▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️

▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️

A birthday at the end of January is better than one at the end of December or beginning of January. As a child, I enjoyed enough separation between the holiday season and my birthday. As an adult, because I can't deny it any longer, I'm an adult, a year away from a quarter century, the distance between Christmas and my birthday doesn't matter so much. The presents are no longer as exciting, and the number of candles on the cake no longer corresponds to the years I'm celebrating.

Not this year. This year, my birthday will be impossible to forget. There'll be a video of me singing my beloved collection of Christmas tunes to remind me of the last hour. Every time I'll sing any of them, I'll be thinking of today.

The only downside of what I'm now calling my birthday extravaganza is that my party is almost over at barely ten a.m. A morning birthday party. What nonsense. Who has ever heard of a party this early if you are past single digits?

But I'm not goonna complain, because morning or not, a birthday party in a Dairy Queen closed for this special event is not something many people get to experience. I didn't know renting one of these is even an option. The menu has a handwritten card covering one of the regular items. "Angie's Choice" comes with rainbow sprinkles, pink swirls, and miniature gummy-bears. They decorated the interior of the store for the upcoming Valentine's Day, adding a heavy dose of pink to the white walls.

The burger in front of me is probably cold. I managed to take two bites, but the smell of fried chicken strips, burgers, fries, and pretzel sticks killed any hunger I might've had before we entered the space. I wanted to get the crew smoothies for my birthday, but The Whats do nothing halfway. Instead of a treat each, they rented the whole damn thing. I survey the cups full of Blizzards and soft ice-cream melting around us. The excess would normally send me squealing or jumping. I move my head, and a jolt of dizziness overrides any gratitude or elation in my body. I focus my gaze on Mike's approaching figure.

"Want anything else?" Mike sits down next to me. He's still wearing the Santa coat and leggings, but the ridiculously crappy fake beard, wig, and hat are gone. So is the stuffing he used to make his flat stomach fluffier. I don't mind the look he's sporting. Tights might be a pain to get off him, but they don't have to come off. We can—

No, I'm supposed to be upset with him, not contemplate how to get him out of what remains of his Santa outfit.

My meds dulled the rising tide of hurt on the inside, but they also heightened the buzz of singing to the astonished mall goers, the luxury of the private Dairy Queen: they are also increasing Mike's effect on me. I'd rather forget the connection between us, not see it in 3D and Technicolor, as if that's the most real thing on this loud and exciting day. I want my surroundings to be bright and thrilling, but to let go of Mike, step back, not ache from his constant pull.

Mike's hand gently shakes my shoulder. "Angie? You okay?"

Was he asking me something? His face is blurry. I strain to bring his features into focus. "Sorry, lost in thought. What did you say?"

"Are you set, or would you like anything else?" Mike's no longer fuzzy. He's searching my eyes, and unlike his, that are so dark they hide his pupils, making it impossible to judge their size, mine must be giving me away. Most people would pay no attention, but Mike's inspecting them too closely, like he knows what the state of my eyes means. "Are you high?" he whispers.

"Definitely not." I shake my head and instantly regret it, because the blurriness returns.

"Attention everyone." Poppy is in the middle of the room with a Blizzard treat in her hand. "Let's move to the last portion of the festivities, because the bus has to get back on the road in thirty, if we are to make it to the venue on time."

There is more to this morning birthday party of mine? I touch my face to check if I'm smiling. Wouldn't want my bitch face to reappear and spoil everyone else's fun.

"Can the birthday girl please come here?" Poppy walks over to the table with presents piled high. As if organizing this whole shebang was not enough.

I join Poppy in the center and wait for the shouts and whistles to die down.

"We're doing it the fun way." Poppy pulls a phone out of her pocket. "Because we're on the clock, you get two minutes per present. That's to unwrap, to say your ahs and thank yous, and to move on to the next one. You have twelve things here, so that should get this exercise complete in twenty-four minutes. Twenty-four, yeah?" She points at me. Got it. My birthday. 24.

"On my mark, ready, set, go!" Poppy pushes on the screen of her phone and 2:00 changes to 1: 59:59.

The first package I pick up is a bit larger than my hand. The box is light and opens with minor struggles. I take out what looks like a smart watch. Soundbrenner is stamped on the wristband. There's a card. "So you can keep the rhythm without my help. Neil." I find The Whats' bassist alone in the corner, still wearing the reindeer outfit, minus the pompoms. The holes left behind are like what his usual stage attire. His tattoos make the wife-beater look too good and not as ridiculous as on everyone else. "Thank you, Neil." I put the watch on my wrist.

Singing I do well, writing the words and melodies—even better. But my internal metronome has never returned to its pre-crash glory. I blame the concussion. Without Neil tapping out a rhythm for me whenever we compose together, I succeed at speeding up or slowing down like a second-year music student.

"Time's up. Next." Poppy is enjoying this way too much.

An ambiguously shaped item wrapped in metallic tinsel foil fringe calls to me. It's lighter than I expect. Poppy hands me a pair of scissors, and I cut into the mess of sparkling mylar. A shower of foil clippings falls on the carpet square around me. The outline of the object gives me zero ideas about what it could be hiding. I shear off more of the mess onto the floor. Whoever will be cleaning will hate me, but the clock is ticking. The items underneath the silvery fury of a wrapping job is a stainless steel gourd. I lift the confusing thing up and see a red harness folded underneath it. I have no guesses as to what this could possibly be.

"It's a water bottle with a carrying case. So we don't have to turn the bus around and go back to find your bottle," Franco, the bus driver, pipes up. Fair point. My inability to keep track of my water bottle is legendary with the crew. One of the notices on the ceiling of my bunk asks, "Did you forget your water bottle?"

"Thanks, Franco." My smile doesn't want to stay on my lips. I shouldn't have taken two pills again, but Mike insisting on us as a long-term possibility hurt too much. Pushing him away now will still hurt less than losing him later.

"Don't you like it?" He frowns and crosses his arms.

"Love it. No way I can lose this one." I squeeze out a giggle that sound fake even to me.

The cylinder wrapped in rough sparkly paper is next. This one comes with a card. 'From Mike' is written in print letters. The short lines of the capital F fly off the page, while the capital M has the rounding I give to the lower-case version of the letter. This is the first time I see Mike's handwriting. The first gift I'm getting from him. A list of other firsts we haven't been through together runs through my head and each breaks my resolve. Each a loss I shouldn't be contemplating when the time is running out. I know so little about Mike.

"Open it already." Poppy points at the timer with less than a minute left.

The wrapping covers my leggings in glitter. More for the employees to cleanup. Underneath there's what I suspect is a poster held rolled up with a rubber band. I can hear a rattle inside and tip the open end of it, to catch a black plastic contraption and a piece of cloth that has AF stitched in gold sequence. I lift my questioning gaze to Mike.

"That's a finger strength trainer"—he points to the contraption—"and that's a mic cover." I examine the stretchy fabric. "It goes onto the part of the mic you hold on to." Mike's attention on me intensifies. "Unwrap the poster," Mike says. So it is a poster. I take off the rubber band and stretch the glossy paper in front of me. A photo of Mike, shirtless, with his hands wrapped in something, standing in a pose as if he's about to strike someone is intense. His bottomless eyes in direct contact with mine. "Louka shot it. It's for your bunk." Mike sounds deflated, as if he's not sure the poster was a good idea. Mike's large frame in a gross red outfit is out of place among The Whats and the crew. He's like a giant teddy bear with button eyes that requires love, time, and I'm not the person who can give it to him.

"It's perfect," I say in a forced pleasant chirp. Mike's perfect. Too perfect for me. As I snip the wrapping on the next present, I search for the least painful way to make Mike see what is possible and what is not. Water and oil never mix. Time to tell him the truth, stop giving into him, and stop kidding myself. I'm numb enough start sawing through the invisible strings that bind us while I still can.