Los Angeles | 2009
Alex's POV
The first thing I did when I woke up, before my feet even hit the floor, was text Bradley. Happy Birthday. Just the two words, simple and clean, a stark contrast to the chaotic mess of emotions tumbling through my head.
Today was the day.
For weeks, ever since my tearful confession to my family, I'd been living with a new, constant hum of anxiety. I liked Bradley. A lot. And the quiet, unspoken truth of it was becoming too heavy to carry alone. So, I had a plan. His parents were throwing him a huge party at their house tonight—the whole class was invited. I would give him his gift, and with it, a letter. A confession.
On my desk sat the evidence: a neatly wrapped, book-shaped present.
"Ugh, what's that?" Haley's voice drawled from the doorway. She sauntered in, already scrolling through her phone, and made a move to pick up the gift. I swatted her hand away before her fingers could touch the wrapping paper.
"Hey! I wasn't going to open it, loser," she said, annoyed. "Just looking."
"You can look from a distance," I shot back. "It's not for you to poke."
"Why? Because it's your eternal confession of love to your sweet, handsome Bradley?" she asked in a mock-swoon. The blush that instantly flooded my cheeks was all the answer she needed. Her eyes went wide. "Oh my god. It's an honest-to-goodness love letter? Alex, you dork. Who does that? Just go tell him."
"I can't," I said, my voice defensive. "I don't think I'm strong enough. Besides, he already told me he wanted nothing to change between us."
Haley stopped, her teasing expression shifting to one of genuine confusion. "And you're still confessing?"
"I know," I said, my voice laced with a desperation I hated. "I tried to suppress it, Haley, I really did. But it's just... it's not getting any quieter." I looked from the gift back to my sister. "If I just tell him how I feel, maybe the noise in my head will finally stop. Then I can—"
"What if he says no, Alex?"
The question hung in the air, sharp and cold. It was the question I had asked myself a thousand times in the dead of night. But the fear of his rejection had finally been outweighed by the pain of my own silence.
I met her gaze, a sad, resolved smile on my face. "Then I'll live with it. At least this way, I'll know I tried."
Haley was quiet for a moment, studying me. Then, she patted my shoulder in a rare, supportive gesture. "Okay," she said. "Well, I support you. Even if it's a super dorky confession. Who knows, he might be into it. Boys are into some weird stuff."
She turned and sauntered toward the mirror to begin her extensive getting-ready process, leaving me alone with my dorky, terrifying, and absolutely necessary plan. I finally broke free from my thoughts and went through the motions of getting ready—a hot shower, clean clothes, and the slow walk downstairs for breakfast.
It was Sunday, which meant the comforting scent of pancakes filled the house. I found Mom and Dad at the stove, a well-practiced team. I'm not a foodie, but Sunday morning pancakes were a tradition I genuinely loved.
"Hey, honey, sleep well?" Dad asked, his grin as bright as the yellow spatula in his hand.
"Yeah, I did."
"Great. Pancakes?" he asked, flipping a perfect, golden-brown circle onto a waiting plate.
"Never saying no to that," I said, taking a seat at the kitchen island.
"So, Alex, excited for the party today?" my Mom asked, pouring me a glass of orange juice.
"Yeah," I said, trying to sound casual. "It'll be fun. It's one I actually want to go to, not a social obligation like most of them."
Haley, who had been silently scrolling through her phone, chose that exact moment to look up, a sly grin spreading across her face. "Also because she's confessing to Bradley."
The bite of pancake I'd just taken turned to cardboard in my mouth. I choked, my eyes watering as I tried to swallow. The entire kitchen went silent.
"Wha—Alex, really, sweetie?" Mom asked, her fork frozen midway to her mouth. Dad mirrored her expression of pure, wide-eyed shock.
"I told you that in confidence!" I finally managed to gasp, glaring at my sister. The betrayal felt hot and sharp. "God, this is what happens when you tell a socialite a secret!"
"Hey, you never said not to tell anyone," she retorted, completely unbothered. "That's, like, part of the code of sisterhood or something. Secrets are only secret if you label them."
"Oh, is that right?" I said, my voice dangerously calm. My brain, a finely tuned machine of retaliation, found its target. "Mom, did you know Haley has been to five parties this summer, and all of them were after her curfew?"
The shift in the room was instantaneous. "HALEY GWENDOLYN DUNPHY," Mom began, her voice low and furious. "I made it very clear that you were not to go to any parties past seven. How could you break our trust like that?! Phil, say something!" She swatted Dad's shoulder, knocking him out of his reverie.
"Haley, honey," he said, his tone laced with genuine, fatherly betrayal. "I thought we discussed this. If you wanted to go to nighttime parties, you were going to tell me first, and then we'd sneak you out together."
"PHIL!" Mom shrieked, looking utterly exasperated. "That is not—Ugh! Haley, you're grounded for a week."
"But that's not fair!" Haley protested, trying to swing the attention back to me. "We were talking about Alex being in—"
"Keep talking and watch that number go up," Mom warned, her eyes like steel. She then glanced at me. "And you, Alex. I know that trick, and you are not getting away with what you just orchestrated. If I find out you and Bradley are doing anything untoward, I will ground you seven ways from Sunday."
The threat hung in the air for a moment before Dad interjected, his tone shifting back to supportive. "That's not to say we aren't happy you're being open about your feelings, honey. We support you."
Mom sighed, the anger deflating from her shoulders. "Yeah, that too," she admitted, her expression softening. "I am happy for you, sweetie." She gave me a look that was both a warning and a request. "Tell us how it goes, okay?"
I nodded proceeding to then focus on the pancakes on my plate as I continued to eat them in silence. Luke came in after that wearing only his undies as he just grabbed a pancake.
"Hey Dad watch me eat the pancake while doing a backflip", he said making his way to the trampoline.
"Oh, buddy that would be awesome", Dad replied but one solid glare from mom was enough to change his tune.
"But maybe we shouldn't risk life threatening stuff on impulse, how about doing just a backflip after you eat your pancakes", Dad said trying to diffuse another outburst.
Chaos seemed to follow my family everywhere, I just hope I'm left out of it today.
…
The afternoon crawled by with an agonizing lack of speed, but eventually, the evening arrived. We made our way to my grandpa's house. It was only supposed to be me, my parents, and Luke, but after the morning's dramatic reveal of Haley's secret social life, Mom had decided that misery loves company—and that Haley's company was now mandatory.
Grandpa opened the door with a glass of scotch in one hand and a familiar look of gruff appraisal on his face. "Claire," he said with a nod. "Phil. You didn't trip on your own driveway on the way in, did you?"
"All clear for a perfect landing, Jay!" my dad replied with a cheerful salute that Grandpa pointedly ignored.
"Come on in," he grumbled, stepping aside.
The house was already buzzing with a low-key energy. Gloria swept into the entryway, looking stunning as always, and enveloped my mom in a warm hug. "Ay, Claire! You look so beautiful!" she said, before turning her attention to us. "And my beautiful children! Come, come!"
Manny appeared from the living room, dressed in a sharp little blazer. He gave me a single, formal nod of greeting before making a beeline for a sulking Haley. I watched them for a moment before finding a seat on the edge of the sofa, clutching the strap of my bag. The corner of the gift box dug into my back. Inside, the letter felt heavier than any textbook I'd ever carried.
The adults drifted into their usual orbits. Mom joined Grandpa at the bar, their conversation a low murmur about Uncle Mitchell and Cam's trip to Vietnam. Dad was locked in an earnest conversation with Gloria. I tuned them out, running through the plan one more time in my head. Step one: Give him the gift. Step two: Ensure he reads the letter. Step three: Brace for emotional impact. It was a sound strategy, but my stomach felt like it was full of agitated butterflies.
"So," my mom said eventually, ever the organizer, her voice cutting through the pleasantries. "Are we ready? We should probably head over before all the good snacks are gone."
"Good call," my dad agreed. "The early bird gets the worm, or in this case, the mini quiche!"
We moved as a strange, multi-generational herd, spilling out of Grandpa's front door and onto the quiet, manicured street. Across the way, the Naird house was already glowing. The windows were bright with warm light, and the low, rhythmic pulse of music spilled out into the twilight. Every step closer made my heart beat a little faster, a frantic drum against my ribs.
The front door of the Naird house was already open, spilling light and the infectious beat of some pop song onto the lawn. As we stepped inside, the energy of the party washed over us—a wave of music, laughter, and the murmur of a dozen different conversations.
General Naird—Bradley's dad—stood in the grand entryway, a gracious but commanding host. He smiled warmly as we entered.
"Jay, Gloria, good to see you. Phil, Claire," he said with a respectful nod to each of my parents and grandfather. "Welcome." He then turned his attention to us, the younger contingent. "The festivities are out back. Pool's open, food's ready. Go have fun, kids."
With that, he gestured to the adults. "The other parents and chaperones are upstairs on the terrace if you'd like a drink. Maggie's up there."
And just like that, the adults peeled off, heading for the stairs, and we were on our own. I felt a familiar pang of social anxiety. My parents were my buffer, and my buffer was now heading for a glass of wine on the second floor.
I clutched the strap of my bag and followed the general flow of traffic through the house, keeping my head down and trying to make myself as small as possible. I pushed open a sliding glass door and stepped out into a wall of sound and the warm, humid air of a pool party.
Kids were everywhere—shrieking and laughing as they cannonballed into the shimmering blue water, their shouts mingling with the loud music pumping from unseen speakers. The air smelled of chlorine, sunscreen, and a staggering array of food. A buffet table that seemed to stretch for miles was laden with a feast that could feed a small army: stacks of pizza boxes, pyramids of burgers in their buns, and gleaming silver chafing dishes steaming with pasta, lasagna, and fragrant tandoori chicken.
But I wasn't hungry. I stood at the edge of the patio, a nervous observer on the fringe of the chaos, and scanned the scene. My eyes searched through the splashing bodies and laughing faces for just one person. The gift in my bag felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
I scanned the chaotic scene—the splashing bodies, the laughing faces—and then I saw him.
He was standing near the far end of the pool deck, somehow apart from the chaos while being at the very center of it. He was wearing a suit—not a stuffy, formal thing, but a deep navy blue that was sharply tailored, worn casually with the top button of his white shirt undone. The setting sun caught the silver of the watch on his wrist. He didn't look like a twelve-year-old at his own birthday party. He looked... composed. Complete. And for a second, my brain, the one that prided itself on logic and analysis, simply stopped working.
He was in the middle of a loud, chaotic game of UNO, surrounded by his basketball team—David, Leo, Adam, and the others, all laughing and shouting. And then my eyes landed on the last person at the table, and the pleasant, floaty feeling in my chest curdled into a hard knot of resentment.
Jenna.
Of course, it was Jenna. The undisputed queen bee of our grade, with her perfect hair and effortless popularity. The sight of her sitting there, laughing and leaning toward him, brought back a sour taste I had tried to forget.
For a blissful, naive week last semester, I'd thought she and her friend Cathy actually wanted to be my friend. They'd invited me to sit with them at lunch, a shocking development that I, in my social isolation, had been pathetically grateful for. But the conversation always, always circled back to one topic: Bradley. 'What's he like?' 'Is he going to the game on Friday?' 'Can you tell him I said hi?'
I wasn't a friend; I was a tool. A convenient bridge to the boy they were all interested in. When I finally understood and distanced myself, the freeze-out was immediate and brutally efficient. Suddenly, I wasn't just the nerdy, quiet girl; I was a social pariah, made invisible by the unspoken decree of their queen.
I watched as Jenna played a card, her laugh a little too loud as she leaned slightly closer to him. He just smiled back politely, completely unaware of the complex social warfare being waged in his name. The gift in my bag felt like a lead weight. My carefully planned confession now seemed like a foolish, naive strategy for a game I didn't even understand.
I took a deep breath. Fine. I wasn't going to let Jenna and her court of wannabes dictate my evening. I had a mission. Gift, letter, confession. The strategy was set.
I started along the edge of the pool, my path a direct line to the UNO table, but a pastel-colored obstacle materialized in my path. Cathy.
"Hey, Alex! How are you?" she asked, her smile so bright it was practically a weapon. It was the same smile she'd used for a week last semester, and I knew intimately how fake it was.
"Hello, Cathy," I replied, my tone flat, deflecting her feigned interest. "I see you and Jenna got invites."
"Yeah, isn't this party amazing?" she chirped, either a master of political maneuvering or simply too oblivious to register my cold shoulder. "I was just about to join their game." She leaned in, placing a hand on my arm. "Btw, Alex, could you do me a tiny favor?"
I looked down at her hand on my arm and then back at her face. "I don't think so, Cathy. We're not really in the favor-exchanging phase of our non-friendship."
Her smile didn't falter, but it lost all its warmth. "Oh, but it's just a teensy one. You won't even have to do anything." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to an icy whisper that sent a chill down my spine. "Just stay away from Bradley for a while."
I held her gaze, refusing to be the scared, socially-awkward girl she expected me to be. My mission was more important than her petty games. "You don't get to tell me who I can talk to," I said, my voice low and even.
I stepped around her, ready to ignore the ridiculous threat, but my eyes landed on the UNO table just in time to see Jenna laugh, stand up, and take Bradley by the hand, pulling him gently away from the game. "Come on," I heard her say, "I want to show you something."
Bradley, looking slightly confused but going along with it, followed her as she led him back toward the house.
Something hot and unfamiliar—a possessive, fiery anger—surged through me. I wasn't going to be warned off and then watch her walk away with him. On pure instinct, I started after them, keeping my path casual as I slipped back through the sliding glass door. The noise of the party provided perfect cover. I could feel Cathy's presence a few steps behind me, a persistent, annoying shadow, but I ignored her, my focus entirely on the two figures ahead.
They didn't go back through the main hall but took a side door that led out into the quieter part of the yard, stopping at the entrance to the indoor court—the converted storeroom. I slowed, melting into the deep shadows cast by the main house and finding cover behind a row of sculpted hedges. Cathy came to a stop a few feet away, equally hidden.
The court door was slightly ajar, spilling a slice of bright light onto the dark grass. Their voices carried clearly on the cooling evening air, and we waited in the silence to hear what came next.
I held my breath in the darkness, listening.
"I've always liked basketball," Jenna was saying, her voice soft and confident. "But watching you play... it's different. It's like you see the whole court in a way no one else does. I guess, at first, I just wanted to be friends with that person. And now..." She took a small step closer to him. "...now I think I want more. Bradley, I really like you."
The words, so simple and brave, were a punch to my gut. My mind started screaming, a frantic, silent prayer. No. No, no, no. Say something, Bradley. Say it's not like that. Say you're just friends. Say you like someone else.
I watched him, my breath caught in my throat, waiting for his immediate, gentle rejection. But it didn't come. He looked... stunned. A dark flush crept up his neck. He opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for words that wouldn't come. He hesitated.
And in his silence, every one of my fragile hopes drowned.
It was a sudden, violent cold, a shock of icy water that stole the air from my lungs and left me numb. The background noise of the party, the music, the laughter—it all faded into a distant, meaningless hum. He wasn't saying no.
My feet were moving before I'd made a conscious decision to act. One step, then another, out of the shadows and into the slice of light from the court's doorway.
Their conversation stopped abruptly. Jenna's head whipped around, her expression instantly hardening. But my eyes were only on Bradley. His widened when he saw me, a flicker of something—guilt? surprise?—crossing his face before being replaced by pure confusion.
My voice came out tight and brittle, a stranger's voice I barely recognized. "Happy Birthday, Bradley."
I thrust the wrapped gift into his hands. He took it automatically, his fingers brushing mine. Before he could react, before he could say a single word, I reached into my bag. My fingers closed around the letter—my carefully written, hopeful, stupid letter. I pulled it out and shoved it flat against his chest. His hand came up instinctively to grab it, his eyes locked on mine, full of questions I couldn't bear to see.
And then I turned and walked away.
I didn't run, but every step was a battle to keep from breaking down. Tears were already blurring the party lights into a meaningless smear of color. I didn't look back. I didn't go back toward the music and the laughter. I just kept walking, my path a straight, desperate line across the quiet street, toward the silent, welcoming porch light of my grandfather's house.
Why, Why always me?