Chapter 2The Star-Maker

While he was gone, I set the scene. I ordered a bottle of Dom and a massive platter of spicy king crab legs. He loved crab, but he was a notorious germaphobe and hated the messy, primal work of cracking the shells. I always did it for him.

I waited. I cracked shell after shell until the entire platter was a mountain of perfect, pristine meat.

I waited until my fingers were raw, stinging from a dozen tiny cuts from the shells.

I waited until I accidentally rubbed my eye, and the cayenne from my fingers made me cry out, tears streaming down my face.

He didn't come back.

Finally, at 6:00 AM, he walked in, holding a small, wilted bouquet of roses.

The crab meat had long since gone cold.

He saw me, asleep in the chair, and had the grace to look guilty.

“Hey,” he whispered, his voice soft. “I’m so sorry, I got held up. A late happy birthday, Zoe.”

He held up a small paper bag. “I brought you cake.”

He remembered. In that moment, the entire, miserable night evaporated.

He gave me a quick kiss. “Happy birthday.” Then he disappeared into the shower.

I smiled, touching my cheek.

I opened the bag. Inside was a single, plastic-domed slice of ice cream cake. It was completely melted, a soupy, sugary puddle soaked into the cardboard.

It wasn't pretty. But I ate it.

The stale cake and gritty, melted ice cream coated my tongue. But he’d brought it for me.

While I waited for him, I opened my phone, intending to post a picture of the roses.

But Instagram was already full of him.

Chloe had posted a nine-picture carousel. It was blinding.

There she was, holding a bouquet of ninety-nine, perfect, long-stemmed red roses.

There was Leo, personally cracking crab legs for her, his notoriously clean hands stained red, a slight smile on his face.

And the last photo: a beautiful, elaborate, homemade ice cream cake. It looked vaguely familiar.

The caption: “Thank you, ‘big bro,’ for making my birthday so special! A man who shells crab is a king! (PS: The homemade ice cream cake was AMAZING. Literally the best I’ve ever had. And the roses are gorgeous!)”

My body went cold.

I looked at my eleven dying roses. I looked at her ninety-nine.

The cake he brought me wasn't a gift. It was a leftover.

He said he was busy. He was. He was busy spending my birthday with her.

The sugary sludge in my mouth turned to ash.