It's a good thing my actual birthday wasn't all that momentous.

Because the day after my birthday is an epic.

Starting with my 3:00 AM diversion which takes an unexpected turn, ending in the backseat of Bud's car. In my fantasy, the size fourteen thing is not a myth, by the way.

The cold shower I take in the morning does nothing to prevent my skin from turning on when Bud arrives for our DGLS briefing. His new hair is rumpled from sleep and I'm sorry, but that's hot as hell.

I'm late picking Marcus up because Joshua texts me while I'm driving, and when I pull over on the side of the road to read it, my tires get stuck in February thaw mud. And all the text says is:

Joshua: Hope you had a good day yesterday. Let me know when you want to get that tattoo.

I consider sending him the photo of me and Bud and stop myself because I'm worried it will make him jealous. Why would it make him jealous? And why do I care if it does?

Marcus is so happy to see me it breaks my heart into fifty pieces. I don't open my mouth the whole ride to my house (except to say thank you when he tells me my hair looks great) because I'm afraid I'll confess I'm taking Tom away from him after today's rendezvous.

Bud is waiting for us at the house--he should be headed to church by now--and I'm not prepared for another round of skin tingles I can't rub off (no pun intended). I also can't stop Marcus from seeing him. Tom wasn't kidding. Marcus is entranced by Bud's transformation. I drag Marcus away, reminding him that Tom is waiting, and then avoid eye contact with Bud for two minutes while he tells me what a good friend I am, that Tom and Marcus will understand, and the DGLS will find the two of them a new place to "make love". I shove him into his car and off to church. Because he can't just say the words "make love" to me. Not after everything that didn't actually happen between us in his car this morning.

I'm sitting in my car alone, thinking of dry toast and wet mops, when I get a text from Tom.

Tom: Your washing machine is overflowing. Need help.

What the hell is happening?

I hurry through the front door and stop short at the top of the basement stairs.

"Are you guys decent?" I ask into the darkness.

No answer.

I hulk growl and stomp down the stairs, hoping the sound of my arrival is enough to get their pants back on. I reach the bottom and swat at the wall until my hand finds the light switch.

"SURPRISE!"

I scream and nearly wet myself. When I uncover my eyes, I find everyone in my parents' basement, including my parents. My brother, who must have driven all night to get here, Joshua's parents, Joshua, NOT Ali, Kendall, Lilliana, Tom, Marcus, and Mr. Bressler, my art teacher.

The only person I don't see is Bud, and in between hugs and kisses and people touching my hair, I'm panicking. Did they not invite Bud to my surprise party? I don't want to sound ungrateful by asking where he is. It would be like getting a new car as a gift and then asking, "Okay cool, but where's my blond yacht?"

I make the rounds, making sure I give everyone ample time to love on me in whatever way is appropriate based on our relationship status.

Kendall assures me in private he's feeling good, and hoping his current MS remission lasts him through graduation. I'm hoping longer. Much longer.

Tom says he talked to my parents and thanked them. He and Marcus made the decision on their own to stop taking advantage of our hospitality. Marcus turns eighteen in April, and they're going to hold out for each other until then, when Tom thinks Marcus will be ready to stand up to his dad and leave home. I hope he's not setting himself up for disappointment.

Joshua is so happy to be here, it makes my heart feel good.

But it would feel better if I knew Bud was okay.

I excuse myself to the bathroom to send him a text--but I don't know what to send. If he doesn't know about the party, it will hurt his feelings if I say, "Hey, where are you? The party just started."

I stare at the picture of us on the home screen until my eyes go fuzzy. Then I jump at the buzz of an incoming text.

Bud: Surprised?

My heart pounds.

Dot: YES

Bud: 😊

Dot: Oh my God. BUD!!!!!!

Bud: Pancakes and haircuts wasn't the eighteenth birthday you deserved.

Dot: I loved pancakes and haircuts.

Bud: Well, go love your party. I worked my butt off getting those dummies organized.

Dot: When are you coming back?

Bud: I'm not. I'll just drop the bulletin for Marcus in your mailbox.

Dot: No. Come in. We'll still be here.

Bud: The rest of your present is in your room. I wasn't snooping. I had your brother deliver it.

Dot: Did he try to molest you?

Bud: He kissed me.

Dot: WHAT?!! I'll kill him!

Bud: I'm kidding.

Dot: Thank God.

Bud: But I told him he could tell you he did if he wanted to.

My heart is achy. I want him to come back and be with us.

Dot: I want you here. 

Bud: You have a really nice family, Dot. And good friends.

Dot: Come back.

Bud: Happy Birthday. Call me later when you open your present.

Dot: Please come back.

He doesn't respond.

I shake off the guilt, or whatever it is I'm wrestling with, and head back into my party. It's what Bud wants me to do. I let myself have fun and pretend I'm a grown up....

* * * * *

.... Until everyone has gone home. Then I scurry to my bedroom like an eight-year-old to open my present from Bud.

I jump onto my bed and retrieve the small package from my pillow. I open the card first. A stack of pancakes with googly eyes on the cover with the caption inside: "Hope your birthday is all it's stacked up to be." And Bud's message: "My favorite for my favorite. Call me. Love, Bud."

I twitter excitedly until he picks up.

"Did you open it?"

"Not yet. Should I now?"

"Wait. How did Josh react to your new look?"

I grin and hope he can hear it in my voice. "He dropped his soda and smacked his head on the pool table on his way down to clean it up. And again, on the way up."

"Yes. Thank you, Vincent."

"Thank you, Bud."

"Thank you, Dot's parents, for their hot hair genes."

"Ew."

He giggles. "Okay, open it now."

I tear off the wrapping paper to reveal the gift. It's a Blu-ray of the movie Dirty Dancing.

"Have you seen it?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"Put it on now. I'll watch with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it'll be fun. Give me a minute. My equipment is antiquated over here so I'll let you know when to press play on your end."

"I'm going to watch in the basement," I say.

I grab a pillow from my bed and whiz through the kitchen, signaling to my parents and Brent, sitting in the living room drinking coffee, that I'm headed downstairs to watch a movie.

They smile their approval and Brent winks at me. "Tell Bud thanks again."

I roll my eyes as I disappear down the basement stairs. Bud hums patiently in my ear.

Settled on the couch, I tell him I'm ready, and we press play, together.

It's like watching a movie with the commentary on. Bud has clearly seen Dirty Dancing hundreds of times and could probably recite the dialogue for each scene by heart.

He gets very excited about the dancing scenes. And really quiet during the love scenes.

We're enjoying a particularly intimate exchange between Johnny and Baby on screen when Bud breaks the silence. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure," I say.

"When you're fantasizing about Josh, do you ever think about things that aren't sexual. Like, do you ever think about just spending time with him? Having breakfast with him? Helping him pick out clothes? Stuff like that?"

The question hits me--hard--in the chest. I know why Bud is asking me this. He wants to know if I'm really in love with Joshua. Or if I just want to get him in the sack.

"I used to think about that stuff," I say. "But I try not to anymore."

He takes an audible breath.

"Why?"

"Because ... thinking that way just ... hurts more." I'm getting emotional. I'm not making any noise, but Bud can tell.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," he says. "I get it, Dot. I really do."

I'm trying to stifle my sad sounds, so I don't answer.

"Let's talk about something else, okay? This was stupid. I should mind my own business."

"It's okay," I manage to say. "You don't have to be sorry for wanting to know me better. I want you to know me better. So maybe ... I can, too."

He sighs. "Do you want to ask me a personal question? To even things out?"

"Oh, I definitely do," I say.

"Okay." He laughs. "Shoot."

"Have you ever been in love?"

He goes quiet. For a while.

I'm worried I've overstepped.

I love talking to Bud on the phone, but conversations like this should really happen in person.

"No," he says calmly.

"Why not?" I should hang up and drive over to his house. Or suggest we go out for pancakes and hash this out.

"I don't think people like me get to be in love."

His words crush me.

"Do you want me to come over?" I ask.

"What? Why?"

"Because you're too far away right now." 

"I'm right here."

"But I can't hug you," I say impatiently. "And that's the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life."

"It's not the saddest thing," he says.

"It is. What kind of person do you think you are that you don't deserve to be loved by somebody?"

"I don't expect you to understand, Dot. You're loveable. If you ever decide to move on from Josh, you'll have guys lined up around the block to love you."

"We're not talking about me anymore," I say. "Tell me why you think you're not loveable, so I can tell you it's total bullshit."

He sighs and makes me wait for a painfully long time before he come out with it.

"If you were like me," he says, "you'd have figured it out by now, too. When people see me, they see what they don't want. And if the way I look doesn't do it, it will be something I say, or something I do. It's like ... I'm marked for loneliness."

My eyes fill up with tears. "Bud," I say. "That's not true."

"Dot, I don't even care anymore," he says so unconvincingly I want to scream at him. "I've been me for a long time. I'm used to it. I've found other ways to be happy and get through my day. So, I don't get to fall in love. There are greater tragedies in the world."

"Damn it, Bud!" I yell. "There are not!"

"Can we please talk about something else?" he says shakily. "I don't want to fight with you about this."

"We're not--I'm not fighting with you," I say. "I just don't want you to think like that."

When he doesn't respond, I smack my forehead in frustration.

"I'm coming over," I say.

"No, you're not."

"I am. Where do you live?" It's only now occurring to me that I don't know.

"I'm not telling you. Let's finish the movie, okay?"

I'm sobbing and my arms ache. I just want to hug him. Why is he being such a dickhead?

"Dot," he says. "I'm okay. You asked me a question and I gave you an answer. I've never been in love. You asked me why and I told you why."

"But it's the wrong answer," I cry.

He laughs softly. "Okay, what's the right answer?"

"That you've never been in love, but you will be someday because you want to be, and you deserve to be. As much as anyone else. Maybe even more."

He sighs. "You're kind of a pain in the ass," he says.

"Yeah? Well, you're loveable as hell."

He bursts out laughing and it's like a hug around my heart.

"I mean it, Bud. Maybe the rest of the world hasn't figured it out yet, but I have. I like you. I like the way you look, and I like the things you say and do. A lot."

"Does that mean we're in love?" he teases.

"No," I say, trying not to laugh. "It means we're friends." He giggles and it makes me do the same. "For now," I add. "And neither one of us is marked for loneliness."

"Okay," he says.

"And no more personal questions over the phone," I say. "Next time we talk about stuff like this, I want to see your face. And hug you."

"Agreed."

"Where do you live?"

He laughs again. "I'm not ready to tell you that," he says. "If you want to know that bad, you can probably figure it out. Or follow me home from school sometime."

"I might. Thanks for the idea."

He makes a little growling sound and my ear tingles.

"Hey, Dot?" he says.

"Yeah what?"

"Do you really like the way I look?"

"Yes," I say truthfully. "I think you're a good-looking guy. And the more I get to know you, the better looking you get."

"That makes me feel really good," he says.

"It's supposed to, Bud. People like you are supposed to feel good." 

* * * * *