It takes me a minute to feel comfortable in the firing stance, but when he gives me the directions again, I pull my finger against the metal and the shot rings out loud and clear against the empty space.

I shoot the gun again and again, feeling an exhilarating rush every time, and before I know it, the gun is only making a weak clicking noise. It’s out of bullets.

I turn around and notice him on the verge of laughter.

“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Would you like to shoot some more?”

“I would. How long do we have here?”

“All night.” He picks up another gun and kisses me. “This time, try not to shoot all of the bullets into the floor...”

Chapter 28

MIA

I’m staring at the balance in my savings account and calculating how much more I’ll need to save to get a place of my own. When I enter the digits into the calculator, I shake my head at the number that appears onscreen.

I need to hold off doing this math for at least another six months...

Putting the calculator away, I check the time and notice it’s way past closing time at the gallery. I quickly walk over to the windows and pull down the shades, remembering that I’ll be the only one here for the rest of the month.

Michelle has been so impressed with my work lately, that she’s decided to finally make use of her vacation time. She’s allowed me to interview new artists, add my own critiques of our evergreen pieces to our website, and last week, she made me cry by hanging one of my works upstairs.

Granted, it’s just a small quarter-sized canvas, but it means the world to have my name and work next to the established artists. What’s more, is that every guest I’ve given a tour to over the past few days has shown interest in my piece; I’ve had to pretend to treat it just like the others, to not get too excited when they ask if we’ll be adding more of “that artist’s” work to our collection.

Smiling at the memories, I re-stack our pamphlets and feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Dean.

DEAN: I have to work a few hours of overtime today. Rain-check on dinner? Can we do it tomorrow?

MIA: Of course. :-)

I’m somewhat relieved that he’s cancelling, because I’m pretty sure that he has my heart again and I don’t want him to think that what we have will continue, if we don’t at least talk. I figure if I cancel on him tomorrow, that’ll give me two full days to think about us, to figure out a good way to start that conversation.

As much as I’ve enjoyed our endless dates and the way our bodies seamlessly mold together after all these years, it’s time to be adults. It’s time to face whatever it was that tore us apart.

I quickly lock up the keys to the gallery and decide to take my time getting home. I aimlessly drift down the freshly-wet streets, veering down alleys for no reason at all. I slip onto the highway, driving past ten exits, in deep thought before realizing that if I go any further, I’ll be in Seattle.

I make an illegal U-turn behind an underpass and finally head home, speeding all the way, silently laughing at the thought of him pulling me over again.

When I step onto the elevator at the condo, I promise myself that I will not go to sleep without writing my feelings down, that I will let out every feeling, without fear of holding back. And if it comes down to it, if both of us continue to tiptoe around our past’s shadows, I’ll force them all into the light with my letter. I will at least make him read the letter.

Unlocking the door, I step inside and immediately drop my bag to the floor.

Dean is not at work.

He’s here.

Standing in front of me and looking as if he’s been waiting for me to get home.

“Where have you been?” He grabs my hand and pulls me close.

“I went for a drive...” I look behind him and notice that there’s some odd light coming from the balcony. “I thought you said you were working over-time tonight.”

“On your birthday?” He raises his eyebrow. “You really believed that?”

“Yes.” I swallow. I told him last week that I didn’t want to celebrate it, and I was sure I didn’t need to explain why. In ten years, the memory of how he dismissed me on my birthday at the end of senior year, still cuts deep, and foolish heart or not, I still remembered that day like it was yesterday.

“You shouldn’t have.” He walks past me and shuts the door, locking it. “Come here.” He clasps my hand and leads me out onto the balcony and I see exactly what that strange aura is.

Birthday candles.

They’re the tall, takes-more-than-one-blow-to-get-them kind, and they’re sitting in the center of a beautiful blue and white cake. The words “Happy Birthday” are written in a pretty cursive on the cake’s center, and below that, in very small print are the words, “Let me make that night up to you...—Love, Dean”

“Dean...” There are tears welling in my eyes as I shake my head. “Dean, I can’t. I said that—”

“That you didn’t want to celebrate it because I fucked it up that day, and I know that.” He wipes away my tears with his fingertips. “Let me at least make that day up to you. Please.”

I consider demanding that we talk right now, that he can make it up to me by explaining why the hell he did what he did, but I decide to enjoy the moment. I give him a look that says, “okay” and he pulls out a chair for me.

Sitting down, I notice that there’s a stark white envelope with my name on it, but there’s a note in all-bold: DON’T OPEN UNTIL...

“Until what?” I ask him, holding up the envelope.

“Until we get on each other’s nerves again.” He smiles. “It’s just a list of reminders as to why you should get over yourself.”

I laugh and tuck it into my purse. “I’ll be sure to never open it then.”

I notice that there are other cards on the table, another three from him, one from Eric with an “I’ll take you out tomorrow to celebrate, Aim :-)” note, and a penis-shaped one from Autumn. I reach over my plate to grab them, but Dean grabs my wrist.

“I think you should blow out the candles, first,” he says. “I don’t think I can re-light them anymore.”

“Right.” I lean forward and blow them out repeatedly, until the last candle is done playing the “can’t put me out” trick.

As Dean uncorks a bottle of wine, I count the candles.

“Do you know how old I am?” I ask.

“Twenty-eight.” He sets a full glass in front of me. “Why?”

“There are only eleven candles.”

His eyes meet mine and he’s silent for a while. “One for every year I’ve missed, plus the one I didn’t get a chance to celebrate with you in high school.”

I can’t prevent the tears from falling down my face if I tried, and he’s at my side wiping them away, before I get the chance to.

“Happy Birthday, Mia.” He kisses my lips through more of my tears, and I immediately decide that nothing else matters tonight but this. Us.

The talk about the past can wait until later.

Much later...

Chapter 29

MIA

A few weeks later...

The soft sound of waves crashing against the coast is the only thing that can be heard this late at night at Portland’s waterfront. There are no straggling tourists on this side of the pier, no lovers sneaking away to make love behind the numerous rocks. It’s just me and Dean walking underneath a dark night sky that seems to be cluttered with one too many stars.

We’ve been walking in silence for the past hour, and most of our recent dates have been more on the quiet, reflective side than our usual upbeat and sarcasm-filled type. As a matter of fact, this is our third trip to the waterfront in a row this week, and just like the two times before, we haven’t said much to each other.