Homesick (Lesbian)

CHAPTER 8: Birthday Memories Part 2

After I had breakfast I drank some tea. I had decided not to do coffee again for reasons that are not important. It felt nice, it was warm, and sweet, and earthy. It helped me refocus on what needed to be done, and that was I was a little behind.

I had another two months left, but I had also only painted ten pieces, which meant if I didn't pick up the pace, I could be missing my deadline. I don't want to imply it was Ellen's fault because it wasn't, it was mine. But spending a lot of time with her meant I had less time to paint, and ultimately, painting had to be priority N°1.

It was a little past midday. I was finishing a piece and feeling very productive when a loud ring in my apartment made me flinch a little. I stood up covered in paint and however I could, I pressed the door buzzer with my pinky.

"Yeah?"

"Miss Burton-Brenan? Mr. Keane's here."

"Let him in. Thanks, Larry."

"Sure thing, ma'am."

I walked into the kitchen and opened the tab to run water through my hands and up to my elbows. The painting that had already dried stuck, but the remainings went down the drain easily. I heard the doorbell ring, I grabbed a handtowel, dried my hands up, and went to open the door for Scott.

He had this big, radiant smile and two bags of what could only be takeaway. "Want some sushi?"

God I love that guy. He knows my weaknesses so well. I nodded and he walked inside, placing the bags on the kitchen counter and turning around to hug me. 

"Happy birthday," he murmured and ruined it by adding. "You're thirty-three now."

"Shut up, you're thirty-four."

"Yeah, but in this very equalitarian society, you have an expiration date. I do not... so long as I have money," he joked.

"No, darling. I'm like wine, I get better with age."

He laughed, and said, "Amen, sister."

I grabbed two plates and started placing the sushi on them. He bought five rolls, Five whole rolls. They didn't fit on the plates! I decided to save two rolls for later, maybe if I didn't feel like having dinner.

We sat on the floor since I was covered in paint and, well, Scott felt bad about eating on the table while I ate on the floor. There was something comfortable about eating on the floor and laughing and having dumb, mindless conversations. 'Did you notice that when you are in a rush, everyone starts walking slower?', 'There was this really cute dog, and then it tried to hump me.' 

On that day, however, the topic of conversation was of course:

"How's your birthday so far?"

"Fine. Mom and Connor already wrote. Richard also wrote."

"What about Dumont? I thought you guys had a thing going."

"She doesn't know, and I want to keep it that way."

"Why?"

"'Cause I don't want to get too personal. Too... intimate."

"I don't think that's up to you. I mean, shouldn't the both of you decide what it is that you're doing?"

I sighed. "I suppose. But it's my birthday. I don't want to have to deal with that." He stayed quiet for a moment. He was debating himself whether or not to ask, so instead, I answered for him. "She hasn't, and she won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do. She's too awkward to know how to deal with wishing me a happy birthday, so instead of sending a text and making things worse, she'll probably skip it altogether."