“Well, we never spent my birthday together.”
He grins and I fall into a wormhole that takes me back twelve years ago. He’d spent some of his hard-earned money from working at the lawyer’s office and taken us to an Italian restaurant in Portland.
“Remember the bus trip up to Portland?” he says, his eyes twinkling.
“Most romantic bus trip in the history of bus trips,” I laugh. “I love being ogled by a guy wearing a Futurama T-shirt and sucking on the same YooHoo for two hours.”
“Hey, I was eighteen and poor.”
“No, really,” I reach out and squeeze his hand. “It really was so romantic. The whole night was,” I say, not laughing so he knows I mean it.
He nods, “Well, I thought so. Even when you made us Lady and the Tramp it with the spaghetti.”
“You made a great Tramp.”
He nods as if to accept the praise. “You weren’t so great a Lady though.”
“Hey!”
“You hogged the spaghetti; you know you did! You’re supposed to meet in the middle, not hoover up almost the whole thing!”
“I was hungry!”
“Speaking of which,” he points behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see a parade of waiters carrying dishes come out from the elevator and lay them out in front of us.
I bite my tongue waiting for them to leave before I give into the laughs.
“Oh my god. What. Is. That?” I point to the piled plate in front of me.
“It’s penne e quattro formaggio e truffle a la Jaxon Sinclair.”
“It’s MAC AND CHEESE!” I cackle, so loud I’m sure they can hear me on the streets.
“I told him he had to use some sort of orange cheese or else you wouldn’t eat it. ‘It has to look like it came out of a box’ is exactly what I said, if you must know.”
“Oh my god, what must he think, us showing up in PJs and now you requesting mac and cheese.’
“He’s thinking ‘Gee, Xavier, thanks for cutting this month’s rent bill in half’ is what he’s thinking!”
“Xavier. You didn’t!”
“Shut up and eat. Your mac and cheese is getting congealed. Or whatever orange cheese does.”
I fill up my fork with the delicious smelling food and cram it into my face.
“Ohmyeffingod,” I moan through a mouthful of creamy pasta.
“Yeah,” Xavier nods, his mouth just as full, “this almost beats Kraft.”
“Yeah, almost, if Kraft could get their hands on cheap truffles. Ughhh, this is so good,” I mumble through another mouthful.
There are a few quiet minutes as we both enjoy our dinner. The pasta is creamy and unctuous and cheesy and decadent. My plate is almost empty when I see Xavier reach across the table with his fork and try to stab one of my penne tubes.
“Wow, hey, stay on your side!” I pull my plate closer to me.
“Rude! My plate was the same size as yours!”
“So?”
“I’m bigger, I should get more. You owe me anyway!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Yuh-huh, Lady!”
I growl and roll my eyes. I spear one of the penne tubes and lift it towards Xavier’s mouth. He grins and opens wide.
Just as he clamps down, I pull the fork away and pop the pasta into my mouth.
“Mmmmmm, yummy. Isn’t it funny how the last piece is always the best?”
“Bitch,” he hisses and stares down at his plate, forlorn.
I giggle and reach for the half-filled wine glass. The swirl leaves ribbons of liquid claret on the bowl of the glass and I watch them slide down toward the stem. I take a small sip and I close my eyes, savoring it. When I open my eyes, Xavier has moved my empty plate away and replaced it with a small cupcake, speared by a single candle.
“Where did that come from?”
“It was under that cloche,” he says and points to the metal dome on the side table. “You didn’t notice it because you were too busy ogling the melted cheese.”
“Mmmm, it was very sexy,” I nod. “But this looks delicious too.”
“I don’t have a lighter, I’m sorry. You can just pretend to blow the candle out.”
“Do I still get a wish?”
“Er, hang on.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts tapping at it.
“Um, now who’s being rude?”
“Shush, I’m finding out if your birthday wish will still come true!”
“Oh, and?”
“Um, there’s nothing about unlit candles, but someone suggests to make a wish that you want to die. And then you should tell someone that was your wish.”
I laugh at the ridiculous idea. “What the hell? Why?”
“Because your wish doesn’t come true if you tell someone!” He says this with his eyes lit up like the rows of fairy lights around us. “Wow. The internet really is a treasure trove of useless information.”
I bat his phone away, impatient. “Can I eat my cupcake yet?”
“Did you make a wish?”
“Well, you didn’t sing Happy Birthday to me yet.”
“Fine.” I sit with my hands in my lap like I’m waiting to open a big present. He clears his throat and sings. Loudly. And badly. Very, very badly.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you,” he warbles. A car alarm goes off somewhere in the distance and I’m not convinced it’s not because of his singing. I try to keep a straight face right up to when he lingers on the last line and gets up and presses a soft kiss to my cheek and sits back down. “Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”
“‘Wow. Um. Thank you, Xavier.”
“No problem. Now you can have your cupcake. Are you going to share it with me?”
“No. One does not share their cupcakes,” I say and pop the entire thing in my mouth.
I make a show of rubbing my stomach and licking my lips even though it’s hardly pretending, it’s delicious. He sits and watches, mouth open. Once I’m done, he gets up and carries another cloche covered plate over and sits it down in front of him.