In an odd juxtaposition, Pope spent weeks eagerly anticipating my birthday. I was pleased by this—particularly considering what I’d asked him for—but it was strange since the occasion had merited hardly a greeting card from anyone around me last year.

He seemed determined to erase that experience.

When the day finally arrived, I was awakened by my bedroom door, which flew open and slapped against the wall.

Pope barged in wearing a birthday hat, casually blowing a party whistle in my face.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Lenny,” he sang, holding two full shot glasses and keeping a fancy liquor bottle tucked under his arm.

I squinted at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It wasn’t even eight yet.

After a dramatic pause, he finished. “Ha-aaaa-ppy birthday to you.”

He fell next to me on the mattress, handing me one of the shot glasses. We clicked them, mumbled cheers, and sent the stinging liquid down our throats.

“Mornin’,” I greeted groggily, “in case someone forgot…”

“Is it really, though? Everything’s relative, Lenny. Especially time. It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He poured himself another shot, motioning with the bottle to my empty glass.

I shook my head, sitting up. “In Sydney, actually. It’s five o’clock there.”

I was a bit of a nerd. I’d always been thirsty for information. It worked to my benefit, for the most part. For instance, yesterday I’d worked on my piece and debated how to sculpt a shredded heart. I wanted it to pour out of the statue’s chest, like lava slithering from an active volcano. Thankfully, I’d been hitting the daytime classes when I was bored to gather more inspiration, and I’d stumbled upon a papier-mâché technique Alma demonstrated in one of the senior classes. Paper was fragile, wrinkly, thin; I’d marched to the newsagent’s across the bridge as soon as class was dismissed and purchased a stack of newspapers and glue.

The heart turned out deliciously dark. The paper exploded from the statue’s muscular chest like fireworks, bursting with color and motion.

Rafferty elbowed my ribs, anchoring me back to the present. “How’re we spending the day?”

“Working.” I snorted. “You’re pressed for time to finish your painting, and I’ve hit my stride, too.”

“Fuck my painting. It’s not every day my best mate turns eighteen. Let’s get pissed downtown.”

“On a weekday?” I blinked at him. “Before noon?”

He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “There’s no better time than the present. Also, no queue at the bar.”

“Also, no bar, because it’s eight in the morning.” I laughed.

He rolled his eyes, giving me a light shove. My head fell back to the pillow.

“All right.” I pretended to sigh, feigning exasperation. “I guess we could go for a few pints and fish and chips. And…chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

“You need more chocolate like the royals need more skeletons in their closet.” Pope jumped up to his feet, strolling to my drafting table and cocking his head. “Who’s the admirer?”

“Huh?” I looked up, stretching in my bed.

There was a huge basket containing a mountain of individually wrapped brownies on the table and a white teddy bear with a red ribbon next to it. My mouth watered immediately.

“That would be Poppy.” I swallowed the excess saliva, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “You know she sends me chocolate all the time. God knows you’re good at demolishing it with me.”

“Poppy sends you chocolate. These are brownies. Not the same. And this looks much more expensive,” Pope commented, tugging the black satin strap that knotted the cellophane together around the basket. It fell open, and he helped himself to a piece of brownie, unwrapping one that had been tucked inside Harry Potter-themed paper.

I shook my head. “Still Poppy. I don’t have any suitors. Crap, our family dog doesn’t like me much.” I shrugged.

Pope snorted. “You don’t have a dog. Your sister’s allergic. Anyway, this shit’s good. Want some?”

“Let me brush my teeth first.”

“Suppose you want your privacy.”

“That would be nice.” I smiled.

“And a bit rich, considering what you asked for for your birthday.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

I blushed instantly. He had a point.

“You can say no,” I reminded him.

“I don’t want to. It’s a fun present to give.”

“You’ll have to come here every day.”

“As opposed to now?” He laughed.

I curled my lips around my teeth, stifling a smile.

Pope took off, walking to the door. “Meet me at ten at the cul-de-sac, birthday girl.”

My phone buzzed right after Rafferty closed the door. Poppy. She called to wish me a happy birthday. I thanked her for the present, and she waved it off and said it was nothing.

“How’re things over there?” she poked, munching on a granola bar on the other end of the line. Since she’d started studying in London, she’d been hanging out with her new, fancy friends. Poppy loved socializing. Based on her tone alone, I knew things had worked out the way she’d planned. She had that shine to her voice, that extra I’m-happy timbre.