I go for a birthday walk down to The Wharf. Opening the windows to air the stench of Javex and boiled eggs out of the trailer just isn’t cutting it. A rude wind shoves its way down from where the mouth of the lake yawns at the Atlantic Ocean. The bare trees on the mountain just stand there, rooted in dry apathy, waiting for winter. White-toothed waves bite at the shore, and there’s no sun to soften and shimmer up the edges of their agitation. Banks of elephantine cloud lumber along, never leaving enough time and space for a crack of sky to appear between them. A half-dozen shit hawks scream overhead. And some jackass left a pile of puke and a used condom on the picnic table, even though there is a goddamn garbage can right there. Even so, this place still makes me feel better.

I caress the cool edge of the concrete edifice, legs dan­g­ling above the choppy waters, face lifted to the obstinate elephants above. I fill my lungs with the cool tang of salt air, and try my best to empty some bitterness from my soul. But all I can hear is the chorus of a song looping in my head. The song Peggy and Mama serenaded me with in the wake of my ninth birthday party, when I got a little melodramatic over the lack of Black Forest cake, and not being allowed to keep a loot bag for myself or have the first crack at the creepy Cabbage Patch Kid piñata. Except Mama and Peg took Lesley Gore’s pouty party song to the next level, with flailing arms and stomping feet and fake boo-hoos. It takes me a minute to realize that “It’s My Party” isn’t simply looping with hyperrealism in my head. It’s playing in my pocket. I wonder which smartass changed the ringtone to that.

On the other end is Willy Gimp, chatting me up. Like nothing ever happened. Like we didn’t share in the trauma of Becky Chickenshit step-dancing at the reunion and Char dangling her baby from a tree. Like we didn’t exorcise that trauma with orgasms under the stars. Like he didn’t drop off the face of the Earth for five weeks. Casual as ol’ hell, he wishes me happy birthday. And then asks me out on a date. A real one, that doesn’t involve shotgunning enough liquor to choke a squid, or quickies in the woods. Tonight.

“What makes you think I don’t already have plans?” I say, not too nicely. Because if there is one thing I learned from years of devouring Cosmo, it is how to play hard to get.

“Well, do ya?”

“Maybe. I’ll let you know in an hour. Or two.” I stuff my phone back in my pocket, and hustle my arse back to the trailer to shower off the eau de loser I’ve been wallowing in, and de-fuzz five weeks’ worth of leg and pit hair. Then I call Gimp back.