Page 52 of Dallas

“Right now?” I ask.

“Yeah, you better go have it,” Colt says, releasing his hold on me, his expression wary. “I don’t want to have a bar fight.”

I feel dizzy, that drink hit me harder than I realized, and I’m not mad about it. Because I feel great. Genuinely so good. Except now I’m a little mad at Dallas. But I sit down at the table, and he pushes the cake over to me. His expressionis sullen, and I don’t think I’ve done anything to earn that.

He takes two candles out of a bag and puts them on top. A two and a one. I’m momentarily mollified by this gesture. He lights the candles with that same flat expression.

“Sing,” he says.

They all do, but everyone is now stressed out by his behavior, and so am I. Because he’s not enjoying himself, that much is certain.

He cuts the cake, and scoops a large, pink piece onto a plate for me.

“It’s strawberry,” he says.

“And God dammit I’m gonna like it,” I say, mimicking his tone. Because I’m kind of over it.

He’s being a grump, and I don’t know why, and yes, the cake is a nice gesture, and the candles were lovely, but he’s pouting, maybe because I’m not paying attention to him? And that feels childish.

“I’ll eat the piece of cake in a minute, come and dance with me, Colt?”

“Sure,” he says.

“I have a present for you,” Dallas says, taking the small box and handing it to me. I’m standing there, holding Colt’s hand, mid-step toward the dance floor, and Colt is thrusting that pink ribboned box at me like it’s got a bug in it.

“Oh. Do you?”

“Open it,” he says.

“Open it…” And that’s when I lose my temper. It could be the alcohol. Because I just feel weird. Loose, reckless, a lot more distilled to my essence than normal. Normally, I would be anxious. Normally, I would be thinking everything through, turning it over, examining it from every angle.

I would be panicking over Colt’s hand being in mine, and I would be bothered that I had upset Dallas.

But I’m not thinking anything through, I’m just feeling, and that seems fair. Because itismy birthday. I suddenly remember that song about it beingmyparty, so I can cry if I want.

I don’t want to cry.

I want to yell.

I let go of Colt, snatch the gift, then grab Dallas by the hand. “Outside,” I grumble, dragging him out the back of the saloon into the street. The door slams shut behind us, and we are left out in the muggy, overly hot evening.

The sun has gone down, but the atmosphere has retained all the warmth like an oven that hasn’t quite cooled yet. It’s baked into the brick of the building, radiating around us, but it’s not as hot as my temper.

“What is the matter with you?” I ask, waving the present at him.

“With me? You’re drunk, and you’re off dancing with Colt. He should know better.”

“He should? What does he have to do with anything? I chose to dance with him.”

“You’re drunk,” he says. “Do I really need to explain to you how consent works?”

Rage floods me. “Oh. Fuck you. I amwell awareof how it all works, thank you. I am a woman, walking in the world, a woman who has been severely traumatized by men and their appetites, and I don’t need your concern to pop up at my twenty first birthday party, you absolute dick.”

“Sarah–”

He feels bad now, I can see it in his face. I know he wishes he hadn’t said that. That he regrets it. I don’t care.I’m going to make him regret it harder. Because how dare he?

“Don’t you know that I’ve been living by myself for years? That I’ve been taking care of myself. I’ve been isolated and sad, but I’ve been safe. And tonight, with you in there, dancing with your friend, you know that I’m safe. You don’t have to ruin it. Because you’re…”

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