The Real Score

Chapter 5: Only Girl (in the World)

2011

I am officially twenty-five.

I stopped celebrating birthdays after my eighteenth because I couldn't see any sense in that. Birthdays just remind you of a year that has passed, another year to assess if you had done yourself and your parents proud and if you're becoming the person you want to be. I tried to stop counting my age when I turned twenty but it was unavoidable, having forms to fill up and everything.

But anybody's twenty-fifth birthday—ask most people—was a milestone birthday.

Marcus was one of those people.

To me, today was just one of those Sundays when I didn't work and I just sleep.

The person who was banging on my door begged to disagree.

I slowly rolled out of bed, wondering who would bother me at this hour. The clock told me it was almost seven in the morning; it was too early for anything on a Sunday. I strolled out of my room, in my comfy short shorts and holey, oversized shirt, and then popped the door open.

I stepped back, my jaw dropping, and my hand over my heart.

He slowly raised his head, his face hidden under his hoodie, and my favorite smile pasted on his face. From behind him, he produced a red velvet cupcake with one lighted candle.

Marcus started to sing the birthday song ever so slowly and I still couldn't absorb this. He used his other hand to remove his hoodie, his smile grew wider as my shock wore off. He ended the song, and tears stung my eyes.

"Happy birthday, my sunshine," he whispered, holding out the cupcake towards me, and I blew out the candle. I was unable to stop myself from what I did next—I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly. He was able to save the cupcake from getting squished between us, and I felt him laugh before I heard him.

"Oxygen," he choked.

I let him go, and then I shoved him playfully on the shoulder. "What in the world are you doing here?" I asked, pulling him inside my apartment. Mental calculations told me that he left Australia—where the rest of Gezellig were—at around ten last night, probably after his concert, to get here.

I didn't notice the big bag at his feet, which he scooped up before following me inside my small studio apartment. I tried having roommates before but they never worked out for me—I liked my peace, especially after having crazy hours at work.

Marcus deposited his bag on the lone couch in my cramped living room, slid the cupcake at the tiny center table, and turned to me. He divested himself of his jacket, throwing it over his bag. "Well, I don't want my B to celebrate her birthday alone."

I almost smiled. 'B' for BFF, 'B' for best. He was the first one to use that, and from that moment on, it was our pet name for each other. 'B' also served as our code to keep me hidden from his millions of fans, a signal that when he says something and he addresses it to 'B' it was for me.

Has it been two years, really, since we first met? Two years since we struggled past the getting-to-know-you phase for a couple of months. Two years that spanned hundreds of hours on Skype and FaceTime, thousands of email exchanges, and one out-of-the-country trip to Japan charged to him.

Two years.

I stopped my smile, turning it to a pout. "But I am not alone. I have friends. Lovely ones. And I have family," I defended. "But they just can't be here because they're at the province, and my sibs are busy at school." Marcus shrugged, tired of hearing this reason over and over. I rolled my eyes. "And I just want to sleep," I said, ready to whine, when he held up his palm to stop me.