Page 22 of The Birthday Girl
T ahlia pushed through the door of Lenny's, inhaling the cloud of bacon grease and burnt coffee that had greeted her since childhood.
The familiar scent made her sigh, not with disappointment but recognition.
As she moved toward the counter, her fingers found the chip in the wood's edge without looking, the same rough spot her fourteen-year-old self traced while waiting for chocolate shakes after school.
“Two eggs over hard, wheat toast, crispy bacon,” a waitress yelled through the service window, never looking up from her crossword.
Her roots showed two inches of gray beneath a bottle blonde that matched the mustard stains on her apron.
She slid into a corner booth, silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored slacks, diamonds at her ears catching the dull fluorescent light.
It was a ridiculous contrast, and she relished it.
The night’s work still lingered on her skin in memory, and it made her smile.
Mercedes was gone, which meant she had one less pest from her childhood to worry about.
The obsession that had gnawed at her all of her life felt quiet now, like a hunger finally satisfied.
She had always suspected that killing would be disappointing, that it would leave her emptier than before, but the reality was almost wholesome.
The drone in her mind, always so loud with questions of what it would feel like, what it would cost, or what price the universe would extract for a life ended by her own hands, had evaporated.
In its place was crystalline clarity, and the kind of peace reserved for the aftermath of controversy.
“What will you have?” A young waitress stood in front of Tahlia’s booth, pen in hand, ready to take her order.
“Good morning.” Tahlia's mouth pulled into something adjacent to a smile, muscles working like rusty hinges.
Her eyes fixed on a brown splatter that bloomed across the wall tile behind the waitress in the perfect shape of Texas if you squinted.
"Coffee. Black." She tapped two packets of sugar against the laminated menu.
“And the French toast platter with crispy bacon. Make the eggs sunny, but cook them until the edges curl brown.”
“Comin’ right up,” the girl said, and left Tahlia alone, though the diner was never a place of privacy.
The television mounted over the counter flickered, the ESPN logo dissolving into the red banner of Channel 8 News. Forks around the diner paused mid-bite as a blonde anchor with too-white teeth appeared on the screen.
“Breaking news this morning from East Dallas,” the anchor's voice cut through the diner's clatter. “Police have discovered three bodies at an abandoned Kellam Street property in Brentwood Park. Local teenagers stumbled upon what authorities describe as a ‘gruesome discovery’—”
The cook turned up the volume with a greasy finger, his spatula forgotten on the grill.
The anchor continued, “Names of the victims have not been released, pending notification of kin, but police say foul play is suspected. Anyone with information is urged to contact authorities.”
The news cut to a live feed, and Tahlia grinned when she spotted the yellow tape surrounding the abandoned home. As officers hunched over their notepads, three body bags were being wheeled to the transfer van.
The more she stared at the screen, the more her smile widened, and the better she felt. It was like taking in a lungful of oxygen after years of holding her breath.
Mercedes’ death would always be the sweetest. That girl had laughed at her crooked teeth, passed notes about her thrift-store clothes, and made sport of her awkward silence.
Killing her hadn’t been an act of rage. It had been restoration—a balancing of scales that had been tilted for too long in someone else’s favor.
Tahlia was so lost in her head that she didn’t notice the waitress standing at her table with the steaming cup of coffee.
“Ma’am?” the girl asked, her voice cutting into Tahlia’s reverie. “Are you… Are you okay?”
Tahlia blinked and slowly dragged her eyes from the television, the grin still clinging to her lips. She looked up at the waitress, who shifted uneasily under the intensity of her gaze.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Tahlia said as she wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug, letting the heat bleed into her palms.
“O-okay.” The waitress forced a nervous smile before retreating, leaving Tahlia alone again in booth seven.
The television droned on, but she no longer needed the sound. The sight of the body bags, the blur of flashing lights, was enough to seal the satisfaction thrumming through her chest.
She took her first sip of coffee and let the smile return. The bell over the door chimed, and when Tahlia glanced at the door, she spotted Dr. Farrell, her therapist, stepping inside with a manila folder tucked under his arm.
“Dr. Farrell.” The name left Tahlia's lips with just enough volume to cut through the clatter of silverware and morning conversations.
His head swiveled at the sound, manila folder clutched mid-air, coffee order forgotten. His gaze swept past her once before snapping back, recognition dawning across his face.
“Ms. Banks?” His brows lifted. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
She smirked faintly, lifting her cup. “I wasn’t planning to be here, but the French toast is undefeated. I figured I’d treat myself since I woke this morning up in such a great mood.”
Dr. Farrell nodded, sliding into the booth across from her only after she gestured to the empty seat. “So, what has you feeling such greatness?”
Tahlia set her cup down, focusing her gaze on his eyes. “I woke up without a single crisis waiting for me, and I had a good night’s sleep.”
Dr. Farrell gave a slight nod as he set his folder on the table’s edge, careful not to intrude on Tahlia’s space. “That will do it. Those days are rare, so you should celebrate them when they come.”
“I am,” she said, leaning back into the booth. “That’s why I am here instead of the office.”
The waitress appeared to top off her coffee, and Dr. Farrell gave her a polite smile before ordering rye toast, strawberry jam, and black coffee. Once the waitress disappeared, he turned his attention back to Tahlia, his expression softer than in their usual sessions.
“You know, we haven’t had a session in a while. Why is that?”
Tahlia stirred her coffee, trying to buy herself a second. “Because I don’t need one.”
Dr. Farrell leaned back, his tone mild. “That’s a good thing. Not needing me usually means life is cooperating.”
“Exactly.” She gave a quick nod, as if that closed the subject.
He let a pause stretch, then added, “And when life cooperates, how does that usually feel for you?”
Tahlia raised her brow at him, but the challenge in her eyes softened. “Free. Like I can breathe without something sitting on my chest.”
He nodded slowly, as though agreeing with her. “That sounds… different from the last time we talked.”
“It is different,” she admitted, almost without thinking. She took another sip, then frowned at herself. “Things aren’t weighing on me the way they usually do.”
Dr. Farrell stirred his coffee slowly, his eyes still on the cup. “That sounds like a welcome change. What makes the weight feel lighter?”
She exhaled through her nose, half a laugh, half a release. “I’m not waking up dreading the day. I don’t feel like I’m constantly waiting for something to go wrong. It’s quiet… at least for now.”
He glanced at her briefly, then back at his coffee. “Quiet can be unsettling when you’re used to noise.”
“It can.” She took another sip and shook her head. “But I’ll take it.”
He smiled faintly. “You make it sound like you don’t trust it.”
Tahlia smirked, meeting his gaze. “That’s because I don’t. Calm is just trouble holding its breath.”
Dr. Farrell tilted his head, his voice low and even. “Or maybe it’s you who’s holding your breath.”
Tahlia’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. “And what makes you so sure of that?”
Dr. Farrell rested his forearms on the table, casual as if they were talking about the weather. “Because people who don’t trust peace usually haven’t allowed themselves to feel it. They wait for trouble because it’s the only rhythm they know.”
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And you think that’s me?”
“I think you’re telling me you’re waiting on something to happen,” he said. His tone was gentle, not accusing.
Her fingers drummed the mug. “Maybe I am. Maybe it’s safer to expect it.”
He gave a quiet hum, studying her face without pressing further. “Or maybe you’re bracing for an impact you can’t avoid.”
Tahlia leaned back, her slow smile returning. “You’re good at what you do, Doctor. Sometimes too good. I almost let you trick me into saying more than I should.”
He lifted his coffee in a mock toast. “Almost doesn’t count.”
She chuckled under her breath, shaking her head. “Almost doesn’t count, but it’s close enough. You’d love to know what’s really sitting on my chest.”
Dr. Farrell kept his voice even. “If you want to tell me, I’m listening. If you don’t, I’ll enjoy my toast.”
That made her laugh again, softer this time. “You’re slick. You always find a way to make me feel like I’m in control when you’re the one steering the wheel.”
“Not steering,” he corrected gently. “Just following where you go.”
Tahlia let her gaze drift to the window, where sunlight stretched across the cracked parking lot.
Her lips parted before she could stop herself.
“There’s a freedom in knowing you’ve already lost certain things.
It makes you reckless in a way. Like you can play with fire because the heat doesn’t scare you anymore. ”
“That sounds heavy for someone who says things aren’t weighing on her.”
Tahlia’s eyes snapped back to him, the smirk sliding into place again. “And there you go—ruining my breakfast.”
He smiled faintly and reached for his coffee. “You brought it up, not me.”
The waitress returned with his order, sliding the plate of rye toast between them. The smell of butter and strawberry jam cut through the air, breaking whatever tension had settled at the table.
Tahlia picked up her fork and knife, dragging them across her plate with a little more force than necessary. “Enjoy your toast, Doctor. I’m going to enjoy my French.”
Dr. Farrell smiled, spreading jam across the bread with careful strokes. “Fair enough. Consider the session officially over.”
“Good,” she said, her tone clipped but not unkind.
She cut into her meal and took a bite, savoring it more than she expected.
For a while, the only sounds were clinking silverware and the soft murmur of voices around them. When she glanced up again, Dr. Farrell was focused on his folder, scribbling in neat lines.
As Tahlia finished her breakfast, she couldn't shake off the lingering feeling of introspection that Dr. Farrell's words had stirred within her. She observed him for a moment, the way his pen moved across the paper with purpose, capturing thoughts and insights.
Setting down her fork, she pushed her plate away and took a deep breath, a sense of calm settling over her. “You know, Doctor, I never expected our conversations to lead me to such revelations about myself.”
Dr. Farrell looked up from his notes, his expression gentle yet probing. “Sometimes, the most unexpected paths lead us to the truths we've been avoiding. It's all part of the process of self-discovery.”
“You’re right about that.” Tahlia looked down at her watch and rose from her seat. “I have to get to work now. Breakfast on me. Have a great day, Dr. Farrell.”
Dr. Farrell gathered his notes, his gaze full of quiet reassurance. “Until next time,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of encouragement.
She nodded, and with a final smile, she left the cafe.