Beneath

15 HAPPY (EARLY) BIRTHDAY

C A M I L A

Thursday, October 22nd starts with Maddie barging into my bedroom at 8:00 AM whining about her powdered blush cracking all over the bathroom floor.

I sit up, pushing a tangle of dark hair from my face, and swing my clothed legs over the edge of the bed. I crashed into bed last night fully clothed, exhausted from another late shift at Fire Base. At least Leo was there to see me working overtime.

"This blush was limited edition!" Maddie wails, stomping a foot. "I don't have one that compliments my tone anymore!"

I stand, stretching my limbs, and step around her to get a better look. The bathroom is a crime scene. No wonder she's freaking out. It's Fox's birthday dinner. I'm nervous too.

But my favourite person is going to be there.

I go back and flop onto my bed. The impact sends a puff of stale air and dust motes swirling around me. Maybe that's my imagination. Maybe I'm sick—lovesick.

Okay, not love. But likesick. Yeah.

After the hand-job disaster at Fire Base a few nights ago, I hopped up on the kitchen counter the next night and finally called him. Our conversation flowed, ping-ponging between me making fun of him, him trying to be all stern and failing.

When he talked about his father Davu from Nigeria, the helicopter crash, and the hospital, it brought up a few fucked-up memories inside me. But I listened. Then he apologized, scared he'd dumped too much on me again.

I said, "Fuck off, Bello. You saw me in the gym."

"Yes ma'am," he laughed, and we moved on.

He's a good person. All the boys are. And fuck if they're not slowly working away at my heart in different ways. I feel all... soft and squishy.

Maddie's frustrated scream sounds from in the bathroom before she stalks into the room and bellyflops onto the bed beside me.

"Spill," I demand, my voice muffled by the comforter. "How are things with Fox? We never talk anymore."

Maddie rolls over, propping herself on her elbow, a strand of blonde hair falling across her face. She blows it away with a puff. "He's so... Fox. He asked me to be his girlfriend—and I said yes."

"Fuck yeah!" Genuine elation bubbles up inside me.

"He's very skilled. With his hands. And tongue." Her grin spreads into a full insane smile. "Very precise. Very, very giving—"

I cover my ears, making a show of faux disgust. "Other than the sex!"

She turns her head to me. "Remember that classics test I was freaking out about? He stayed up with me at the library making these ridiculous pink flashcards. He didn't understand a word, and he kept touching me to distract me, but hell, I passed the test."

I smile at that. "Sounds like you finally hit the jackpot, Maddie Simpson."

Later that afternoon, I'm hunched over a desk in Business Seminar 4499E, scribbling the final sentences of a business essay. It's applicable to my management proposal. I've been cross-referencing all day, picking pieces from this and that, utilizing them at my will. The more time that goes by, the more I want this job.

After my classes, I walk home, nerves all in my gut, and then I shower, plopping my curls in a tee shirt, promising to take care of them in a second.

My stomach's in knots, but I force my stiff limbs up and go to my closet. The wide-legged slate grey trousers on a hanger catch my eye. I step into them, the fabric cool and smooth, and belt them with black leather. Next, I find a white tee with the band Kiss across the front, tongues out, the fabric punctuated with holes. I slip it over my head and tuck the shirt in a little. It helps.