Page 100 of Every Thought Taken

Beside me, Anderson snickers. “A bit much.” He hugs my hand with his. “If I’m honest, I feel light-headed.” He rubs his temple. “Dizzy, for sure.”

Lessa playfully slaps his arm. “Shush, you.” She folds her arms over her chest. “No birthday parties for years… I have every right to do whatever I want. And dammit, we’re celebrating.” Her hands shift to her hips. “So, put on a party hat, prepare for a ton of delicious finger foods, a mountain of cake, and horrible party games.”

Anderson throws his head back and laughs. His joy is breathtaking. I watch him a second, then join in on the laughter.

Damn, that feels good.

“Only because you’re my sister.” Anderson nudges her arm with his elbow before his expression grows serious. “But next year and every year after”—he waves a finger around the room—“we aren’t doing this.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she huffs out in faux annoyance. “Whatever you say.”

Pop music pipes through the overhead speakers that typically play coffeehouse acoustic. Several conversations spark, the light chatter foreground to the music. Fried batter and a hint of spice float through the air, my stomach growling and mouth salivating for whatever August and Sharon have in the kitchen.

Anderson leans into my side, his lips at my ear and breath warm on my skin. “Is it just me, or does this feel reminiscent of our joint parties before puberty?”

I elbow his side. “Ander,” I admonish under my breath, then chuckle.

“What? You know I’m right.”

My eyes scan the room again. Bright colors highlight much of the space, which is so not us. Two sets of party plates sit neatly stacked on a table—one with hot pink fading into purple with a mermaid silhouette, the other with colorful dinosaurs on a white background. Matching napkins are next to the plates, of course. Mylar birthday balloons are tied to our respective chairs while latex balloons in every color decorate most of the room. Bottles of bubbles at each place setting while paper confetti litters the entire table.

And the games… my goodness. Pin the tail on the donkey and limbo. Jenga and bobbing for apples. Donuts tied to strings and dangling from a rigged pole above. But it’s the piñata that really grabs my attention.

“Yeah. I guess so.” Eyes wide, I spin and look up at him. “Let’s pray she and Braydon don’t have kids. At least, not anytime soon.”

Snorting laughter rips from his nose and throat. “Thankfully, she’s nowhere near ready for that step.”

Minutes later, August and Sharon join the crew with platters of food. Warm spinach and artichoke dip with fresh bread. Caprese skewers and crostini topped with sliced sausage, smoked salmon, and something creamy. Bite-size burgers and tacos. A Mezze platter packed with hummus, baba ghanoush, falafel bites, olives, cucumber slices, grape tomatoes, red and green grapes, cheeses, cut pita, toast points, and tzatziki.

“Wow,” I whisper as I take my seat. If we have food like this at every birthday party, it more than makes up for the childish themes.

Everyone pulls out a chair and takes a seat. Plates get circulated and drinks get poured as we ease into conversation once more. Stories of the past get shared alongside stories from our time apart. Everything in the moment feels carefree. Perfect. Normal.

Beneath the table, Anderson rests his hand on my thigh. He carries on a conversation with Braydon about whale watching on Orcas Island. As for me, I do my best not to stutter while talking shop with Mags and Lessa. Perspiration licks my skin, but not enough to be visible through my clothes.Thank goodness.

As if he senses my jitters, Anderson’s thumb slowly strokes my denim-clad thigh. Slow and steady and an instant balm to my frazzled nerves.

“So,” Lessa says. “How was the week off?”

“Ales,” Anderson chides. “Not now.”

She spears an olive and pops it into her mouth. “What?” she mumbles around the bite, then swallows. “It’s new. A little expected, but still new.”

I lay my hand over his, silently telling him I am here for him as he is for me. Then I turn my gaze to Lessa. “Not here.” My eyes widen in a wordless plea. “Later. With fewer people.”

Anderson flips his hand over and laces my fingers with his. “After the party”—he purses then relaxes his lips—“maybe we should talk.” His grip tightens and I know he wants to talk about more than our relationship. “Upstairs. The four of us.”

A ridge settles between Lessa’s brows as her forehead wrinkles in concern. With a subtle nod, she swallows. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll talk.”

Anderson opens his mouth to say something, but his entire body locks up. He squeezes my hand with such intensity it’s borderline painful. The muscles in his jaw tense up and his expression grows cold. I sandwich his hand between both of mine and try to ease whatever has him suddenly on edge. But he doesn’t relax.

I glance up, but his gaze is elsewhere. Locked in place, he stares past everyone at the table and out the front window of the coffee shop. I follow his line of sight and suck in a sharp breath when I see what has his attention.

On the other side of the glass, Mr. and Mrs. Everett stand idle on the sidewalk. He appears to nudge her to move forward, but she isn’t having it. No, Mrs. Everett’s eyes are on her son. After not seeing him for six years, she should have joyful tears in her eyes. Or perhaps woeful tears. She should want to storm through the door and wrap her arms around him and never let go. She should be apologizing profusely for all the hurt she caused over the years and begging for his forgiveness. Implore him to let her make things right.

But there isn’t an ounce of sadness or relief in her expression. Not a hint of remorse for the pain she inflicted on her baby. Instead, angry lines mar her face. Bitterness curls her upper lip. And her posture screams fury as Mr. Everett continues to try to pull her away.

I shiver as I watch their exchange. Her icy glare on him chilling me to the bone.

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