Page 8 of Good For Me

Birthdays were always a special thing when I was little—my grandfather didn’t make a fuss about much, but my birthday was always a big deal. He would wake me up with ice cream for breakfast and presents then take me out to dinner wherever I wanted—which might not seem like much, but for a guy who owned a diner, taking off both the breakfast and dinner shift in the same day was huge.

All of that had changed, of course. I told myself it didn’t matter, that Kurt’s insistence on that symphony last year shouldn’t have bothered me more than any other day. But sitting here now, looking at River’s determined, insistent stare, it all suddenly seems so much more important.

For two years I’ve been trying to convince myself that everything is okay. That I was happy with a man who didn’t seem to respect me very much, and whose company I wasn’t all that fond of, because he was safe. Because he was steady and stable and those were all the things my grandfather had wanted for me.

I convinced myself that passion and excitement were the things that used to get me into trouble and thus were better left avoided. I convinced myself that all-encompassing love had only ever hurt me, and forced myself to settle for the staid companionship I found in Kurt. Kurt was safe. Kurt wouldn’t break my heart.

Well look at how that had turned out.

“You know what I miss?” I ask River. He merely waits, intense blue eyes locked on my face, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room. “I miss dancing.”

He nods, like that’s a completely normal thing for a twenty-three-year-old in a business suit to say. “Dancing is the shit,” he agrees solemnly.

That tickles my funny bone and suddenly I’m laughing. Like really laughing—head thrown back, unattractive snorts escaping, tears-stinging-my-eyes laughing.

Maybe I’ve already had too much to drink.

But River doesn’t agree, because he pushes the punch bowl across the table towards me before standing, my laptop and the receipt envelope in his hand. “I’m going to go lock this in the safe,” he tells me. “And then you and I are getting out of here.”

I blink up at him. “Aren’t you working?”

“Kim owes me one,” he says. Then he points at me. “You stay right there and finish your drink. I’ll be back.”

I shouldn’t listen. I should drag my ass back upstairs and go to bed. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning and then I can tackle these receipts before starting on the hundred other tasks that need to get done this weekend. I should be responsible. Like I always am.

But God, I don’t want to. I’m sick of being responsible. I’ve spent the last two years attempting responsible and I’m so damn tired of being bored. I want to go out. I want todosomething. I want to dance with a boy with pretty blue eyes and forget every shit thing that happened today. Hell, I want to forget every shit thing that happened for the last two years. Ever since my uncle called to tell me my grandfather had a massive heart attack and nothing in my world would ever be the same.

So when River returns a few minutes later, wearing that bright, hopeful smile, I decide to throw caution to the wind. I grab my purse and stand to face him. “So. Where are you taking me?”