CELEBRATORY

Three Weeks LaterOctober 5th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewMy heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs as start to nervously bite at my lip. It's been a little over a month since Travis and I got together, and let me tell you, it's been a whirlwind. The happiest whirlwind of my life, I hate to admit it. I don't want to be defined by him, by how happy he makes me, but damn it all, I can't deny this grin plastered across my face.

Today's his big day - 35 candles on the cake. He's having a party all the way in Kansas City, and I promised I'd be there. No way I'd miss it, not after weeks of searching for the perfect gift. This one? It's pure magic, exactly what he's been wanting. Now, all I have to do is get myself there in one piece and watch his jaw drop when he sees it.

Joy is in New York and I told her I'd be back tomorrow. She whined about wanting to come, but I had to break the news: this was a grown-ups-only kind of party. Stepping out of the backseat of the car, I smooth down my outfit and take a deep breath. Loud music thumps from inside, a bassline that vibrates through my chest. Colored lights flicker through the windows, casting the scene in a psychedelic glow. It's been years since I's been to a party like this, one filled with the promise of exhilaration, tequila shots, and maybe even ending up trending on Twitter tomorrow. A nervous flutter dances in my stomach, but it's quickly overshadowed by a surge of excitement. Tonight is about Travis, and I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees what I got him. Pushing open the door, I step into the pulsating heart of the party, ready to celebrate.

The crowd hits me like a wave – a heaving mass of bodies swaying in time. The music explodes in my ears, a chaotic mix of electronic beats and hip-hop that scrambles my thoughts. I scan the room, my eyes fighting to adjust from the sudden darkness to the strobing assault of fairy lights and spinning disco balls.

A coven of women, their outfits resembling a post-apocalyptic Halloween, cackles with laughter near the bar. A group of guys in ironic t-shirts attempts some synchronized dance move that ends in a tangled mess of limbs. But my eyes, they only search for Travis.

Shoving through the crowd, I weave a path between bobbing heads and precariously balanced drinks. The air hangs heavy with the scent of cologne, body heat, and the lingering sweetness of spilled cocktails. Just as doubt creeps in, making me question the address, a familiar voice cuts through the din.

"Hey! You made it!"

There he is, Travis, leaning against his home bar. He looks incredible, a mischievous glint in his eyes that sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach. He's deep in conversation with a guy sporting a loud Hawaiian shirt, but the moment his gaze lands on me, a wide grin splits his face.

"Excuse me for a second, man," he says to Hawaiian Shirt, who offers me a friendly wave. "There you are! I was starting to think you chickened out."

"Never," I reply, a playful smile tugging at my lips. I can't help but steal a glance down at the small, velvet box clutched tightly in my hand.

Travis throws his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "Glad you made it. This party's been missing something...or should I say someone?" He leans down, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me guess, you brought the tequila?"

I laugh, the sound swallowed by the pulsating music. "Even better," I reply, raising the velvet box a couple of inches. "Happy birthday, Travis."

His eyes widen with curiosity. "Whoa, there's no need for all that," he says, taking the box tentatively. His fingers brush against mine as he does, sending a jolt through me.

"Consider it an investment," I wink. "In many future hangovers, hopefully shared ones."

Travis chuckles, his gaze fixed on the box. He takes a moment, savoring the anticipation, before carefully lifting the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, rests a worn leather-bound journal. Its brass clasp gleams in the flashing lights.

Travis's smile, however, remained fixed. A little too fixed, maybe. "Whoa," he said, his voice a touch too high-pitched. "This is... unexpected."

I know he hates the gift. This isn't something he'd use in a million years. I can appreciate how hard he's pretending though.

Silence stretches, thick and awkward. I clear my throat, desperately trying to salvage the moment. "So, what are you planning to write in it, huh?" I ask, hoping to spark a shred of excitement. "Deep philosophical thoughts?"

A harsh laugh escapes Travis's lips. "Hilarious," he mutters.

"Hey," I say softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "It's the thought that counts, right? Maybe you can, uh, repurpose it for something else?"

He stares down at the box, a defeated slump to his shoulders. "Yeah, maybe," he mumbles.

This isn't working. A direct approach might just make things worse. I need a new tactic. Maybe a distraction? "Alright, enough about the mystery journal," I say, trying for a playful grin. "How about we crack open a beer and celebrate your, uh, newfound passion for leather-bound literature?"

"Sounds good," He murmurs, relief washing over me as he sets the journal down. But the relief is short-lived. He reaches for me, his hand snaking around my waist. I react instinctively, shoving his arm away with a jolt.

"We can't let anyone know!" I hiss, my voice tight with urgency.

"What?" he sputters, surprise flickering across his face. "But babe, come on!" He reaches for me again, this time with a pleading look in his eyes. "I just want to show you off! I want to kiss you all over and tell the world how fucking awesome you are!"

His enthusiasm is infectious, a warmth blooming in my chest despite the situation. But I quickly tamp it down. "I know, I know," I assure him, my voice softer now. "And you can do all that later. Right now, we need to be under the radar. Lowkey," I emphasize, walking purposefully next to him to avoid any further contact.

We weave through the throng, Travis trailing behind me with a bewildered expression. I spot a group huddled near a makeshift beer pong table, their laughter rising above the music.

"There they are!" Travis announces heading to the table. "Princesses Kyana and her servant Jason." Travis declares with mock seriousness, earning a laughter from me. Kylie, ever the life of the party, flips him a playful bird.

We were just about to play rage cage," Jason bellows, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Wanna join? Or are you gonna hang out with your lady in waiting?" He winks at me, the plastic cup precariously balanced in his hand threatening to spill its contents

I swat him playfully on the arm. "You told them!?" I hiss, feigning annoyance.  A playful smile tugs at the corners of my lips. Travis has a knack for making even the most mundane situations feel like an adventure.

"I had to!" Travis yells back, his voice barely reaching my ears.

I roll my eyes, taking in the scene. The table is littered with crumpled red cups, the pong balls swimming in a sticky puddle of spilled beer.  Faded glow sticks lie scattered on the floor, remnants of earlier revelry. A pang of nostalgia hits me, a forgotten memory of nights spent laughing until my sides ache, the taste of cheap beer lingering on my tongue.

"What do you say, Trav?"  Jason nudges Travis with his elbow.

"Okay, I'll do it," Travis concedes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Only if Tay joins." He shoots me a challenging smirk.

"What? No! I'm going to get wasted if I play!" I protest, but the truth is, a small part of me craves the thrill of the competition, the camaraderie of a good drinking game.

"That's the point of rage cage!" Jason cackles, his laugh echoing through the crowded room.

A slow smile creeps across my face. Travis is right. A tiny, rebellious part of me still misses the wild abandon of these parties.

"Fine," I sigh dramatically, pushing through the throng of people towards the table. A resigned smile plays on my lips as I plop down next to Kylie. "Just so you know, you guys are going down."

"Oh, but you're out of commission," Jason teases, a playful jab poking at the air between us.

"Are you saying because I'm a mom I can't play a simple drinking game?" I counter, a spark of defiance igniting in my chest.

"Whoa there," Jason throws his hands up in mock surrender. "Never said you can't play, just sayin' you can't win." A sly grin spreads across his face, daring me to take the bait.

Normally, I wouldn't be fazed by such a jibe. But for some reason, tonight, something feels different. Maybe it's the infectious energy of the party, or maybe it's the way Travis's eyes light up with every challenge. Whatever it is, a strange desire to prove myself, to show I can still fit into this side of Travis's world, simmers beneath the surface.

"Alright, birthday boy," I smirk, leaning forward.  "How about you and the supposed beer-drinking champ start?"

Jason's eyes widen for a fleeting moment, a flicker of surprise before the familiar competitive glint returns. "I see what you're doing, Swift," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.  "But bring it on.  I'm not afraid of a little competition."

I throw a ping pong ball at him, a playful challenge.  "Prove it."

"1, 2, 3, rage cage!" I roar, throwing my fist up in the air and willing the energy to course through the room. Travis and Jason, those two goofballs, never one to miss a good time, slam back their red solo cups with practiced ease. The cheap beer disappears in a blink, leaving behind a satisfied burp from Travis.

The rules are ingrained in me, etched by countless nights fueled by laughter, questionable decisions, and the ever-present threat of a hangover. Simple, really. Bounce the damn ping pong ball into the cup before your opponent does. But that deceptive simplicity hides a monster – every fumbled bounce, every missed shot, signifies another red solo cup to chug. A disgusting, terrifying game. Why do people play this?

I grab a red solo cup, the condensation slick against my palm, and snatch a ping pong ball from the sticky puddle. My gaze flicks between the ball and the rickety plastic cup a few inches from me, the distance suddenly appearing impossibly vast. Maybe motherhood had dulled my reflexes, I think with a wry smile.

With a deep breath, I focus on the ball, willing it to become an extension of my hand.  A flick of the wrist, a silent prayer to the gods of drunken dexterity, and the ball arcs through the air.

Time seems to slow down. The ball dips, wobbles precariously on the rim of the cup, and then... plop! It lands squarely inside, sending a triumphant surge of adrenaline through me.

I pump my fist in the air, a primal roar escaping my lips. "See, Jason? Still got it!"

Suddenly, Jason leans in, a sly grin plastered on his face. "Well you need to do it about 40 more times," he counters, effectively dampening my victory cry.

"Shut up!" I swat playfully at him, already feeling the competitive fire burning bright. I get back to the game and wait for a cup to be passed back down to me.

The game continues, a blur of red solo cups, nervous bounces, and triumphant shouts. Somewhere along the way, the rules morph. We ditch the simple back-and-forth and implement a ruthless elimination system. Miss your shot, and your opponent sinks theirs? Chug a cup and watch from the sidelines. The stakes rise with each eliminated player, the air thickening with anticipation and the ever-present threat of a hangover. It dwindles down until it's just Jason, Travis, and me, the last ones standing.

In slow motion, the ball shoots out, a white blur against the surface of the table. It bounces once, and with a satisfying thunk lands squarely within the rim of the cup. Relief washes over me, warm and welcome. Travis is out.

Next to me, Travis's playful smirk vanishes. His eyes widening in mock outrage. "What?!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in theatrical disbelief. "How dare you!"

I can't help but grin. The nervous knot in my stomach loosening a fraction. "Sorry babe," I tease back, my voice light, "All's fair in love and war, right?"

Now, the focus shifts to Jason. He sits to my right, a calculating glint in his eye that sends shivers down my spine. This isn't just about winning anymore. It's about pride, about proving I still have the fire, the edge that motherhood hasn't dulled.

Jason leans forward, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who's been downing beers like water all night. "Alright, Tay," he declares, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "Last round. Winner takes all. Loser..." he trails off, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "well, let's just say the loser has a very interesting story to tell come morning."

He raises an eyebrow, daring me to flinch. I meet his gaze head-on, a steely resolve settling in my gut. This isn't just a game anymore. It's a test, a battle for drunken glory.

We grab ping pong balls simultaneously, the only sound the clinking of plastic and the ragged breaths escaping our lips. The tension in the air hangs heavy, a tangible entity threatening to consume me. Ignoring the pounding in my chest, I focus on the ball, willing it to understand the gravity of the situation.

With a deep breath that seems to suck all the air out of the room, I flick my wrist. The ball arces through the air, a tiny white comet against the backdrop of the pulsating room. Time seems to warp, the world slowing to a crawl. The ball dips, teeters precariously on the rim... then, with a plop, it lands inside the cup.

A cheer erupts from my throat, hoarse and triumphant, but quickly dies in my drying mouth. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a stark contrast to the sudden silence hanging heavy in the air. Jason stares at the cup, his face a mask of disbelief. Then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice laced with something that sounds suspiciously like grudging respect.  "Looks like you haven't lost your touch after all."

The triumph curdles in my stomach, a sour twist that sends a warning signal to my brain. Nausea rises, hot and unwelcome, churning its way up my esophagus. I clench my jaw, willing it down, but the feeling is relentless.

"Hey, you okay?" Travis' voice cuts through the haze, laced with concern.

I can only manage a weak shake of the head, one hand flying to my mouth as the other presses against my churning stomach. Jason's yell, a frantic, "She's gonna hurl!" is the last thing I register before I'm bolting.

The bathroom, oh sweet salvation, seems miles away. My legs pump, fueled by pure primal fear, but the kitchen sink is closer. Mercifully closer. I reach it just in time, emptying everything in my stomach. The relief is as immediate as it is gross.

I haul my head up from the sink, a wave of shame washing over me. This has to be the most embarrassing moment of my recent life, maybe even my whole life as a parent. But as I brace myself for the inevitable wave of laughter or crude jokes, something unexpected happens.

The room isn't filled with the sounds of amusement or disgust. Instead, a cheer erupts – a genuine, celebratory one. People around me start whooping and high-fiving, the party picking back up seamlessly. It's like I just completed some bizarre, vomit-inducing victory lap.

My jaw drops. Did they just... cheer for me? Confusion mixes with the lingering nausea as I stare at the jubilant crowd. Maybe they think it's some kind of weird victory dance for winning Rage Cage? Or perhaps they're just so hammered they don't even register what just happened.

The night blurred on. The nausea subsided, replaced by a dull ache behind my eyes and a persistent ringing in my ears. Hours ticked by, measured in the clinking of glasses and the fading roar of conversation. Eventually, the party thinned, the stragglers filtering out into the pre-dawn light.

Travis and I were the last ones standing, slumped on the couch like a pair of deflated balloons.  Empty beer cans littered the coffee table like the casualties of a long war. We were both sporting impressive sleep wrinkles and that glassy-eyed, vaguely traumatized look that comes with one too many red solo cups.

"Fuck," I mumble, more to myself than to him. "I forgot to give you your birthday gift."

Travis stirs beside me, muttering something incoherent before letting out a sleep-heavy groan. "Huh? What'd you say?"

"Your present," I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. "I completely space on giving it to you."

He finally manages to pry one eye open, squinting at me through the dim light filtering in from the window. "No, you didn't," he slurs, his voice thick with sleep. "You got me that fancy journal thing with the leather cover, remember?"

I snort, a dry laugh escaping my lips. "The leather-bound journal you haven't touched? Come on, babe," I nudge him playfully. "You really think I'd get you a journal for your birthday? You're giving me way too much credit... or maybe underestimating my creativity."

A flicker of amusement sparks in his half-opened eye. "That's not the gift?"

"Absolutely not," I reply, a conspiratorial grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "I got you something a little... more your style. Something I know you'll actually like." The playful implication hangs heavy in the air.

Travis finally manages to haul himself fully upright, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He reaches for his water glass, taking a long draught before turning back to me with a raised eyebrow. "Thank god," he sighs dramatically, a hint of relief lacing his voice. "That journal was starting to give me nightmares."

I can't help but laugh, the sound soft and warm in the quiet of the night. "I knew you wouldn't be a fan. This one, though," I wink, letting the anticipation build, "is a guaranteed crowd-pleaser."

Leaning in closer, I lower my voice to a husky whisper, sending a shiver down my own spine in the process. "Let's just say," I begin, tracing a finger along his jawline, "I finally feel like I'm ready to celebrate your birthday properly. And," I continue, my voice dropping to a teasing murmur, "I thought what better way to do that than..." I trail off, letting the unspoken words hang heavy in the air.

A slow grin spreads across Travis's face, a dangerous glint dancing in his eyes. "Damn," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "That is one hell of a gift." He reaches out, his hand trailing possessively down my arm, sending a jolt of electricity through me. "The best birthday present ever," he adds, his voice husky with sleep and something far more primal.

His hand ignites a fire trail down my arm, setting every nerve ending on high alert. The exhaustion that moments ago felt all-encompassing melts away, replaced by a simmering heat that pools low in my belly. My breath catches in my throat, a strangled gasp that hangs heavy in the air between us.

"But," I add reluctantly, the practical side of me rearing its head despite the desire coursing through me, "like I said, I'm wiped. Maybe a different night?"

The playful glint in Travis's eyes doesn't diminish entirely, but a flicker of understanding softens his gaze. He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound rumbling against my chest and sending shivers dancing across my skin. "Sounds like a plan."  His voice holds a teasing edge, but his eyes are warm with a promise for later. "Though," he adds, a playful glint returning to his eyes, "don't think I'll be waiting patiently."

A sheepish smile tugs at my lips, but it fades quickly as the memory of the night resurfaces.  "Ugh, I'm so sorry about, you know," I mumble, gesturing vaguely towards the sink.  "The whole hurling incident."

Travis throws his head back and laughs, a rich, genuine sound that washes over me. "Hey, don't worry about it," he reassures me, his smile widening. "Honestly, no one even blinked.  They were probably all too hammered to register."

I can't help but let out a small, relieved laugh.  The thought of everyone secretly judging me had been gnawing at me all night.

"But seriously," I add, a new wave of worry washing over me.  "That whole scene... it doesn't exactly scream 'dream date,' does it?" My voice dips low, laced with insecurity. "I mean, my life is messy. It's single-mom chaos most of the time.  Not exactly the picture of what you, or anyone really, probably signed up for."

Travis's smile softens, and he reaches out, gently taking my hand in his.  His touch sends a warmth coursing through me, a silent reassurance.  "Look," he says, his voice sincere, "if I wasn't ready for all that comes with dating a single mom, I wouldn't be here, would I?"  His gaze holds mine, steady and unwavering.  "Your life might not be as wild and crazy as it once was, but it's real, it's you, and that's what matters."

A tentative smile spreads across my face, a flicker of hope rekindled. "So," I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, "you're sure you can handle the ride?"

Travis squeezes my hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Absolutely. Besides," he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "who knows, maybe I can add a little bit of chaos of my own to the mix."

—————Author's Note:

Long chapter :)

Anyways I hate myself and everything

Today I went to the DMV to take my drivers test and they basically said I couldn't take my test and I was so frustrated and wanted to break down crying and I almost did it was AH

Why does this happen??? Like I feel so stupid and feel like a brat when stuff like this happens. Like omg something didn't go ur way and now ur having an internal meltdown.

Braeden's rant of the day