Happy fucking birthday.
To me.
There was nothing like waking up on one’s special day to the sound of roommates, total strangers a mere month ago, getting it on in the shower.
Loudly.
Actually, very loudly, no to mention, right next door to my bedroom. The shower shared a wall with the head of my Ikea bed frame.
Which was not the sturdiest thing in the world. As my roommates drilled each other against the shower tile, their enthusiasm bounced through to wall, shaking my bed in the process.
“Tommy,” my roommate screamed, “fill me with your hot cum. Do it, baby!”
I so did not need this.
I could have used another half hour of sleep before my shift at Mug Me Coffee, but there was no hope of that now. I was awake. Wide awake. And hoping the thin wall separating me from my roommates’ fucking was going to remain standing.
Not that this was their first time… enjoying each other… whether in the shower or anywhere else in the house.
Like the kitchen. Or the living room.
I’d even come across them in the foyer.
But when they chose the bathroom to celebrate their great fortune in finding each other, I wondered how long it would take to burst through the wall into my room—wet, soapy, in the throes of multiple orgasms, the likes of which I’d only ever been able to give myself.
But that was another problem for another day.
The most pressing issue, now that I was up, was where I was supposed to get ready for work. My roommates and I—the three of us—shared one bathroom. And from the sound of it, I was not going to get in there anytime soon.
Because I’d been through this before, I grabbed my toothbrush and hustled down to the kitchen sink, full of dirty dishes from the night before, and started washing up. I’d have to wait to pee till I got to work.
But that was life in New York for a barista like me. I didn’t earn enough at Mug Me to live alone, and even sharing an apartment here in the Big Apple, I still had to sacrifice the usual amenities—like a private bathroom.
People like me did not have private bathrooms. They shared them with two other roommates, or any of the general public that decided it wanted to use the Mug Me rest room. Those were the two bathrooms in my life.
But it was all good. Minor discomforts aside, I liked my life in New York.
And I didn’t mind that my roommates had hooked up. I just wished they were quieter about their… enthusiasm.
I pulled on my sneakers, black jeans, and white T-shirt—the barista uniform of Mug Me—and set out for work at a fast clip.
I really had to pee.
“Look who it is,” my coworker Jelly cried when I burst in the front door, dashing past her for the ladies room.
“Birthday girl!” she yelled to the rest of the team
Some birthday.
“Be right back,” I called to the crew, leaving behind a chorus of happy birthdays.
“Roommates fucking again?” Jelly yelled after me.
Funny thing about New York was that you could shout something like that out in a coffee shop and no one batted an eye.
No one gave a shit what you did, as long as you didn’t bother them. It was such a far cry from the small town I’d grown up in—and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of—where everybody knew your business before you even did.
A quick minute later, I joined my coworkers for the morning rush, tying on my black barista apron, followed by a hairband since my hair was too short for a ponytail.
When I’d started, the manager had no idea what to do with a woman whose hair was too short for a ponytail. He’d actually had the nerve to look at my black, swingy bob—which I liked very much—with disdain, as if I’d styled my hair this way on purpose to fuck with him and his stupid rules about hair and ponytail-wearing.
The morning was flying by, and after some guy ordered a ten-step coffee drink and left without tipping even a nickel, it was time for my break. The morning had been crazy, with lines out the door, but I couldn’t complain. Busy was good. Made the time go by faster, and meant that my employment was secure.
And when I arrived in the breakroom, Jelly was there with a birthday candle in a strawberry scone—my favorite pastry in all the coffee shop.
“Happy birthday, Nella,” she beamed, holding the scone so I could make a wish and blow.
She was such a good friend.
“How’s your birthday going so far?” she asked, helping herself to a corner of it after I’d blown out my candle.
I didn’t mind sharing. Not with Jelly. She was my ride or die.
I popped another corner of scone into my mouth. “It’s good, thanks. Nothing big to report. Mmmm. Good scone.”
She sidled up next to me at the sticky breakroom table. “Want to hit up Mixer’s tonight? They have two-dollar gin and tonics from six to seven.”
Mixer’s was our place. In fact, it was the place for everyone in New York who either couldn’t afford full-price drinks, or didn’t want to. Jelly and I would speed drink, and consume whatever they had on special from six to seven p.m., and then nurse one drink for the next few hours while we hung out.
But tonight was not a Mixer’s night.
“I’m actually working a double shift—”
“On your birthday?” she interrupted, horror crisscrossing her face.
“Yeah. I’m saving up to see if maybe I can get my own place at some point.”
She looked at me like that was even crazier than working on my birthday. “Get your own place? Like here, in Manhattan?”
“Jelly, it’s not like it’s never been done…” I trailed off because she had a point. People like us didn’t have our own places.
“Well, I’m saving for something, then. If not my own apartment, then… whatever.”
There was a muffled sound behind us. We turned in the direction of a buzzing phone, stuffed into the pocket of one of the many jackets hanging on the breakroom wall.
“That phone has been buzzing all morning. Wonder whose it is,” she said.
Shit. Was that coming the direction of my hoodie?
I got up and pulled it out of my pocket. “Wow. Six calls from my brother. Probably to wish me happy birthday.”
I started to put my phone back, when it buzzed again.
And when I thought about it, my brother would never call me six times on my birthday, or any other day.
What was going on?
Jelly scarfed the last of my scone crumbs and skipped back to work, while I dialed my brother.
“Robert Bryson’s office. How may I help you?” a very officious admin answered.
“Hey, Charlotte,” I said, mainly because I knew she hated when I acted all familiar with her, “it’s me, Nella, calling for Robbie.”
She clucked her tongue, no doubt for a variety of reasons, and finished expressing how insulted she was with a loud sigh.
“Mr. Bryson is not available—”
“Charlotte, he’s already called me six times today. I really need to speak with him.”
She harrumphed, mumbled something, then patched me through.
“Robert Bryson,” my brother said in an extra-deep voice.
It was interesting. Ever since he’d started working for a New York law firm, his voice had mysteriously deepened.
“Hey, Robbie, it’s me. That admin of yours is a piece of work—”
“Nella, my name is Robert now. Not Robbie.”
Another thing about his New York arrival. His lifelong nickname, Robbie, had been put to rest, replaced by his given name. But old habits died hard. I didn’t think I’d ever call him Robert. And that irritated the shit out of him.
His admin too, it seemed.
“Sorry. I keep forgetting,” I said, waiting for him to wish me happy birthday and offer to take me out to a nice dinner.
The only time I had nice dinners these days was when Robbie—I mean, Robert—was in the mood to treat his little sister. Which wasn’t very often.
Yeah, we’d both left our small town, but sometimes I felt like Robbie wished he could leave me, too. He was On His Way Up, as he liked to remind me, and had to hang out with like-minded people.
Not his loser barista sister.
“Hey, Robbie, you know today is my—”
“Look, Nella, I only have a minute. You need to go home.”
“Home? Why? I can’t go home until after my shift ends.”
“No. Home-home. Like our real home. Well, your home, anyway.”
“Do you mean Dad’s home? Like where we grew up, home? Hey, it’s just as much yours as mine. And why do I have to go there, anyway?”
I looked at the big Mug Me clock on the wall. Break time was almost up, and I didn’t have time to keep arguing with my brother.
“Robbie, what is going on?”
“It’s Dad.”
