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“ H appy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday you stupid, pathetic, loser, happy birthday to you.”

Alone again on what’s toasted as a celebratory event, I blow out the imaginary candles on my imaginary cake while brushing my teeth. I’m twenty-one today, which in itself is mildly crippling cause I’m me and everything is that way, but this feels … significant. Like that extra one makes me so much older. And because it marks another year spent alone.

Like alone, alone.

Really alone.

Unlike the adorable Bridget Jones who I have been compared to on several occasions, I have no hilarious group of friends to take me out for a drunken dinner, or to whisk me away for a mini break to Paris. Nor do I have family, a boyfriend … and hold no hope of finding one. What I do have is a place at Boston College, and a shitty internship in the accounts department of an even shittier company. Ironically, they make toilet paper. The place, and the people within it, have sucked what little joy I had for the past three summers, so yeah, forgive me for being a little … depressed.

Once the third round of my ad hoc birthday song is complete, I spit into the sink the very moment a random sneeze erupts from my nose, covering my face, my shirt, my sink, and my mirror in the gooey, disgusting contents of my mouth and nasal cavity.

Yes.

Excellent.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

After washing my face, and changing clothes, I grab my bag, keys and phone and head out the door. Lucky for me, I live off campus, a ten-minute walk to either school or work depending on which direction I head, so I shouldn’t be late. If I don’t stop for coffee, which I most definitely will.

Twenty-five minutes later, I slip into the office like a creep into a hot blondes DM’s. No one is at reception, so that’s one hurdle down. Next up, getting past David Bowe, my boss, the most boring man in the universe with a name remarkably close to one of the most extraordinary. His office door is open, but only the crown of his shiny bald cranium is looking at me as I slink by. “Ha ha, the perfect crime.”

“Lotte? Lotte, was that you? Would you come in here for a moment?”

“Dammit.” Freezing, I lean back on my heels and popping just enough of my head through his doorway to meet his beady eyes. “Yes. Of course, Mr. Bowe. Can I just drop this box of reports down? They’re quite heavy.” I do not have a box. I have my half empty grande cup and my bag.

That is all.

“Heavy?” he scoffs. “Aren’t you one of those CrossFitters I see strutting around in their little shorts?”

“No. No, that’s not me sir. I’ve never set foot inside a gym. Think I may be allergic, actually.”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and enthusiastically waves me in. “Oops, never mind,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Just pop those things down and come in. I have someone for you to meet.”

The popcorn chicken I ate for breakfast curdles with my coffee. He’s either remembered my birthday and is planning a surprise cake reveal, or he’s trying to set me up with his niece again, cause one awkward conversation wasn’t enough. “Oops, sorry. With all the grumpiness, and hiking and Subaru driving, I presumed you were a Granola.” He’d chuckled, while scratching his head in confusion. “I s that the right term, Granola lesbian? I’m sure that’s what my niece said when I described you.”

“Well, I’m not a lesbian. I don’t hike or own a Subaru, so I really couldn’t say, sir.”

Doing as I’m told, I drop the pretend box by the door, and step inside to find a pretty, young woman sitting to my right. She wears a baby pink dress, bright yellow Doc Martens - I would sell my soul for - and has green ribbon woven through the braids in her pink hair. Anyone who can pull off colors like that is either incredibly confident, color blind or both. I both like and am intimidated by her instantly.

“Lotte, meet Claire, she’s our new receptionist. Claire met our intern, Lotte. She’s our … Ahh, intern.”

Claire stands, her dress falling in a perfect wave of ombre ruffles as she moves her hand as if to shake mine, before she stops, withdraws it, then does it again. “Sorry. I always feel a little weird shaking hands with another woman. I don’t know why.”

“Guess that means you’re not a lesbian, either? Or you are, and you’re a bad one.” I joke, despite the fact Claire has no idea what I’m referencing as obviously, she wasn’t here for the conversation with Bowe that took place three weeks ago. Still, a flash of mischief colors her already bright hazel eyes.

“I am a lesbian, actually. Oddly enough, my wife is, too.”

“How extraordinary!” David smiles. “That’s wonderful, Claire. Perhaps you know my niece, Trisha?” After a beat or ten, Claire giggles, then David does too. I’m not quite there, though. I’m more inclined to puke.

“Ahh, well, it’s really nice to meet you, Claire, but I need to get those papers over to accounting.” For some reason I then nod, bow three times and hastily back the fuck out, but it’s too late. The shaking starts while I grunt with the strain of lifting my non-existent box. “Shit. Shit.”

I hum, and blink my way back to my corner desk, collapse into my seat and slump forward onto my keyboard. “Ow.”

This is why I don’t do people.

“Are you alright, Lotte?” Margaret, our office manager asks from her desk opposite mine. She’s the only one here who knows about my tics and anxiety.

Well, technically that’s not true.

They all know. It’s as plain as the wig on Trump’s head. She’s just the only one brave enough to acknowledge it verbally. Sometimes I get frustrated when she coddles me, but then I remember her eldest son has a bipolar diagnosis. Lived experience taught her how exhausting a neuro-spicy existence can be.

“Yeah,” I sigh, rolling my head to the side so I can see her face. Pretty sure I have a post-it stuck on my cheek, but I can’t be bothered to check. “The new girl’s been here for ten minutes, and I’ve both embarrassed and outed myself as an unintentional homophobe.”

In a total mom move, she huffs and waves me off like I’m an idiot. “I’m sure that’s not the case, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it is. I assure you; it definitely is. It’s a perfect example of why I don’t have any friends. If the wink-wink, twitch-twitch doesn’t put people off, the crap that comes out of my mouth does.” I consider mentioning I’m turning twenty-one today, and that some people think that’s a big deal. But I don’t.

Margaret slides her coke bottle glasses back up her nose, fluffs her graying curls and returns to her work, leaving me to sulk over the lack of coddling I just said I hated, and ponder how I can go for lunch later without walking past the reception desk.

From my brown desk in my beige office, I gaze upon an almost teal sky dotted with fluffy, white clouds I want to snuggle up and nap in. Daydreams of just that are almost enough to conjure a smile as I rub my grumbling belly.

It’s almost two, and I’ve had nothing to eat but three peanut butter M&Ms I found rolling in my top drawer, and a snack pack of stale Saltines I found in the bottom one. Also no one, not even Margaret, has remembered my birthday.

It shouldn’t be a surprise.

When you live your life trying to make yourself invisible, you can’t get upset when nobody sees you. Still, it sucks, and I’ve maturely decided it’s the new girl’s fault. People are buzzing around her like ravenous bees on the new pollen-filled bloom in what was a barren field. In her eagerness to impress, Claire has laughed and smiled and dazzled and not left her desk … once. Not even to pee. Which means I have had no way out.

Well, that’s not true. I could be all adult-like. Just stroll by , but that hardly seems the point.

Hmm. There is the fire exit, too, but when I tried to escape saying goodbye to Tammy, our old receptionist on her last day, I discovered it was alarmed.

So, in summary, I don’t handle farewells, or introductions well, hate the new girl, may well starve to death on my birthday, and genuinely believe I could do so without anyone noticing my rotting corpse.

See. Mature.

I’m so lost in laying the groundwork for another pointless vendetta, that I don’t notice Princess’ perfect approach.

“Sorry to bother you, Lotte, but I was just going over some of the notes Tammy left for me, when I came across this.” An old diary is plopped on my desk and a perfectly manicured nail points to my name. “Is this right? Is it your birthday today?”

Squinting, I lean down and scan the page. “Hmm. No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure if it’s your birthday or if that’s your name?”

“Yes. Well, I know that’s my name, and when my birthday is , but I don’t know what the date is today, so…”

I continue to avoid Claire’s gaze, but the heat from it is scorching my scalp. “Oh, well, it’s September twenty-second. The last day of summer and according to this, your birthday.”

Preparing a saccharine smile, I look up from my chipped nails. “Well, I guess it is. Thanks for letting me know. Yay me.” I shift to face my computer, but apparently, Claire is not done.

“Why don’t you have cake or flowers or a big lunch? Don’t people normally celebrate birthdays here? Why else would Tammy leave a list of all the dates?”

“That’s a lot of questions I have no answers for,” I mumble into the void between us, “I think I’ve seen a cake or two here and there, not sure. As for the diary, Tammy was kind of weird. May be a stalker thing.”

Claire leans in, switches off my monitor, and slots her face between it and me. A waft of feminine floral deliciousness hits me, and I roll my eyes cause shit, she smells amazing too. “Lotte. Answer me honestly. Has everyone forgotten your birthday this year?”

I fire off about twenty blinks before I can answer, but when I do it’s with a snide confidence I don’t feel. “No. They’ve forgotten my birthday every year for the past three. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of … stuff to do.” I move to turn my monitor back on, but my hand is swatted away and tucked into hers. “What are you doing?” I demand, as she drags me from my seat.

“This is bullshit. I’m taking you out for a late lunch.”

“What? No!” I don’t mean to yell, but I do. Every set of eyes zeroes in on me and Claire as I attempt to tug myself free. “Please, it’s okay, honestly. I prefer it this way. I don’t do good with people, or attention or… people.” I’m ticcing my absolute ass off and Claire hasn’t missed the unmissable. I must look like a freak, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. Her touch softens though, the death grip becoming a smooth skinned olive branch.

“Fine, but I am taking you out, even if we hit a drive-thru and eat in the car. Your call, Taco Bell? Wendy’s? In-N-Out?” There’s no judgment in her eyes, only kindness, and the hatred I felt towards her moments ago is replaced with an unfamiliar warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest.

“In-N-Out.” I whisper, not through shyness, but the restrictive squeeze anxiety has on my throat. “I love In-N-Out. I don’t know if I can eat much like this, though.”

“It doesn’t matter. Even if we sit there and stare at your rapidly congealing trans fats, you’re going out for a birthday lunch.”