Page 52 of The Night Shift
My cursory glance turns into a full-blown glare. But fortunately for him, before I can give in to my homicidal urges, the song on the stereo changes. A block of ice in my chest cracks and the memory is immediate and equally intense.
“Happy birthday!” Aanya cries, barging into my dorm.
“Jesus Christ, keep it down,” I say as she rushes over to smother me with a messy, laughing, slightly tipsy hug that almost ends with us on the floor. “No one on my floor knows it's my birthday and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Why are you not ready yet?” she asks, ignoring my statement and refusing to let go. “We were supposed to be at the party half an hour ago. Nate has been texting me non-stop.”
“About that.”
“Noooo.” She pulls back, frowning. “Holly, you promised.”
“I know. But I’m really tired. Please don’t be mad.”
Aanya pouts.
“You should go,” I tell her. “Get really, really drunk and come back to me so that I can make fun of your hangover tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? I can stay with you if you’d like. We can make some popcorn and watch a scary movie?—”
“I’m sure.”I brush the hair away from her face. “Promise.”
She doesn’t seem convinced. She seems skeptical. Narrowed eyes, wrinkled brow, tense muscles. But then I kiss the tip of her nose, and she smiles.
I love her smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes your insides shimmer. Full of warmth and sunshine. Full of magic.
“Fine,” Aanya says. “But first I need to give you something.” She reaches into her pocket and takes out a tiny box wrapped in red paper, placing it in the palm of my hand.
I look at it like it’s a grenade. “What is this?”
“Your present.”
“...why?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she whispers, her thumb making gentle circular motions above my wrist, “but it’s my girlfriend’s birthday today.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Opennn it.”
Too tired to argue, I do as I’m told, immediately frowning as I uncover the present. “You got me a…flash drive?”
“No, I got you a Hello Kitty flash drive. Give me your laptop.”
“Why?”
“Holly!”
“Okay, okay, jeez.” I hand her my laptop, and she plugs the device in. There’s only one folder. It has my name on it. I click on it and it’s a never-ending list of audio files, each beginning with the words “Play Me When.”
I glance up. “Is this…did you make me a playlist?”
“I prefer the term mixtape, but yes. Do you like it?” Without waiting for my response, she scoots closer to me. “There’s like maybe twenty songs on it. But you can’t listen to them as you like. There’s a system in place. Rules need to be followed.”
“Of course.”
“For example,” she goes on, “the first one is called Play Me When Sad. Are you sad right now?”
“Surprisingly not.”
