You clean up nice Shade." she said, a slight flush coloring her cheeks as she took in my attempt at decent attire.
"You too," I managed, trying not to stare too obviously. "What's the occasion?"
She rolled her eyes. "Your birthday, dumbass. Come on, May's waiting in the car."
I followed her into the rain, where May's ancient Corolla idled at the curb. The drive was short and mysteriously silent, with Sam deflecting my questions about where we were going. We pulled up outside Antonio's, the Italian place downtown that was way out of my usual price range.
"Sam," I started to protest "this place is —"
"Perfect for birthdays," she interrupted firmly. "And it's already paid for, so don't even start."
The restaurant was warm and inviting, smelling of garlic and freshly baked bread. The hostess led us to a corner table where, to my surprise, a small pile of wrapped gifts waited.
"You...didn't have to do this." I said as we sat down, uncomfortable with the attention but secretly touched.
"Yes we did." May replied, her smile gentle. "You're family Raf. Family celebrates birthdays."
Family. The word hit me harder than expected. The Ellis sisters had been more family to me than my own father for years, but hearing May say it so matter-of-factly made my throat tight.
Dinner was the best meal I'd had in months, authentic pasta that made the frozen stuff I usually ate seem like plastic by comparison. May kept the conversation flowing, asking about the garage and sharing stories about difficult bakery customers. Sam was quieter than usual, occasionally using her inhaler when she thought I wasn't looking.
I pretended not to notice, knowing how much she hated drawing attention to her asthma.
"Presents time," Sam announced after we'd demolished a shared tiramisu. She pushed the small stack toward me, eyes bright with anticipation.
"You really shouldn't have," I muttered, but I was already reaching for the first package.