Page 43 of The Bachelor

Shane went over to his mini-fridge and grabbed a soft drink, wishing it wasn’t too early to drink. He popped the tab and took a long swallow to force the bile back down his throat. He didn’t reflect on that day three hundred and sixty-four days a year. His birthday was the only day he allowed himself to remember. Heading to his desk he felt his nostrils flaring as he pictured it, being a kid, being excited. He’d never had a party before and he had invited five buddies from school over.

Friends weren’t allowed at their house as a general rule because it made their father mad. Everything made their father mad. But later on, Shane had realized other parents didn’t want their kids coming to the Hart house anyway, because they were afraid of what they might see. It still pissed him off that no one had ever offered to help his mother. Nope. Carlene Hart had been on her own.

It was the silly string that started it.

Elle accidentally shot some out of the can on the coffee table, where Daddy’s beer was, and it had wrapped around the can. He had grabbed the can out of her hand, and thrown it against the wall.

Carlene had protested, complaining that it was for the party, that it had been expensive. Invoking money with Billy was the biggest misstep ever, right after commenting on how much he drank.

When she had bent over to retrieve the can, Elle already scurrying far out of the way, Billy kicked his mother right in the back, knocking her down against the wall, her head clipping against the end table. She didn’t move, unconscious, and Shane remembered the fear that she was dead, and the loathing, the deep, primal rage. He had attacked his father with balled-up ineffectual fists, screaming, “Don’t hurt my mama!” It was a blur, but the next thing he knew Billy had snapped his arm backwards in half.

He could still hear the crack of his bone, feel all the air leave his lungs, remember the scream of pain that roared out of his mouth. His father had popped him across the mouth, then yelled at him to shut up and man up and stay the fuck out of his business. Shane had tumbled to the well-worn carpet and thrown up, almost choking on his own vomit, before he had rolled to his side and lay there crying, hating himself for being weak, unable to protect his mother or his sisters. He had lain there and stared at the silly string, the sad little streamers his mother had tried to use to make their depressing dump of a house festive. There was a lopsided dollar mix cake, ten candles in it, right next to his father’s beer and his birthday seemed pathetic. Pointless.

A broken arm was all he’d gotten that day. No presents. It was a tradition he had continued.

Sitting in his desk chair, he reached down into his file cabinet and pulled out the worn manila envelope that held the X-rays from that day, and from the ones that followed. A little bundle of hate, that’s what it was. He sat there, morose, until someone knocked on his door.

“Yes, come in.” He shoved the folder back in his drawer and forced himself to look at the awards on his wall, the glossy framed photos of his talent. This was who he was. Not that scared kid.

The door opened and his assistant, Stormy, popped her head in. “There’s a package for you, sir.”

“So bring it to me.”

Stormy grinned. “It’s kind of big. Maybe you should come out here.”

Great. That sounded like birthday bullshit. Suspicious, he stood up and glared at her. “Did you do something?”

Stormy was about a year younger than him, and was never the least bit intimidated by him. She pushed her purple glasses up on her nose. “Nope. I think your artists are to blame for this one.”

When he stepped outside, feeling some serious trepidation, he was greeted by an entire line of sexy women in short-shorts wearing T-shirts that said, “Dirty Thirty.” There were whoops from his co-workers, heads popping up from cubicles as his friend and very talented musician, Walker, started playing the guitar. Oh, God. He was playing Happy Birthday. Shane coughed to hide his fucking horror. The girls, all smiling, and all very big-chested, started shimmying and dancing and singing. It was a very interesting display for noon at the office and he would rather be anywhere but where he was at that moment.

This was his very definition of hell.

But he was pleased that his friends cared. Stormy opened the door to her office and suddenly balloons burst forward, smacking him in the face. “These are from the label,” she said around gold Mylar.

Then a cake was being wheeled in, also from the label, shaped like a Grammy with a giant “30” on it.

It was nice. He had to admit it. He might even enjoy it if his palms weren’t sweating and his forehead wasn’t clammy.

He ate cake. He said thank you. He smiled. He joked. He did what he had learned to do well over the years. Seem engaged but keep his distance. No one needed to know how he really felt, what his birthday really represented.

Yet when he finally went back to the peace of his office, feeling his gut twisted in knots, he texted Avery, whose number he’d gotten by asking her in front of Pat, knowing she couldn’t refuse him then.

It’s my birthday.

He had no idea why the fucking hell he did it. Or why he didn’t stop himself. But he didn’t.

Then he realized he knew exactly why he’d done it. Because he sensed Avery would understand. That he could share his past with her and she would meet his history with compassion and comfort.

But he still hated himself for reaching out when he’d told her he wouldn’t do that.

She didn’t respond.

Yep. Another shitty birthday in the books.

TWENTY-ONE

It was the absolute best week of her life and the worst week of her life.

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