heartbreak girl | s.m.

38 | hbd

(p.s. this is the first picture i ever took of you and it pretty much sums you up perfectly)

———
the next day
gemma clark <<<

I woke up to the smell of breakfast being made. Every year on my or Liam's birthday, my parents would get up early and make a big breakfast, even on school days. And then when they got divorced, whichever one I was with that day kept the tradition. I haven't had a birthday with Dad since Mom died, but it seems like he's still going strong. It's something small, but it really means a lot. Plus, breakfast is totally my favorite meal of the day. Not to mention the most important.

I laid in bed for a little while after waking up. It's nine thirty now, which means it's seven thirty in LA, which means Shawn's not up. Whoever invented time zones kind of sucks.

Liam burst into my room after a while.

"Dad's making breakfast," he said excitedly. This was exciting news, because my dad isn't much of a chef or much of an early riser. Like me. I'm very much like him in a lot of ways, actually.

"Yeah, I know," I replied, stretching my arms over my head.

"Why?"

"Because it's my birthday?"

He looked at me blankly. "Wait, today's your birthday?"

Oh my God, he's so stupid.

"Liam, where have you been? That's like, the whole purpose of this trip," I told him, rubbing my eyes.

"Well, I knew it was coming up; I just didn't know it was today," he replied. How can someone be so oblivious?

"Today's the day, my friend."

"Well, happy birthday, I guess. I'm going downstairs," he said, leaving my room.

Good talk.

I put my glasses on and also went downstairs, figuring I should make an appearance on my own birthday.

"It's the birthday girl!" my dad said once he caught a glimpse of me descending the stairs. He really looked like such a dad—plaid pajama pants, plain white t-shirt, slippers, coffee cup in hand, glasses hung on the collar of his t-shirt.

I smiled weakly. "Here I am."

He hugged me once I reached him. He smelled like he was cooking breakfast.

"Smells good in here," I told him, looking around. My mom used to be the chef in the family, but once they divorced, Dad had to adapt. He's not half-bad now, actually.

"Should be done in a few minutes," Dad said, flipping pancakes on the griddle, making my stomach grumble.

"Oh, and it seems you were sent flowers by a secret admirer," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "A secret admirer?"

Dad shrugged. "They're on the table."

I walked over to the kitchen table; sure enough, there was a beautiful bouquet of roses sitting there. I looked at the little card attached to it.