The evening sun was dipping low when I hurried my bicycle into the dimming light, the air thick with the scent of baked bread and sugar. The bakery was closing up, lights flickering off one by one as I stepped inside, clutching my bag tightly against the strange weight in my chest.
While the clerk carefully boxed my red velvet cake, my restless fingers fiddled with the strap of my bag, the crumpled note from earlier crawling back into my mind like a shadow I couldn't shake. The words still stung, a cruel accusation that felt like a cold finger tracing my spine.
Who could have written it? Someone toying with my nerves—or worse, someone who wanted to see me broken. Killing Charlie? The thought made my stomach twist, but somewhere beneath the fear was a flicker of resolve. I wasn’t going to let whispers and threats define me.
By the time I pushed my bike home, the sky was streaked with orange and pink, the old brick buildings glowing under the sunset's final breaths. The city was buzzing—horns blaring, voices mingling in the streets as life marched on, indifferent to my turmoil. I locked my bike with shaking hands and climbed the narrow staircase of our apartment building, the familiar chorus of shouts, music, and distant cries washing over me through closed doors.
At the third floor landing, I knocked lightly, my heart skipping when a gruff murmur sounded from within before the door cracked open.
George Miller’s dark eyes flicked out, assessing me with that quiet intensity he always wore like armor. His messy hair partially hid his gaze, but I knew he saw everything, even when he said nothing.
"It’s me," I said softly, offering a tired smile.
His glance dropped to the cake box in my hands before the door shut swiftly, the lock clicking into place. Moments later, the deadbolt slid back and I stepped inside.
"Hey, everyone," I called out, trying to sound cheerier than I felt.
The apartment smelled like warm spices and stale smoke, familiar and comforting despite its worn edges. Lucille Starling lounged on the threadbare couch, her blonde hair pulled into a messy knot, and David Miller, my stepfather, sat stiffly beside her, eyes glued to the flickering TV screen where some reality show played.
"Hey," Lucille murmured without looking up. David grunted his acknowledgment.
George slipped quietly to the fridge and pulled out a sports drink, the cool condensation beading on the bottle. I paused by Macey’s door and knocked softly, but the blaring pop music drowned out my voice.
"Hey, Macey," I called, hoping she’d hear. Silence answered.
Must be too loud in there, I thought, suppressing the pang of loneliness that crept along the edges of my chest.
I smiled faintly and moved to my own cramped room, wedged awkwardly between the kitchen and the laundry nook. The washing machine and dishwasher stood sentinel by my futon, making the small space feel more like a storage closet than a sanctuary. Borrowing a chair from the kitchen, I settled at the countertop that doubled as my desk, placing my bag atop a box of clothes.
Then I carried the cake out to the breakfast bar, letting my grin widen.
"I brought cake," I announced, trying to ignite a spark of celebration in the air.
Lucille lifted her head, strands of pale hair falling across her weary face. She looked tired, the kind of tired that settled deep into your bones after a long day of working too hard. David glanced over as well, stretching his arms before lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
"What’s the occasion?" David asked, arching a brow.
I flushed a little, the words catching in my throat. "I mentioned I’d pick up a cake for my birthday yesterday..."
"Oh," Lucille said, exhaling with a tired sigh as she pushed herself up in the silk robe she’d worn all day.
David shook his head, tugging down the too-tight vest that strained against his stomach. "I'll take chocolate next time," he grumbled, eyeing the red velvet with a hint of distaste.
"Red velvet this time," I replied, smiling.
"Hmph," he muttered, but said no more.
"Macey, come get cake," Mom called, her voice warm but tired.
A groan answered before the door to Macey’s room swung open. She stood there, still in her high school uniform, her soft brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. I admired her hair—it was lighter than mine, but somehow it made us seem like sisters when we were out in public.
"Do we have to sing?" she groaned, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"No, no," I chuckled. "Just come eat."
I gathered plates and a knife, ready to slice into the cake. But before I could, George stopped me with a quiet "Wait."
George’s voice was rare and deliberate, and all eyes turned to him. His messy hair fell forward, shadowing his intense gaze. His broad chest and steady presence always made him hard to ignore, even when he said little.
"There’s a candle," he said, fishing a lighter from his pocket. I watched as he flicked it to life and touched the tiny flame to the single yellow candle perched atop the cake.
He looked at me steadily, his dark eyes unblinking. "Blow it out."
Any lingering tension in my chest softened, replaced by a warmth I hadn’t realized I needed. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
I wished quietly, with all the hope I could muster: for health and happiness for my family.
The small flame flickered and died under my breath. A few scattered claps sounded, and my smile blossomed wide as I began handing out slices.
"Shouldn't we all give gifts?" George asked suddenly, his tone carrying weight despite its casualness.
My cheeks flushed. "No, no, it’s not necessary—"
"Of course everyone got something for you," George interrupted, his voice firm. "You never forget a birthday." He glanced around the room and nodded knowingly. "Right?"
Without waiting for an answer, he retreated to his room and returned with a small package wrapped in newspaper and tied with a blue ribbon.
"Tch," Macey said, soon producing her own gift from her room.
Lucille and David exchanged looks, their faces a mix of confusion and curiosity.
My fingers trembled as I peeled back the newspaper from George’s gift. He rarely lingered at home, his days filled with classes and baseball practice, and his words were few, but his effort shone through in that simple wrapping.
A plush rabbit emerged—creamy-colored, with long floppy ears and glossy black eyes that seemed to hold a quiet kindness. I hugged it close, the softness a balm against the storm in my mind.
"Thank you, George," I said, wrapping my arms around my stepbrother.
He stiffened briefly before pulling away, but the brief connection was enough to thaw the coldness I’d felt between us.
A strange prickling sensation bubbled behind my eyes, but I didn’t fight the smile that spread across my face.
Next, I turned to Macey. She held out an old white and gold pen.
"I didn’t have time to wrap it," she said, biting her lip.
"It’s perfect," I told her, pulling her into a hug.
Examining the pen more closely, I recognized it from years past—Macey’s cherished writing tool. If she’d kept it all this time, it must mean a lot.
"I’ll be taking a ton of notes at uni, so this is exactly what I need," I promised.
"Yeah, but the ink’s dried up, so you’ll have to refill it," Macey said with a smirk.
"First thing tomorrow after class," I replied.
We exchanged quiet smiles before turning toward our parents.
Lucille sighed deeply, fishing a folded twenty-dollar bill from her worn wallet.
"Use this for your textbooks," she said softly.
I accepted the money gratefully, fingers tightening around the bills. Despite having already bought my books, the gesture meant everything—a reminder of her sacrifices and care.
David laid a pack of cigarettes on the table next.
"You smoke, right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shook my head sheepishly. "No, sorry."
The room fell into a gentle silence, the weight of unspoken worries pressing softly between us. Yet in this fragile moment, surrounded by faded walls and tired faces, I felt a flicker of something like peace.
The day outside was darkening, the shadows lengthening, but for now, in this small space, we were together—imperfect, weary, but still holding on.