You ever see someone pacing the street like a lunatic at half eleven at night? Wearing a massive puffer jacket with the hood up and her hair stuck to her face from crying, legs bare, donned in cotton sleep shorts no less. You’d fucking assume she’s a psychopath. A loony girl on something, or in withdrawal because she’s not on something.

Thats by girlfriend, by the way. Braelie or aka, the Birthday girl.

Not that she wants me calling her that. Braelie hates birthdays. Always has ever since I’ve known her when she started Tommen. I’m the only one she told why. And I’m not gonna repeat it back to you, because yous don’t fucking deserve to hear her secrets. But I’ll tell you this: she said once, in the quietest fuckin’ voice I ever heard, “I just want to be loved, Tadhg.”

And if that didn’t split my heart right down the middle, I don’t know what did. I can’t wait until robotic hearts hit mainstream. The girls made me cry more for her than I ever did for myself.

So yeah, I was already halfway down Rosewood in the Audi — yeah, the shiny new dark blue one. Don’t give me that look. The McMillians spoil us rotten, what do you want me to say? Everyone else on this estate is driving a banged-up Micra, and do I feel bad? Nah, Jillian took a concussion to the head for me to have this lifestyle.

Anyway. Braelie wasn’t answering her phone which she never does because she always answers. Even if she’s pissed at me, she’ll pick up just to hang up straight after. So when she didn’t? I thought the worst.

Turns out the worst is her out here, whisper-arguing with herself while pacing up and down her street, so engrossed in herself she didn’t notice my car parking up on it, which is a safety concern I should talk to her about because what if some perv parked up and she was too busy sounding like an angry ferret to notice?

It doesn’t take long to realise that she’s hyping herself up to go back inside her own bloody house like she’s about to fight Tyson Fury and not just her mom and dad.

I park up, get out, slam the door. Braelie doesn’t even clock me, she’s that gone in her head. Okay, talking to her about scanning her environment is definitely moving up the conversations to have with my wildflower, list.

It’s when I come closer that I see her face, tears streaked down both cheeks, muttering, “Just go in, just go in, don’t be weak, stop crying.”

And tell me how I’m meant to stand there and listen to that?

So I don’t. I walk right up, slow so I don’t scare her, and I lift the edge of her hood. I trap her chin and a fraction of her jaw with my fingers, tilting her head up. And I kiss her forehead.

She smells like smoke from someone’s turf fire down the road and the vanilla spray she keeps in her bag. Eyes are all red. Nose running. Still impeccably gorgeous.

“Happy birthday, baby,” I mutter against her skin. The clocked had hit twelve not even half a minute ago.

She chokes a laugh, half a sob. “Don’t. I don’t want to—”

“Shut up,” I cut across. Not harsh. Just… enough. Thumb brushing her cheekbone where the tears dried sticky. “I don’t care if you hate it. It’s still today. You’re still here. You fucking it made it to today, my strong girl. So let me fucking celebrate it? My girlfriend made it out alive and kicking for eighteen years.”

“I didn’t want to be strong at nine, Rhodes. I just wanted love.” Braelie and I are two peas in a fucking pod. Because before the McMillian's, I was that same kid futilely wishing for a proper, good family every time I blew out the candles on April 13th.

The difference with Braelie and I is that I had an older sister who took one for the team and got concussed by captain fantastic and through a crazy string of events, I got a brand new Audi on my birthday which I drive to and from my gated home to my private school.

I got my love. I got out, Braelie didn’t. I had people to fight for me.

Braelie had herself. Until she got me. And trust me, If she wants love, she’s fuckin’ got it. More than she’ll know what to do with.