Chapter 5: Birthday Blues & Beer Bottles

July 16th—her birthday.

How did I know? Because that day she was like a broken record.

She kept muttering in the living room: "Today’s my birthday, please don’t make me work overtime. Today’s my birthday, please don’t make me work overtime."

I usually sleep well, but her chanting got on my nerves.

By the time I got up to tell her off, she’d already left.

She left in a hurry—her bedroom door wide open.

I didn’t go in, just peeked from the doorway and saw takeout containers on her desk.

Half a sandwich, half a cup of soup, two little boxes of salad—that was her dinner last night. The sight made me pause. Even in a dump like this, nobody should have to celebrate their birthday with leftovers and plastic forks.

On a whim, I went downstairs to buy groceries at the corner store.

Timed it so I’d be cooking when she got back from work. I cursed myself for being soft.

I didn’t have much, but I knew how to whip up a passable dinner. Chicken stir-fry, some roasted veggies, mac and cheese from a box—nothing fancy, but at least it was hot and homemade. I even picked up a tiny four-inch birthday cake from the bakery aisle, squished a little in the bag but still intact.

When she walked in,

There were four dishes and a soup on the living room table, and a tiny 4-inch cake in the corner. The table looked more festive than it had in months—a cheap birthday candle flickered by the cake, and I’d found an old playlist of happy songs on Spotify. I fumbled with the cheap lighter, nearly burning my thumb twice before finally getting the candle to light.

She looked stunned. "What, you have friends coming over tonight?"

I took off my apron. "Nope, just celebrating a silly girl’s birthday."

Rachel’s eyes lit up. "Ah! How did you know today’s my birthday?"

I put on a straight face. "Rachel, honestly, if you’d been any louder this morning, the whole building would know."

"Just happened to buy some beer. Let’s have a drink."

I nodded. "I can’t really hold my liquor. Let’s take it easy."

Six bottles of beer, three each. Neither of us felt a thing.

I went downstairs and bought six more. We started to get tipsy.

I looked at her. "Rachel, just tell me—how much can you actually drink?"

She got shy and weakly held up one finger.

"You sure? You can only drink one more?"

"Keep going."

Guys—especially ones from the Midwest—hate being outdrunk by a woman.

I’d claimed I couldn’t drink just so she wouldn’t feel pressured. But since she insisted, tonight it was going to be one standing, one lying down.

I went downstairs again, lugged up two cases—twenty-four bottles each.

After eating and drinking, we lit the candles, made a wish, ate cake, and burped a few times.

Somehow, we felt closer.

The walls between us seemed thinner, and for once the apartment felt warm—not just from the beer, but from the shared laughter and stories. We ended up swapping childhood tales and making up ridiculous wishes as we blew out the candle, our voices echoing through the stairwell.

"You know, you’re not much to look at, but you’ve got a good heart. Since my dad died, this is the first time anyone’s celebrated my birthday."

I nodded.

"You, little girl, pretty and with a nice figure, but why did you have to grow such a mouth?"

We each had two more bottles. With a bit of liquid courage, I finally asked what I’d been wondering.

"Judging by your looks, you must’ve grown up well-off. Why are you renting here?"

"My family used to be well-off, but my dad got sick. We spent everything trying to cure him, but it wasn’t enough. He passed away three months ago, so I came out to work."

Just a short sentence, but it carried all the bitterness in the world. Life is tough.

I wasn’t tactless enough to ask about her mom. Usually, if someone doesn’t mention their mother, it’s either a big family rift or she passed away early. Not my place to pry. I didn’t know what to say. The hum of the fridge filled the silence. I just handed her another slice of cake and let the silence stretch out, comfortable for once.