Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

14

14
Mom finally comes home two days before the day my twelve year old self swore he would freeze and nullify from the calendar forever.
My birthday.
She came back because my father had already invited the Nelsons to dinner.

At night, I witness the both of them participate in something bearing a close likeliness to a conversation by definition.
What decoration shall go up. The grass on the lawn has hit its seasonal growth spurt and needs a trimming, how many inches though. Or if it is time we traded the current dinner table for a bigger one now.
It is only so far that hearts can drift away before the distance translates itself to metres.

Mom eventually looks over at my direction and says, a smile stretching across her face, "Why don't you invite your friend too?"

I know from intuition that my father is not super thrilled with that offer being put forth and it being a possibility. Too bad for him I can go to whatever extent to cause him discomfort at this point.

"Anastasia?" My eyebrows perk up ingenuously.
"Yes, her." She nods. Dad cuts off an unnaturally big piece of his rare-medium steak and chews on it with an intensity of a metal grinder. I smirk.

"Okay. I'll ask her. But I don't want an extravagant dinner like last time. Just a family dinner."

Last time, all of the Manhattan's elite ended up in our living room where Dad got roaring drunk, Mom slipped on champagne and broke her ankle, none of which I was present to witness or manage as Charlotte and I had already made our own escapade early on in the evening to the rooftop and spent the night together as our parents ripped the Earth apart trying to find us.

Dad finally butts in. "Are you joking? John Baxter's only son's birthday is never just a family dinner and you are well aware. Besides, it is good from a social standpoint to be indulging in the finer luxuries of life."
"Then do not count on me to show up." I smile, looking him dead in the eye and see the hatred glare back.
"Fine." He relents.

I wake up to a cacophonous screeching from the living room.
I get up to stretch my legs only to discover preparations had already started in full swing, so much so that the brand new vintage gothic Tudor chandelier, swinging from its hinges, almost hits me on the head.

"Brooklyn, are you okay!" Mom shouts from the ground floor.
"Yes," I mumble to myself.
She had climbed up the stairs by then. "I'm really sorry. The older chandelier did not go with the theme."
"Who cares?" I groan.
She frowns. "I do. Is your guest coming?"
I forgot to call her. "Yes."
"Good. Just a family dinner, like you wanted." She smiles before walking off again.

I dial Anastasia. "What's up-"
"You are invited to my house today for dinner."
"Okay. Why?"
"It's my birthday dinner."
"Happy! -"
"Uh, uh. I am going stop you before you can finish that sentence."
"But it is a happy occasion. It's your birthday!"
"No. I don't like it. I don't like birthdays."
"Okay then. What is with the dinner? Is it casual or fancy, when do I show up?"
"Whenever."
"And what's the dress code?"
"You want the truth?"
"Hit me."
"Everyone will be overdressed to my taste."
"Oh. Okay. Got it. I will be there at 7."
"Cool."
"Cool. Bye."

Someone had put my clothes on my bed while I was in the shower.
A black Armani classic. Red tie. Crisp white shirt. I always found tuxedos really funny, the tie acting as the decisive gauge between a wedding and a funeral.
I wonder what this will turn out to be.

A knock on the door breaks my reverie. The door immediately parts to lay Charlotte out in my plain view.
"Happy birthday, Brook," she cooes, drifting in smoothly.
"Thank you, Charlotte. I think our parents are downstairs." I reply back curtly.
"I just wanted to talk to you."
"We can talk downstairs."
"Alone. I want to talk to you alone."