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rallentando

adverb. with a gradual decrease in speed.

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BAY'S BIRTHDAY FALLS ON A Monday when there are no marching band rehearsals, no sectionals, no band leadership meetings, no shifts at the Foxhole, no planned hook-ups, and no real excuses for me to see her.

Except, I have to see her, because I have a gift to deliver.

Whenever there is a free weekend, I drive back to Carsonville. Free weekends don't come often in football season, so it was great to have Mom cook dinner and fret over me, and shoot the shit with Dad, and hang out with Christian again. And I admit, in my downtime, I hunted through all of Bay's social media for the umpteenth time. I checked her tagged posts and scrolled through timelines, but I found nothing new, no hints about what sort of gifts she likes. No childhood friends or distant relatives who might want to celebrate with her. It seems she only has herself, which is really sad, even if she says she's no longer sad about her childhood. I'll keep my true feelings to myself because Bay hates being pitied, but the way I grew up, I think everyone deserves to be celebrated on their birthday. Even my enemy-turned-bedmate.

So, while I was at home these last two days, I took Christian out to run errands. First we went to an arts and crafts workshop at the town library, and then we did grocery shopping, drove to visit our grandparents, and returned home. At the arts and crafts workshop, he learned to make origami ninja stars, and I made Bay a birthday card with some spare paper. It's black cardboard with golden stars glued on the front. In a white gel pen, I drew three drums stacked on top of each other, like the tiers of a cake, with a ring of drumstick candles on the top. I glued down some holographic foil letters (the library had them in a wrinkled plastic bag) to spell out HAPPY 22ND BIRTHDAY!

"Who's that for?" Christian asked.

"A friend."

"Which friend?"

"Just someone from college," I said casually.

"What's their name? Why won't you tell me?" he wondered, which made me realize that I was being totally obvious. I told Christian about everyone—Quentin, my Engineering cohort, the marching band, my housemates—giving in-depth explanations of personalities and dynamics even if he forgot the very next minute. I like shit-talking. It's therapeutic.

So my aversion was supremely telling.

"Wait. You're in love."

What.

"Ew," I pulled a face, tamping down the heat that rushed into my cheeks. "What the fuck? I am not." I picked the card up and pretended to blow loose glitter from it. "If you must know, it's for Isabella. She's co-leading the percussion section with me. I think I've mentioned that once or twice already."

"See? You could have just said that," Christian pointed out. "But you hid it because you love her."

"Do you want to walk home? Get your steps up?" I threaten. (He did not, and quickly shut up.)

See, I still don't like Bay, but everyone deserves to be celebrated on their birthday.

Ever since Bay told me about growing up in foster care, a lot of her actions and perspectives have slanted sideways. It's like those videos where a line of dominoes—or bricks—are stacked upright with the optimal spacing. One nudge and the whole thing topples over, only for everything to snap perfectly into place once the last block hits the ground. The engineer in me loves watching those videos.

Point is: some things only make sense at the end.

The same with Bay.

The way she runs from attachments. Her instinct to criticize people first and give chances later. She'd rather care too little than care too much, shutting her heart away, and there's no doubt in my head that this was a lesson learned in a lonely, uncertain environment. There's very few people in the world to hand-make her a birthday card. So I stepped up.

Now I'm waiting outside her lecture theater. For both band leadership and hooking up reasons, we've swapped timetables. Right now, assuming she attended classes today, there are four minutes left of Climate and Environment Philosophy, four minutes until students start spilling out of those wooden doors, four minutes until I get to see her.

Why are my palms sweating?

Bay's class lets out. Her thick hair is loose today, but a hair band coils around her wrist. She has her denim button-up tied around her waist, the sleeves swinging as she walks. I rise from the cushioned bench lining the far wall and step into her path.

"Oh," she says, startled. "Hi."

"I—" Don't know what to say.

Happy Birthday? I made you a card? My little brother, who I've told about you over the years, really wanted to sign it and despite my teasing, I hate actually telling him no, so I hope you like his message?

This is fucking weird. This never happens to me; my whole shtick is knowing the right thing to say to people, every time. I think it's because everyone else in my life is nice and Bay is not. What if she flicks her eyes over the ad hoc craftsmanship, the scruffy drawing and clumsy glued-on letters and says, "Oh, how cute, thanks," (because she obeys courtesy rules but doesn't actually care for manners) and then when she's around the corner, dumps it into a trash can?

I hate thinking about Christian's writing among the garbage.

So I can't do it. I don't think I can be heartfelt like that. Let Bay do whatever she likes with her gift. But don't make me watch, or even explain anything.

I just pull out the card, push it into her hands, "Here," and brush right past her.

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I'm staying up late, piecing together a class timetable for next semester, when my phone emits a sound like flicked glass.

A message from Bay.

Isabella: thanks for the card, but I don't need your pity.

I don't want to say I'm crushed, but I'm kind of crushed. It's my mistake for seeing her vulnerable side, her capacity for softness, and thinking she would treat my gesture in the same way. Before I can even think of what to type back, I'm dialing her, as much angry as I am hurt.

On Christian's behalf, I tell myself. Not like I cared. The card was practically a joint creation.

Bay answers quickly, but I slice through anything she might have said: "Couldn't you have said 'thank you, Callum' and left it at that? You might have a hard time imagining the concepts of generosity and kindness, but I promise they're real."

"I know that," she scoffs harshly. "You just weren't acting on them."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I never asked for a birthday gift," she reasoned, her voice sounding labored. Has she been exercising? "I didn't ask you to make a gesture. Mushy-gushy shit is not a part of our deal, so you don't need to feel bad that I don't have a family. Or lend me yours."

My jaw drops. The nerve of her. "That's not what I was doing."

"Callum, you didn't even say happy birthday. You showed up outside my classroom, distracted as hell, said 'here' and left. Gift and gap," she says, voice trembling. "Is that generosity to you? To me it felt like obligation because I told you about foster care and now you feel sorry for me."

Bay is an instant headache. I can feel my blood hammering in my temples, driving all my rationale and self-control out the window. "You're one to talk, especially when everything kind you've ever said to me has felt like an obligation—"

Downstairs, the doorbell rings. It's pretty late. Pitch black outside. I flick my eyes to the door, one ear listening for one of my housemates going to let their guest in, the other pressed to my phone screen.

"When?" Bay asks, and I'm less than willing to tell her.

I'm jealous of you. I often feel threatened by how well you play. I haven't stopped wanting to kiss you again. Bay only revealed those as part of the tiresome reciprocity game she plays. The only things she's ever given me freely are one kiss and three years of hatred. Everything else I've had to fight her for.

"—leveling a playing field, earning the moral high ground. Maybe I wanted to spare myself from that today," I finish quietly.

The doorbell rings again.

Her voice on the other end of the line says, "Open the fucking door," and my pulse stops dead.

I hang up the call and nearly sprint down the stairs. Bay is wearing sweatpants, her denim jacket thrown over the top, and her eyes are rimmed in red. Not from smoking pot. From crying.

"Bay."

She swipes underneath her nose, sniffling, laughing groggily, smiling blearily. "I haven't cried in six fucking years," Bay growls, shoving my chest. I grab her hand and pin it there, right over my heart, "—and your little brother's cheesy pun did it. I don't even know why. What the actual fuck."

Warmth floods into my chest.

The first half of Christian's message was very typical birthday wishes, and the second half was a comedic post-script: P.S. here's a joke to make you smile! 'For my next trick, I will eat a percussion sandwich,' the magician said. 'A drum roll, please.'

I can't stop the grin that overtakes my face. Bay liked the card.

I tug on Bay's hand until she walks into my embrace, blinking with shiny eyes up at me. I wonder if she got any other birthday presents today. "The next time you're going to make me feel like this—"

"Feel anything other than your usual bitterness?"

"Exactly," she murmurs, drawing in a sharp breath, "stick around to fix it, okay?"

I should have. I should have stuck around.

"Okay," I nod, sweeping my thumbs under her eyes.

She sighs, shoulders deflating, and nods slower than me. "Thank you, Callum."

This time, I know she means it.

She inches closer and buries her face in my chest. Have we ever hugged before? I don't think so. We've kissed and gotten naked and fucked, but I've never just wrapped my arms around her ribs and inhaled her scent, and she's never encircled my shoulders and put her nose right in the hollow of my collarbone and smiled into my skin like this.

Her breath is the warmth of a fireplace, right against my heartbeat. I feel anchored, but also like I could drown in her, and that this is where I should always be.

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We're not having sex.

We talk instead, curled up in bed in sweatpants.

Turns out Bay received many birthday wishes, mostly online, and one other gift: a sterling necklace with a music note pendant from her roommate, Renata. Under the covers, Bay turns her face to me and grants me the most ancient wish of mine: she tells me why she hates me.

I've been collecting knowledge about her ever since we met. She keeps handy spare sheet music, because she hates being unprepared. She drinks way more than people expect, but never seems to get fully drunk, which is probably where the drugs come into the picture. Bay can party hard, and I've seen her, but under it, she's a homebody. She's the smartest person I've ever known, and she's got two faces like the moon, sharp and soft, dark and light.

I just need one more piece of information.

I've fielded her laser stares, boring into my skull, all the petty squabbling, and showboating. The prospect of being the only one among two-hundred band members that didn't meet her standards rankled. She'd do anything for anyone in the band except me, and knowing that always washed me in cold insecurity. Why?

I was a good player. I worked hard. I have hundreds of friends, even the directors.

Now, I don't expect everyone to love me. I know some personalities are incompatible, some connections don't need to be forced. Just invest in the ones that do matter, that do work. So contrary to what Bay's accused in the past, I can stand the idea of people disliking me.

Just not her.

I don't know why.

"I was jealous of your talent. I resented your money and your family. Your blond hair, even. Everything that made your life easy and everything that made my life hard," she admits. "You meet people, you meet my friends, and you charm them like that—" she snaps her fingers, "—you're funny when you don't try to be and magnetic when you do try."

My eyebrows shoot up. My heart pounds against my chest.

"You were a shoo-in for section leader. When you showed me your congratulations email from Maude last spring, for a minute I thought, of course it's him. Mine is the mistake. It must be."

I hate hearing that. Does Bay not see what a force she is?

She spent a season in the pit, and came out with versatility I can't begin to catch up to. Not even now. She is everyone's go-to if they need help—even mine. I think people respect her in a way that runs deeper than being liked day-to-day. The drumline would be infinitely worse without her—unhappier, too, because the most joy we've ever felt in shows comes directly from how hard we worked beforehand. She's the hardest-working of all of us. She's our rock.

"I thought because you were so fucking chipmunk-happy all the time that you were out of touch about what the world is really like," she continues. Her nose wrinkles, a ridiculously adorable gesture, and I refuse to touch the warm flourish of endearment that curls around my heart at the sight of her on my pillows, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. I shouldn't be happy while someone is justifying why I'm a villain in their head, right? "I know how immature that is. I put my baggage on the wrong person. You didn't deserve that treatment. I'm sorry."

I'm dumbfounded. A lot of the insecurity I harbored toward Bay promptly dies. She admires my drumming and some aspects of my personality, just like I covet her natural talent and dedication. I never knew she felt like that about me.

How come all her compliments read like a eulogy, and all her resentments feel like sunlight? I will never understand how a person like her comes to be.

Bay is drowsy. I can tell because she's blinking slower and slower, I see more of her eyelids than her eyes, and it's making me want to burrow down into the covers and do the same. Tonight is a rare one, in my hyperactive mind, when I feel like I could sleep easily.

My mouth wavers open and shut until I sigh, "I suppose it's my turn. Do you want to hear why I hate you?"

Bay laughs and pokes me in the stomach. "No. It's okay. My massive ego is too fragile for that."

"You know what, it's your birthday. I'll let you off this time."

"Ha," she snorts. "Good."

"Great."

But she doesn't know my relief because, right now, I don't think anything would come to mind. Nothing convincing, anyway. Why do I hate her? I can't remember.

Maybe, I don't anymore.

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a / n :

callum's pov of bay's special day ;)

i'm in the middle of finals season so pardon my late update. after this week i'm also travelling abroad for another week, so if we skip the next scheduled update i'll make up for it with 2 chapters when i return.

this book is already finished offline, so don't worry about any long hiatuses; we're finishing this baby. 

aimee x