The cool night air was a mercy, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the dining room. Ethan led Annie through the glass sliding doors to the back porch, where the shadows of the garden felt like a sanctuary.
The porch had been transformed into a low-lit haven. Ethan had dragged out a mountain of plush pillows and thick wool blankets, creating a soft, sprawling nest in the corner. Scattered across the center was a chaotic spread of candy: sour strips, chocolate bars, and a mountain of gummies. This was the "party" he had actually wanted- no pretense, no biting comments, just comfort.
"Sit," Ethan commanded gently, nudging her toward the pile of blankets.
Annie sank into the cushions, her navy velvet dress pooling around her like a dark ink spill. She looked smaller out here, away from the cutting eyes of Vanessa and Margaret. She watched as Ethan settled beside her, his long legs stretching out as he ripped open a bag of sour worms.
"Better?" he asked. The porch light caught his green eyes, making them look like moss after a rain. He looked at her with a focus that made her heart skip.
Annie took the candy he offered, her fingers still a little stiff from the tension. "A lot better. I'm sorry I... I tried to just stay quiet. I thought if I didn't react, they'd get bored."
"They don't get bored of picking on the best person in the room, Doll. It's a hobby for them," Ethan said, leaning back against the porch railing. He popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, his expression softening. "But hey, I officially exercised my 'birthday authority' to kick them out. Best gift I've given myself in years."
Annie let out a tiny, genuine giggle- the first of the night. She reached for a flat, rectangular object she had hidden in her purse. She held it close to her chest, her thumb tracing the edge of the brown paper wrapping. She hesitated, her blue eyes searching his green ones.
"Ethan?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "I have your present. But... I'm not sure if I should give it to you right now."
Ethan tilted his head, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What, is it that bad? Is it a hand-knitted sweater with a cat on it?"
Annie didn't laugh this time. She looked down at the package. "No. It's just... I think it might make you emotional. And I don't want to be the reason you cry on your eighteen birthday. We could wait until tomorrow if you'd rather stay happy tonight."
Ethan's smirk faded, replaced by a quiet, intense curiosity. He saw the way she was holding the gift, like it was something sacred. He sat up a little straighter, his gaze locked on her. "Annie, if it's from you, I want it. I don't care about 'happy' or 'sad.' I just want what's real. Give it to me."
Slowly, Annie handed him the package. Ethan carefully tore the paper away, and then, the world seemed to stop.
It was a painting. The colors were rich and layered, capturing the exact, warm light of a late afternoon. In the center was a man with a kind, rugged face and eyes that held the same mischievous spark as Ethan's. It was Ethan's father.
Since the house fire two years ago had claimed every physical photograph of him, Ethan had lived with only the fading memories in his mind. But here, in Annie's brushstrokes, he was vivid. He was real.
The silence on the porch stretched out, punctuated only by the distant chirp of crickets. Ethan's thumb traced the edge of the canvas, his jaw tight. He didn't speak for a long time.
"It's the only 'picture' left," Annie said softly, her voice trembling. "I remembered seeing the picture around the house. I didn't want you to have to keep trying so hard to remember. I wanted him to just... be there."
Ethan finally looked at her. His green eyes were shimmering, reflecting the low porch light, and his lashes were wet. He let out a jagged, breathless laugh. "You were right. I'm definitely crying on my birthday."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.
"Don't be," Ethan said hoarsely. He set the painting carefully on a nearby pillow as if it were made of glass, then reached out, pulling Annie into the space beside him.
He wrapped a heavy blanket around both of their shoulders, pulling her close until her head rested against his chest. "This is the best thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, Annie."
Annie finally relaxed, the warmth of the blanket and the steady beat of his heart finally silencing the echoes of the dinner. She reached for a chocolate bar, feeling the weight of the evening finally lift.
"Happy birthday, Ethan," she murmured against his shoulder.
"It is now," he replied, resting his chin on top of her head. "It definitely is now."
Ethan didn't move for a long time, his gaze anchored to the canvas. In the painting, a younger version of his father stood in the center of a sun-drenched field, his arm draped heavily and proudly over the shoulders of an eight-year-old Ethan.
They were both wearing matching, custom-made navy and gold jerseys with "Hawthorne" emblazoned across the chests in bold, block letters. His father held a scuffed football tucked under his arm, his smile wide and effortless, while the younger Ethan beamed at the camera with a gap-toothed grin. Annie had captured the way the light hit the grass, making the field look infinite- a memory frozen in time before the fire had turned their physical history to ash.
"I can't believe you remembered the jerseys," Ethan murmured, his voice still thick. his thumb brushed over the painted fabric of his father's shirt. "He was so proud of these. He had them made for my birthday that year. It's perfect, Annie. Really."
Annie shifted slightly against him, her head resting on his shoulder. "I remembered how you used to talk about that game in the backyard. I spent weeks on the skin tones and trying to get the 'Hawthorne' lettering just right. I actually ended up making two more paintings for your mom, too."
Ethan's hand, which had been idly smoothing the wool of the blanket, went still. He pulled back just enough to look down at her, his green eyes narrowing in mock offense.
"Wait. Back up," he said, the protective intensity of the dinner finally giving way to a playful spark. "You made two more for my mom? As in, she gets a double feature and I, the actual birthday boy, only gets one?"
Annie giggled, the sound light and airy in the night air. "Well, they're smaller! One is a portrait of your dad, the other a wedding picture. I just thought she'd like to have them."
Ethan let out a dramatic, theatrical sigh, leaning back against the pillows but keeping his arm firmly around her waist. "I see how it is. My own mother is the favorite. Here I was thinking I was special, and it turns out I'm just the runner-up in the 'Annie's Art Gallery' sweepstakes. My fragile ego, Doll. It's bruising."
"Ethan, you know that's not true," she nudged him with her elbow, her blue eyes bright and shy. "The one of you and your dad was the hardest. It was the most important one."
"Still," Ethan teased, his green eyes dancing with mischief as he watched a stray strand of her black hair flutter in the breeze.
"The math doesn't add up. Two for Kia, one for me. I feel a bit cheated. I think I'm owed a second present to even the score. You can't have me feeling jealous on my eighteenth, can you? That's bad luck."