Page 12 of The Birthday Girl
She imagined the papers the next morning: “Tragedy at Belvedere Banquet Hall.” There would be a photo of her family, eyes closed, faces serene, not a single one of them asking her for shit, ever again.
That was the fantasy.
The Aston’s clock blinked through a full hour, then another half, and Tahlia sat there, parked beneath the jaundiced floodlights on the edge of the banquet hall lot until her pulse slowed to a manageable throb. For a while, she watched the front doors and the constant churn of bodies. Relatives staggered out for a smoke, an old man pissed against the curb, and a cousin in a cheap suit chased his toddler down the sidewalk, and not a single soul glanced her way.
At some point, the sky bled toward indigo, and the party inside reached critical noise. She could hear the bass shudder even with her windows up. Tahlia let her head fall back against the seat, her hair pooling over the headrest, and scrolled through her phone, unfortunately reminding herself that she no longer had Tyriq.
As if conjuring him up with her thoughts, his Porsche Macan came gliding across the lot, headlights off, the matte black finish catching only the sickly yellow of the lamps. The Porsche rolled to a stop three slots down from her, and for a long moment, nothing happened. Then, like a snake uncurling from a burrow, Tyriq unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. He wasn’t alone. Darrius, his close friend from college, exited the truck right after him.
“What the fuck are they doing here?” Tahlia whispered as Tyriq's unmistakable silhouette reached inside his trunk, his eyes sweeping the parking lot.
Neither man seemed to notice the Aston Martin idling just beyond the security lamps. They moved with the carelessness of people who had always assumed they were being observed, but never by someone who could do them harm.
Tyriq, dressed in a dark suit with a purple tie still knotted from a workday he had left hours ago, began unloading baby gifts. Out came monogrammed diaper bags, baskets wrapped in cellophane and curly ribbon, and a box so large that Tahlia guessed it held a $400 infant swing. Next came a shrink-wrapped car seat, an Apple-white diaper genie, glossy bags from Hermès and Gucci, and a baby monitor system that looked advanced enough to hack the Pentagon.
Unable to carry everything themselves, Tyriq waved a cousin over and gave brisk instructions on what to grab. Then, balancing the baby’s carrier on his forearm like a football, he surveyed the haul with a boyish pride that made Tahlia’s lip curl. He and Darrius gathered the remaining gifts, stacking them between their arms as they laughed at some joke she couldn’t hear. Darrius leaned in with another remark, and Tyriq’s smirk widened as he reached for the door.
Her mind kept circling back to her mother. That phone call, the sigh, the way Tisha had sounded almost relieved when Tahlia said she wouldn’t be there. At the time, it had stung vaguely, but now, parked outside and staring at the double doors, the memory gave her clarity. That wasn’t relief for Tisha. It was for Danielle, and whatever secret her family had chosen to keep.
Nothing should come as a surprise. Danielle had always been envious. It was stitched into her bones, the same way ambition was stitched into Tahlia’s. She was jealous of her clothes, her success, and the way men turned their heads when Tahlia walked into a room. She had watched her sister simmer under it, year after year, laughing too loud at her mistakes, and clappingtoo hard when she fell, always waiting for proof that Tahlia wasn’t as untouchable as she seemed.
And now Tyriq.
Tahlia had never believed he was capable of crawling so low. Despite his arrogance and betrayals, she still believed there were lines he wouldn’t cross. But Danielle? Danielle was a different story. She put nothing past her. Danielle had always wanted everything she had, regardless of its nature.
“Nah.” Tahlia shook her head, her voice trembling as she spoke. “Not him—not them. Unless Darrius—” The thought died on her lips as certainty settled in her chest. Darrius was just the wingman tonight.
4- Bubbly Massacre
Tahlia waited until it swung shut behind them before she cut the engine. The sudden silence inside her car was suffocating. She gripped the door handle, inhaled once, twice, then pushed it open. When she stepped out, her knees almost buckled, but she locked them back, took another deep breath, and headed for the hall, her heels striking the pavement with a vengeance that mirrored the butterflies violently fluttering around in her stomach.
A minute later, Tahlia slipped back into the hall, moving along the shadows until she found the cover of a column near the refreshment tables. The bass rattled the floor beneath her feet. Balloons bobbed in the draft each time someone opened the doors. Conversations blurred into a thick wall of noise, yet somehow Tyriq’s voice carved itself out of the air and drilled into her skull.
Tyriq cradled Danielle's baby against his chest, one hand supporting the tiny head with tenderness. Tahlia's throatconstricted as his thumb traced circles on the infant's arm, the same slow, deliberate pattern he used to draw on her bare shoulder on most mornings. When he bent to kiss the baby's forehead, his lips lingered exactly three seconds, just as they had when he'd pressed them to her collarbone and promised forever in a whisper that had once made her skin prickle with goosebumps.
“Look at this little angel,” Tyriq said, rocking the infant gently. His grin spread wide, exposing even his back teeth. “Your uncle’s got you. Don’t you worry.”
Tahlia’s stomach clenched. Uncle. She couldn’t buy that for a minute. The word had hit her straight in the chest, a dagger polished with deceit.
Danielle giggled girlishly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning so close to Tyriq that her shoulder brushed his bicep. “Look at her wittle smile. She already loves you, Ty.”
Her pupils dilated when he glanced up at her, the same way they had when he looked at her at Tahlia's twenty-ninth birthday dinner, and at their mother's retirement party last spring.
Danielle's fingers lingered on the baby blanket, inches from where Tyriq's hand rested, and Tahlia’s heart thudded painfully, each beat louder than the bass. All she could think about was how weeks had gone by without a single call from him. He hadn’t checked if she was alive, and hadn’t sent a word of apology, but there he was, after demanding entrance to her home and begging for forgiveness, cradling her niece, her sister’s child, like she was his.
Tahlia's jaw clenched so tight a nerve jumped beneath her skin. Her fingers twitched against the linen tablecloth, and the champagne bottle made barely a sound as she lifted it— another gift they'd taken for granted. The glass kissed her palm with condensation, its weight substantial and promising as she took a step forward. Each step brought her closer to her sister, beaminglike a fool, and her ex performing for the room while her family lapped it up as if the last three decades of her sacrifices didn’t exist.
Closer now, Tahlia moved through the crowd with the stealth of someone who had been on covert missions. No one noticed her slipping forward, the champagne bottle glinting low at her side.
Tyriq kissed the baby’s forehead again, his voice syrup smooth. “You’ve got the best mama in the world, and an uncle who’ll always be right here.”
The room laughed and cooed in approval. Danielle’s face glowed, her arm brushing his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tahlia’s vision tunneled, the music faded, and the lights blurred as her breaths became shallow.
She had thought the heartbreak of being stood up by her family was unbearable. She had thought the humiliation of Tyriq’s betrayal online was the worst she could endure. But this—watching the man who once vowed forever to her, stand beside her sister as though he belonged there, was the true devastation. Her grip on the champagne bottle tightened until her knuckles blanched.
It was Danielle who saw her first, lips slack in a smile that froze as she clocked the arctic look in Tahlia’s eyes. For a blink, the entire party pivoted on the axis of Tahlia’s approach, every aunt, cousin, and childhood enemy sensing the charge in the air, their laughter tripping over itself and falling quiet. Tyriq alone seemed oblivious, hypnotized by the warm, milky scent of the newborn in his arms.
Tahlia stopped a foot away, the bottle dangling from her hand. Her gaze drifted over Danielle’s face, slick with foundation and highlighter, then slid down to the baby, swaddled in pink cashmere, a wrinkly raisin with her sister’s full lips and a squint in her brow that reminded Tahlia, with a chill, of herself.
