Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The sky is dark, and I use a good portion of my reserved willpower for today on not crawling back into bed. At least the heatwave is over, and I can enjoy a cup of hot coffee without sweating.
The whirring noise of the coffee grinder doing its job fills the room, reminding me of Mr. Sweatpants and his ridiculous recipe. Coffee-rubbed steak — maybe, but coffee-rubbed salmon? How did he come up with that idea?
The French press is brewing my first cup, and the frozen breakfast burrito is making its rounds in the microwave.
I find the bag Angie left for me before she disappeared to wherever she's gigging this week. Her instructions in large letters are staring at me from the top of the bag: "Do not open until the morning of your birthday or else."
I place the heavy sparkly bag with dancing elephants in birthday hats on the kitchen counter and take out the bunches of colorful tissue paper. The item on top is a twenty-five-dollar gift card to my favorite deep-dish pizza place.
Underneath it is a box of chocolate truffles, followed by a 'Look Alive at Twenty-Five' novel by Janet Evanovich and "Y is for Yesterday" by Sue Grafton (# 25 in the series). On the bottom of the bag lie several individual packets of tea in different flavors.
I intermittently smile and roll my eyes as I get the items out—she knows me too well. I take out the last packet of tea and count them. There are twenty-five,one for each year of my life.
In my first year of high school, our AP English teacher asked the class to write a personal essay on where we saw ourselves in ten years. At fifteen, the thought of a twenty-five-year-old Amélie conjured a cloudy image of someone mature, dressed in a power suit, living alone, or with a cute boyfriend in a fancy apartment with a job she left for every morning.
She was a clone of the independent women I saw in movies, gunning for her dreams and knowing what she wanted. The part I envisioned with clarity was weekends with my Nonna at her Italian restaurant, eating her delicious food, and laughing at Dad's corny jokes.
But it's ten years later. There is no fancy office job—three low-paying ones keep me afloat: teaching assistant to my thesis advisor, French tutor at the Student Union, and a cashier at a grocery store. My crowning achievement is a Bachelor's in Anthropology, which isn't much help searching for work, and an unfinished Master's thesis.
Another thing my fifteen-year-old self didn't envision is loads of credit card debt. Oh, and rejections from every single full-ride Ph.D. program I've applied to in the States.
One thing my younger self got right is that I do have a hot boyfriend. And I have Angie, my best friend and roommate extraordinaire, who even from miles away made the morning of my desolate no-family-in-sight quarter-century birthday suck a little less.
The first gulp of black coffee delivers the extra-strong dose of caffeine—an obligatory step to begin my day. I put the mug down and find my phone. At six in the morning in Chicago, Angie will be asleep in—I look at the paper on the fridge with her schedule for the week—in Seattle.
I open it.
It's not from Xavier.
An unknown international number and a message in French make my heart sink.
"Happy Birthday, my sweet. I love you very much and think of you every day. Please, call, text, email—let me know how you're doing. I hope you are well. I miss you. Be healthy and happy. Mom"
How dare she pretend she cares about me? Cause nothing says I care for you like avoiding your daughter for years and then sending a random text. I delete it, find Angie's number, write her my thanks, finish up the lukewarm burrito, and eye the chocolates. It is my birthday, after all. If chocolates will make me feel better, why should I deny myself? I open the box, and my anger subsides a little. There are twenty-five handcrafted truffles in the box. Twenty-five. Angie is the best.
With the coffee mug in one hand and the box with twenty-four truffles in the other, I head to my laptop. I have a couple of hours before class, and I want to get as much done as possible. Xavier is coming over after work to celebrate, and my plans for the evening include lots much-needed sex and no time for homework.
***
The hard plastic of the lecture-hall seat digs into the underside of my bare knees. I lift each leg to unstick my skin from the seat. Dressing up and putting on a skirt for my birthday was a dumb idea.
Not like anyone noticed, and I'm not going to announce the celebration of my aging process to everyone I see, post it on social media, or shout about it from the rooftops. They either know when my birthday is or they don't. I've never been a fan of the fake happy birthdays from virtual strangers anyway, but when none of my fellow students at school mention my big two-five—low-grade self-pity sets in.
"The already powerful Trencavel family acquired Carcassonne castle in 1067 through marriage." Professor Hopkins flips to the modern-day view of the castle. My thesis advisor who's taken on the unofficial role of my therapist this semester, doesn't remember that today's my birthday either.
The history of the remaining medieval castles in France relates to my thesis only because of their connection to marriages and changing borders. The Loire valley is full of them and was one of the places Mom took me to. I didn't appreciate them as a child. Now I might get another chance. Or not.
At lunchtime, after another check of my phone for missed calls or texts, I'm finishing my burger in the cafeteria when Angie's photo pops up on the screen.
"Happy Birthday, dear Amélie, Happy Birthday to you." I have to hold the phone away from my ear or risk rupturing in my eardrum. Her sing-songy soprano stretches every word Marylin Monroe style, and I'm sure the people at the table next to me hear her felicitations. I catch them glancing my way. Leave it to Angie to embarrass me without even being here. I smile to no one in particular. It's the Angie effect. She spreads happiness.
"Thank you," I smile-whisper into the phone, careful not to disturb anyone else around me.
"How many truffles are left? Should I call the paramedics to check you for chocolate poisoning?"
"You wish. I might've had five or"— I'm not confessing half the box is gone — "more this morning. I was too angry to count."
"Did your asshat of a boyfriend do something dumb?"
"Not yet. He's coming over for dinner," I say.
"What got you upset then?"
"Mom."
"Shit. That's huge. Did she call you?"
"Texted," I clarify. "Some Happy birthday bull and asked to stay in touch."
"Are you going to text her back?"
"No." I don't let my voice shake. "I don't have the time or energy to deal with her. I'm going to be fine on my own. And I don't want to waste this call talking about her."
"OK, OK." Angie placates me. "What's the plan for tonight with X the douchebag?"
"Don't call him that. Dinner at my place. He wanted us to go out to a bar, but I have to be in class at eight tomorrow, and I can't afford to mess up school. I have to graduate this year." There's no need to hide the desperation in my voice in front of Angie.
"You know your Dad would've been proud of you no matter what, right?"
"Right."
Sadness leeches back into my bones. My dad. I miss him so much.
