Page 136 of You're so Bad

“Don’t think I forgot it’s your birthday today.”

I had, actually. “This better not be a fish tank.”

ChapterThirty-Five

Leonard

Shane shows up at the apartment with a bag of bagels and a look that says he’s pretty damn pleased with himself. He’s wearing a button down and pants that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. Then again, my entire wardrobe put together is a bunch of shitty T-shirts, worn jeans and shorts, and that one pimp suit I’d like to burn.

“You have news?” I ask before he gets through the door.

He chuckles in that hot-shot way he’s probably practiced in front of the mirror as he steps through the opening and closes the door behind him.

Hell, yes, he has news.

“Burke,” I call. “Danny.”

They emerge from their relative rooms, Burke looking like he’s nursing a hangover. Then again, he did go drink for drink with me last night. Danny stayed up late too, but he’s more intelligent than either of us and switched to water after the first hour. The bike shorts he’s wearing suggest he went out for a ride—and then returned from it—before I rolled off the couch and made coffee. Fair enough: it is past one.

We didn’t talk about anything too heavy last night. We just shot the shit about the game Danny and Drew developed. Danny’s thinking about selling it to a developer, on account of Drew’s still in Puerto Rico with no plans to return anytime soon, and Danny doesn’t want to be the front man. It felt good talking about something other than the charges that are still hanging over my head like a meat cleaver. Or the wedding I’m supposed to go to with Shauna today.

I know she’s going with her grandfather.

Delia told Burke, and Burke told me. It feels wrong not to be there at her side, stirring up shit. I want to ask her what it felt like, seeing her grandfather again. I want to know if Constance is still making those raw cookies or if she’s moved on to another experiment. I want to know if the kid’s been painting in that green room. I texted Shauna last night, at midnight:

Happy birthday, Tiger, knock ’em dead.

And then, because I was already a bit drunk:

I’m trying.

I don’t blame her for not texting back. I didn’t make any promises, because I can’t, not with that cleaver still in the air.

I did tell my buddies about the dreams. About my girl Gidget. About pushing Shauna away. I told them all of it on Wednesday night, when they showed up at my house like Santa Claus—there to save me from myself.

Shesent them to me. She knows what I need better than I do, which is terrifying—and also kind of nice. For most of my life, no one had my back, and now I have a family. I have people who care about me.

I wanthertoo.

I want to sweep her off her feet and away from that stupid wedding so I can treat her the way she deserves. I want to show her that I love her. That I’m going to be there for her.

On Wednesday night, in the front room of the little purple house, Shane assured me that I’m almost certainly not going back to jail. Burke doubled down and said I sure as shit wasn’t, because he didn’t care about getting the bail money back. He’d drive me to Mexico himself if I needed to make a getaway.

“This isn’t something you should be talking about in front of me,” Shane had told him, but then he’d shrugged and said, “I’d gas up your car.” We all laughed together, and something inside of me began stitching itself back together.

It hurt about as much as that needle probably had, going in and out of Reese’s arm, but it felt like a start.

So did going to therapy for the first time yesterday. Burke’s a miracle worker, every bit the hero I’ve told Shauna he is, and he got me in to see his therapist. She didn’t say much to me, on account of I spent the whole time telling her about all the shit that’s wrong with me, but she ended our session by saying there’s a lot for us to ‘unpack.’

She’s not wrong. I’ve been carrying my baggage around for too long, and I’m ready to let it go.

Again, it’s a start. I’ll be going twice a week, presuming I don’t get sent back to the slammer.

I’ve wanted to tell Shauna about the therapist. I’ve wanted to hear her voice and assure myself that she’s okay, because when she left Mrs. Ruiz’s house, she definitely did not look okay. But other than sending her that text last night, I’ve held a hard line with myself—don’t reach out to her until the charges are dropped. I need to wait until I know I’m not going back.

Because if I am, then all of this is for nothing. I won’t let her be with me if she’s the only thing I’m hanging on for, and I’m a shackle on her leg. I won’t do that. I’ve done some shit I regret, but I know there would be no greater sin than taking her love like it’s a sponge.

If the charges get dropped, I can only hope to hell that Shauna forgives my sorry ass. That she knows I did all of thisbecauseI love her. I can’t bring her down with my drama. I want to stand beside her and help her when she needs it and support her badassery when she doesn’t.

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