6
Nash
Toward the end of my junior year, when the next February rolled around, Aya sent me a message: Happy birthday!
It’s tomorrow, I typed back.
I’d been wallowing in my room, frustrated that Cam had a gig and Aya remained impossible to get a hold of. I slammed my head back against the beanbag and shut my eyes, remembering what birthdays used to look like: huge cakes with sparkling candles, streamers, balloons, and laughter.
I missed the laughter.
I missed my mom, and the hurt inside me grew because my father hadn’t bothered to suggest we hang out on the deck—our birthday tradition.
Just then he stuck his head into my room. “You got a song for me?” he asked, as he had each of the last few times I’d seen him.
I swallowed the ache building in my chest, the weight of the anxiety pressing against my lungs. “No.”
He glared. “What are you doing?”
“Going to school, and—” And tomorrow’s my birthday.
“I hear you banging around on your instruments. Look, I need a hit. If we don’t finish this album, we’ll have to postpone the tour again. And that’s not going to make the label happy.”
I bit my lip, ducking my head. Besides the song I’d helped Cam with more than a year ago, I hadn’t heard much in the way of music. I’d looked it up and learned that grief and stress could impact my ability to focus. But I hadn’t mentioned the issue to anyone, shame building hard and hot each time my dad didn’t come home.
It was almost as if he only cared about my ability to compose music.
My phone chimed, and I sighed out a breath, thankful for the distraction.
Of course I remember. You’re about to be seventeen! Aya wrote.
“Are you even listening to me?” my father asked, stepping into the room.
I tensed, his tone as dark as his expression.
“Yeah. I just…”
“Get your head out of your ass, Nash. This, the music, is important. It’s what pays for your cushy life.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say. Steve appeared in the doorway.
“Your car’s out front, Mr. Porter.”
“Fine. Great.” Dad turned back to focus on me. “Remember what I said. You need to bring something to the studio on Friday.”
Friday? I had school.
Steve frowned too, his gaze remaining on my dad a moment longer than left any of us comfortable.
Dad stormed out of the room.
“What was that?” I asked.
Steve scowled. “I believe your father’s feeling some pressure. From the studio.”
“But…why?”
Steve shook his head.
Nash? Did you get my text? Happy 17th birthday!
Aya’s text pulled me out of the dark place. Right. Focus.
“You okay, son?” Steve asked.
I nodded, unsure what else to say or do, so I refocused on my phone.
Just remember I’m older, I typed, smiling.
By ten whole days.
I could feel the sarcasm vibrating off her message, which caused my smile to grow.
I’m older, and I saved your life.
Yes, yes, my knight in shining armor. A king among men. Blah, blah, blah.
I barked out a laugh. She actually wrote blah blah blah. This girl. She had a fantastic sense of humor.
The next day passed as the previous ones had. I made it through the school day—chatted up by a ton of kids and not interested in any of them. I wished Aya was here, with me. I wished my mother would come home. I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone. Again.
So, I was more than a bit relieved to receive a text from Aya late that afternoon. It had to be really early in Nepal, and the fact that she’d woken up and climbed the side of the mountain, for me, made me smile.
Got any plans for the big b-day? she asked.
Not really.
But I knew Aya had already surmised as much, which was why she’d made the climb two days in a row. Warmth spread through my chest. This girl—this girl I hadn’t even seen since we were five, meant more to me than just about anyone in my life.
You know what I want, more than anything? Aya wrote.
No idea.
Cats. Well, kittens. I want a bunch of sweet furry babies to cuddle.
I wouldn’t mind a sweet little furball to snuggle with either. Something to love me, to keep me company when my parents weren’t here.
Yeah, I’d be down with a kitten, I wrote.
Aya sent a smiley face with heart eyes, making my insides warm. Jeez. I should stop talking to her, but before I set down my phone, another text popped up.
I wanted to ask my mum for one now that we’re moving back to ‘civilization’, but, from what you’ve told me, I should ask for a car.
Wait, what?? You’re really coming back this time?
That’s what she said.
She’s said that before, I wrote.
She seems serious.
Well, then cars are important to teenagers here.
No one here drives.
That’s weird.
She sent a shrug emoji.
Tell you what, I’ll teach you to drive and get you a cat one day.
And I’ll get you one. We’ll have twin cats.
We continued to text, and my mood improved even more.
Who cared that my dad was pissed at me? Who cared that he’d probably bang another groupie, causing my mother to party harder in an effort to show she didn’t care? Who cared that my mother had been spotted by the paparazzi two hours ago in a posh club off Sunset in LA, sucking down lemon drop martinis like they were water instead of coming home to spend my birthday with me?
I had Aya, and she cared about me.
“Nash!”
I startled out of the version of “Nantucket Sleigh Ride” that included a full orchestra backing up the sweet seventies guitar licks.
I blinked, shocked to find my room dark. How long had I been in here? “Yeah?”
“You got a delivery,” Steve called.
I bounded down the stairs, smiling when I saw the balloons and cake box held in the delivery person’s arms.
“You Nash Porter?” the bored guy asked.
“Sure am.”
The delivery man shoved the box at me, followed by the balloons. “Enjoy.”
I set the cake box in the kitchen, pulling off the note.
Happy birthday, honey. We’ll celebrate when I get home. This project is wrapping up, and I’ll be back soon.
All my love,
Mom
I considered dumping the cake in the trash, but then I opened it. The icing looked rich and chocolatey, so I cut myself a thick slice. The inside was marbled chocolate and butterscotch—the same cake my mom used to order for me when I was little.
Steve walked in and settled in the seat across from me. He slid a large, rumpled package toward me. It appeared as much tape as wrapping paper, but the sight of it made me grin.
“For me?”
“Yeah.”
I set my fork down and tore into the paper. I gasped, my gaze flying to his. “You remembered?”
“You said it made a cool sound.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t like it…”
I rounded the table and nearly hugged him. At the last moment, I held out my fist, which he bumped with his. “I’ve always wanted a theremin,” I told him, “especially after hearing it on Jack White’s ‘Missing Pieces.’ This is epic.” I turned it over, grinning hard.