Page 88 of Whistleblower

I growl at my stubborn, ancient VCR. Please, please. Just work.

The numerous converters I have to use to get my TV to hook up to the old-school VHS player make the floor by my entertainment center look like a snake pit. It’s a hassle, but I have no choice—the video is stuck inside the player. I’m lucky that it still plays and rewinds, but the thing hasn’t ejected for years. The VHS player stubbornly holds on to my most prized possession, knowing it has made itself completely irreplaceable. Clever bitch. I’ll have to keep the damn thing and all its accompanying cords, forever.

I curse myself for not converting the tape long ago. This message from my mother should be preserved on the air cloud, a backup drive, and maybe copied to a USB and stored in a top-secret safe. It’s by far the most valuable thing I own.

Flattening myself on my living room floor, I drop down to eye level with the VCR. I push open the video flap and send a final plea as I hit rewind on the player once more. There’s a feeble clicking sound, but the tape doesn’t budge.

“Fuck!” I howl.

Outside of my current technical difficulties, it’s really been a birthday for the books. My phone has been off all day, tucked into some corner of my bedroom. I have a rule about not using my phone on my birthday. It really wasn’t an issue for my twenty-ninth, but in the past, I’d spend my entire day crafting thank you messages to every single person and their mother who texted me a happy birthday GIF or left a funny birthday song on my voicemail. By the time I’d come up for air, my birthday was over, spent catering to everyone else but myself. Hence, my rule.

But last year it wasn’t necessary, which I’ll admit, sucked. No one texted, no one called. I spent the evening at the police station begging for an overnight detail after finding a threatening note on my car windshield. The police told me I was overreacting, but the note said—Stupid bitch, you better run, hide, or die. So, honestly, I was just following directions.

This year there are no menacing notes, just the loneliness. Which would feel a touch less lonely if this damn player would just…

“Do your job!” I growl as I get up. Doubling back, I run two fingers over the top of the player, petting it kindly and softening my tone. “I’m sorry, please don’t ruin my tape. Please. It’s all I have left of her.”

Knock, knock.

Ah, sustenance is here. I’m in my underwear and a very thin t-shirt with no bra, so I call through the door to the delivery person who is bringing my dinner, “Just leave it at the door, please!” Once they’re in the elevator, I’ll retrieve my Chinese food like a scavenger. It’s a perfect plan… Except they won’t stop knocking.

Ugh. What good is contactless delivery if they insist on contact? Maybe they need a signature on the receipt, or maybe they want to personally thank me for the forty-percent tip. Either way, I scurry to the bedroom and pull on a cotton robe that’s thick enough to cover my nipples.

Ripping open the door, I see my takeout food on the doormat, and my boyfriend with a thick bouquet of roses in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. His small smile widens into a teasing smirk when he sees me in a state of disarray.

“You’re back!” I chirp. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Clearly.” That smile… It still gives me the most delicious chills.

“You were gone for a while. Is everything okay?” I eye him up and down. Outside of the paper grocery bag and flowers in his arms, he looks much the same. He’s in a black suit, with no tie. The top button of his collared shirt is undone. The smell of his soap is stronger than normal, like he just showered.

“I was out of the state,” he says, avoiding any more detail. “I know you said you wanted to be alone on your birthday, so I won’t bother you, I just came by to drop this off.”

“What’s in the bag?” I glance at the brown paper grocery bag that’s damp at the bottom.

“The best gelato I could find at a Walmart—which is not great. Instant espresso. Various toppings.”

Holy shit. A man who surprises you on your birthday is a winner. But a man who listens to you and remembers the little details… I don’t stand a chance. I scoop up my takeout bag by the plastic handles before shaking my head at him. “Are you just perfect, then?”

He laughs. “You know about my more unsavory habits by now.”

“Right now, they don’t seem so bad.” I hold up the bag. “This is definitely enough food for two.”

“Bambi, are you inviting me to your private birthday party?”

“Unless you have plans?”

He plants a tender kiss on my lips, before squeezing by me through the door.

“I do now.”

* * *

I barely poked my dinner. After Linc’s arrival, I simply wasn’t that hungry… Except for dessert, of course. I watch Linc compose my birthday surprise at my meager kitchen island. After spending a couple of nights at his place, my entire apartment seems doll-sized.

“So, that’s it?” I ask, watching him pour the dark espresso over the scoops of chocolate gelato. He drops a few raspberries on the side and sprinkles shavings of dark chocolate on top.

“That’s it,” he responds, sliding the glass bowl over to me.

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