I groan at the sound of my obnoxious, chirping ringtone. I had gotten up at six in the morning to sneak in some extra study time, and had been struggling with one particular test question. And now my phone decided to chime in. Perfect timing.

Flipping it open, my grumpy mood instantly fades and a smile reaches my lips as I read a message from Lawrence.

Happy birthday, G. Enjoy the pancakes.

I reread the text again, puzzled. I look up around my hotel suite. A quick survey of the room confirms it is indeed pancake-less.

Just then, I hear a loud knock at the door. My heart races at the prospect of my beloved older brother surprising me on my birthday with pancakes. I scramble out of bed with excitement and rush to the door. I pull it open to find Melissa standing in the hall, wearing a party hat and a goofy smile. I do my best to disguise the disappointment of not seeing my brother on the other side of the door and give Melissa a warm smile.

She starts to sing “Happy Birthday,” and I bite back a chuckle at her off-key rendition. By the second verse, however, I can’t keep it in. “Melissa, I love you, but your tone deafness is going to make my ears bleed.”

Melissa playfully sticks out her tongue and pushes a cart overflowing with an assortment of flowers and a few covered trays into my hotel suite.

I close the door behind her and she lifts up a large, covered tray to reveal a sky-high pile of chocolate-chip pancakes. I can’t fight the huge smile overtaking my face when I see the elaborate display. As far back as I can remember, Lawrence had always cooked me a birthday breakfast. It was our special thing and he never forgot a year. For my last birthday, he had surprised me while I was studying abroad in a remote Swiss city. He had come prepared with ingredients and a tiny hotplate. After we ended up shorting out the electricity in my apartment, we dined on his watery, undercooked pancakes.

Piling up my plate, I grab the carafe of syrup and drop down onto the couch. I shove a few bites in my mouth before remembering Melissa and offering her a bite of my delicious treat.

She shakes her head at my offer. “Thanks, but I think I’m coming down with a cold and don’t want to share it.”

I look her over, noticing her puffy eyes and red nose. “Yeah, you don’t look so good, Mel.”

She dabs her nose with a tissue. “I just need to rest. I mean, who else in the world gets a cold in June? Luckily we don’t have a show tonight so I can down some Nyquil and pass out.” She pushes herself off the couch, removing her party hat and affixing it to the top of my head. She offers me a mischievous smile before continuing. “Also, wear something nice tonight. Daphni booked you two dinner at Fiola. You’re meeting your sister at eight forty-five sharp in the lobby.”

I roll my eyes and stuff another oversized forkful of pancake into my mouth. “Oh, Daphni booked it, did she?” We both know Melissa does all the heavy lifting and Daphni shows up looking pretty, taking all the credit.

Melissa playfully shoves me. “Yes, she did. So go out and buy yourself a cute dress for tonight, birthday girl.”

I nod in agreement and Melissa waves goodbye before stepping out the door. I continue to eat my pancakes until I feel a dull ache in my stomach, signaling defeat. Unlike Daphni, who enjoys month-long birthday celebrations, I had never really enjoyed all the fanfare that came with birthdays. I still remember with bitterness how my mother had invited People magazine to cover my tenth birthday party: an elaborate princess-themed affair where she had insisted I have three costume changes complete with photo shoots for each look. I never even got a chance to eat the damn cake.

After that fiasco, I had insisted that my birthday celebrations be of my choosing. From then on, all my birthdays had included dinner with Daphni and Lawrence, followed by the three of us eating cake in bed and watching cheesy rom-coms. As Lawrence had gone off to boarding school, then college, and Daphni left for tour, I had spent more and more of my birthdays alone. Instead of dinners out with my siblings, it had become Chinese takeout in my apartment. The whole binging on cake in bed, however, was a tradition that was still going strong. A perk of being solo on my birthday was more cake for me.

The prospect of spending an uninterrupted evening with my sister, however, is enough to motivate me to go shopping. Since her apology, we haven’t really been able to spend too much one-on-one time together, and I was looking forward to bringing back some of our old birthday traditions.

I shower and dress and a short hour later, I’m walking the cobblestone streets of Georgetown, smoothie in hand, on a mission to find the perfect dress for tonight. It’s one of those gross, humid days, and the oppressive heat has me ducking into a different store every fifteen minutes to take full advantage of their air conditioning.

I make my way toward my favorite boutique, Promises, and rush inside, grateful again for the relief of the air conditioning. I mindlessly rifle through the racks, waiting to fall in love with a dress, but disappointed to find that every dress has one ruffle or rhinestone too many. The last three stores were all similar disappointments, and I am beginning to lose hope when I spot a mannequin dressed in a gold and white dress out of the corner of my eye. The dress is stunning: a strapless bodice, encased in gold sequins, stopping right at the waist before transitioning into flowing white gossamer. Ending right at the knee, the dress feels like the perfect marriage of elegant and sexpot.

“Gorgeous, right?” A chipper voice at my right interrupts my gawking. I tear my eyes away and look at the perky blonde sales assistant standing in front of me.

“It’s beautiful,” I agree.

“Well, try it on!”

I shake my head. “No, I couldn’t. No way I can pull that off.”

She gently pushes me in the direction of the changing rooms at the back of the store. “Nonsense. Go to the changing rooms and I’ll bring you the dress.” She surveys me quickly, her blue eyes trailing up and down my body. “Size six, right?”

I nod, impressed by her quick assessment, and walk over to the line of small booths, cordoned off by rich, velvet curtains. I slide into the one on the edge, pull the curtain closed, kick off my sneakers, and drop my bag on the floor. I take one last slurp of my smoothie before depositing it by my bag. The sales attendant arrives a moment later, handing me the dress through the curtain. I take another moment to admire it, fingering the delicate sequins and holding it against me. Casting my reflection a wary smile, I convince myself to at least try it on. I slide out of my shorts and top and slip out of my lace bralette. I gingerly step into the dress, momentarily panicking as it coasts over what my mother had not-so-affectionately called my “birthing hips.” I am relieved when the dress, with a little shimmying, slips over my hips, and I arch my arm over my back to zip it closed. I turn to look in the mirror and take a deep swallow of breath. This dress might be one of the most gorgeous items of clothing I have ever worn. It hugs every curve, and the sequined bodice generously accentuates and highlights my cleavage. It’s subtly sexy, and I’m kind of impressed with how good I look. It’s a welcome change from my usual boring uniform of jeans and whatever top I pulled out of the laundry basket.

I pull out the tag and momentarily balk at the $250 price tag. Even though my credit card bills are still paid for by my father, I have been on a strict, self-imposed budget for the past three years. I had gone through a bit of a reality check after my freshman year, when I had first lived on my own and realized the lifestyle I had grown up with was going to seriously exceed the salary I would be bringing in as a defense attorney. Since that unpleasant reality check, I had been on a conscious path to living within the average college student’s budget. This dress cost almost my entire monthly food budget. But then again, $250 was pocket change to my family, and although that wasn’t reason enough to drop that much for a party dress, it was my birthday. And more importantly, it was going to be the first time in a while my sister and I had done any kind of sisterly bonding, and wasn’t that worth celebrating with a kick-ass, amazing dress?

Sadly that was all it took to convince myself to bring the dress home. I unzip myself out of the dress and stumble back into my clothes. Before I can change my mind, I hand the dress back to the eager sales attendant waiting for me.

“I’ll take it.”