You Ignored My Birthday So I Erased Myself From The Family novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Room Upstairs

A diner back door, a plate of food and a slice of pie with one candle, until her mother's voicemail threatens to call her a thief.

I walked for almost three hours with nowhere to go.

My phone said it was nine fifty-two.

My feet had decided where to take me before my head caught up.

The Maple Street Diner sat at the corner of Maple and Third, with its sign half lit and its parking lot empty.

I worked there Saturdays and two weeknights, flipping eggs and refilling coffee.

It was the only place in town where anyone ever asked if I had eaten.

I went around to the back door and knocked.

Noah Bledsoe opened it with a dish towel over his shoulder and a spatula in his hand.

He was twenty, tall, and always looked like he had slept four hours.

He looked at my face, then at the empty street behind me.

"You're not on the schedule," he said.

"I know."

"You look like you walked a long way."

"I did."

"Come in," he said. "Mind the mop."

The kitchen smelled like onions and bleach.

He put me on a stool by the flat-top and set a plate in front of me without asking.

Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans.

I stared at it.

"I cooked a whole roast today," I said. "I never ate any of it."

"That sounds like a crime."

"It was a family dinner."

"Same thing," Noah said.

He leaned against the counter and waited.

He did not ask me anything.

I ate half the plate before I said, "I turned eighteen today."

His hands stopped.

"Today? Saturday?"

"Yes."

"The fourteenth." He said it slowly, like he was checking it.

"You told me last year. You said nobody cared."

"You remembered that?"

"You said it while you were crying over onions. It stuck."

I laughed, and the laugh broke in the middle.

"They didn't say a word, Noah. Not one of them. Mom said it was just a birthday."

"Where were you eating?"

"At the table. I made the whole dinner."

He went very still.

Then he pushed off the counter, walked to the walk-in and came back with a slice of coconut cream pie.

He found a short birthday candle in the junk drawer, the kind with a twisty stripe.

He stuck it in the pie and lit it with the grill lighter.

"Make a wish," he said.

"It's a slice of pie."

"It's a birthday pie. Wish."

I looked at the little flame.

I wished I had never learned to iron.

I blew it out.

"What did you wish?" he asked.

"You're not supposed to say."

"Okay." He pulled a fork from the drawer for himself. "Happy birthday, Chloe."

It was the first time anyone had said it all day.

My throat closed up, and I had to look at the ceiling.

Noah did not tell me it was okay.

He just ate pie next to me and let the grill hum.

Then his mother came through the swinging door in her coat, with her keys in her fist.

She owned the diner and had run it for twenty-two years.

She took one look at the two of us, the plate and the pie with its burned-out candle.

"What happened?" she said.

"Her family forgot her birthday," Noah said.

"Her family forgot her birthday," his mother repeated, and her mouth went flat.

"I walked out," I said. "I don't have anywhere to sleep."

"Yes, you do."

She said it so fast I thought I had heard wrong.

"There's the room upstairs," she said. "It has a bed and a hot plate."

"You work the grill with Noah on weeknights for the rent. We'll talk about the rest tomorrow."

"I can't take that."

"You're not taking it. You're working for it. Go up and lock the door behind you."

She handed me a key.

It was a plain brass key on a plain paper tag.

I held it for a while.

It was the first key anyone had given me that was not someone else's house.

The room had a narrow bed, a window over the alley and a lamp with a yellow shade.

It smelled like fryer oil, and I thought it was perfect.

I sat on the bed with my phone and fourteen messages.

Mom had written, "Where are you? Don't be dramatic."

Chase had written, "lol she really left."

Dad had written only, "Call your mother."

I opened the family group chat.

It was called "Carroway Pack," and Mom had named it, with a paw print.

I tapped Leave.

A grey line appeared in the middle of the chat: "Chloe left the conversation."

I shut off location sharing next.

I turned off the shared calendar and the shared photos.

Each one took one tap, and I was surprised how fast it went.

Six years of my life, and it took four minutes to step out of it.

The phone buzzed in my hand.

Mom was calling again.

I let it go to voicemail.

A moment later the voicemail icon lit up.

I pressed play and held the phone away from my ear.

Mom's voice came out bright and light, the voice she used for church.

"Chloe, honey. Enough now. Penelope has no practice dress for Monday, and you always iron it."

A pause.

"If you aren't home by morning to take care of it, I'll tell Grandma you've been stealing from the skating fund."

Another pause, and the smile stayed in her voice.

"Think about that, sweetheart."

The message ended.

I sat in the yellow light and read the date on my phone.

It was still my birthday.

It was still my birthday for another hour.

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