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To the people on my laminated list
There weren’t many people in this world who would let you be vulnerable and still believe you were strong.
—VERONICA MARS
[1]
While there might be varying degrees of magnitude as to how much, Everly Dean firmly believed that birthdays sucked. This one, her thirtieth, more than most. Even more than her seventh when her parents decided the best time to announce their first separation was at the party right before they brought out the piñata. At least back then, there’d been a papier-mâché donkey to beat up, followed by an explosion of sugary treats.
She’d attacked that thing with such vehemence, they’d bought her one each year after for her parties until she got smart and hid the one from her twelfth birthday in the back of her closet. When her mom couldn’t find it, she’d suggested the kids try spin the bottle. Everly had quit parties right there. That didn’t break the cycle, though. At least today wasn’t quite as bad as her twenty-first, when she’d spent the night in the ER after getting tonsillitis while still dealing with bronchitis.
Today hovered somewhere between the two; maybe an eight or nine on the suckage scale. What made her think, with her history, showing up at her boyfriend’s house with coffee and bagels before work was a good idea? When he’d said he was going to bed early last night, she’d believed him. Ha. He probably did. Just not alone.
She gripped the steering wheel of her car, knowing she needed to get on with her day, which involved leaving the car. Baby steps. She got out, leaned against the door. The nearly 10:00 a.m. sunshine warmed some of the chill out of her bones. How did she always end up here? Her muscles tightened.
How? You pick immature men who you have very little in common with, hoping their extroverted qualities cancel out your introverted ones.
“Well said, Dr. Everly.” Her words ended on a sigh. Dating wasn’t easy. Understatement of the year. If she got ready to go out without breaking into hives, she called it a win. Low expectations resulted in less-than-stellar outcomes. She seemed intent on proving that ad nauseam.
As she walked across the parking lot, humiliation heated her skin more than the sun. Focus on something else. Something good.
If this was thirty, she needed some guidelines. Rules. Just because today sucked didn’t mean she wanted to turn into a bitter old woman, collecting cats or birds or newspaper clippings to ease the ache. Rule one: No animal hoarding. Though, maybe one would be fine. Hmm … maybe she should get a cat. Rule two: Find the positive. No, wait, that should be rule one. Rule one: Focus on the good. Rule two: No hoarding—animal or otherwise.
Once she was inside, lost in work, her mood would shift. Hopefully. There’s a positive. She loved her job as a radio show producer for a light listening station. Decent hours even if it wasn’t the coveted spot, good pay, she didn’t work with jerks, which was always a bonus. She and the deejay, Stacey, had become fast friends three years ago after they realized they both adored Veronica Mars and hated seafood pizza—the staff had ordered in lunch one day, and they’d both gagged on the smell—instant friendship. Plus, Stacey had more dating disaster stories than Everly, which was comforting even if it was because she dated more often. The fact that they had to work closely together on most of the programming only improved their bestie status.
An ache settled under her rib cage, winding its way over and under each bone, burrowing in for the long haul. She breathed around it, but it didn’t fade. The desire to turn around and go home and curl up in bed got stronger the closer she got to the door. Just breathe. You’re fine. Fingers curled, nails pressed into the softness of her palms, her breathing evened out. Everything would be okay. That’s what you thought this morning. Just get through today. She’d been saying that to herself for about twenty-three years.
She’d keep her head down, get to her producer booth, seek solitude inside the eight-by-eight isolation square. She’d send fake smiles through the glass and maybe keep the door locked. Plan made, she pulled open the back door of the old building that housed 96.2 SUN. Work and home were her happy places. At least here, she couldn’t crawl back into bed and rate her birthdays by level of disaster.
Everly straightened her shoulders and let the door close behind her but paused at the bottom of the ancient, carpeted stairwell.
Thirteen stairs, less than a hundred steps to her booth. She’d avoid idle chitchat—even her friend’s—like a Kate Spade blowout sale. Stacey insisted the deals on her favorite bags were worth the crowds, but in Everly’s mind, that was her own version of the nine circles of hell. One level below someone massaging her naked body and a couple above moving back in with her parents.
She rubbed her left palm with her right thumb. Head down, straight to the booth. She didn’t “people” well at the best of times, even with her coworkers. They probably all thought she was a snob. Something weird happened to her ability to form words whenever she got in a room with more than three people—it was like she’d eaten a spoonful of peanut butter. Easier to stay quiet. Especially on a day when her emotions were swirling like a tornado.
“Just go to work already,” she told herself, curling her fingers into fists.
Up the steps, through another door, she made it all the way into the booth without looking up or tripping over her feet. Well, the first one, anyway. She had to go through Stacey’s deejay booth to get to her spot because the outside door to the production booth had jammed shut about six months ago and no one had fixed it. It wasn’t time for their show yet, but the early show host would have left the music playing so they could make the shift change work. Stacey was already in the booth, earphones on, hips moving, staring at the computer.
It seemed like that would make it easier to sneak by, but apparently, having her head down didn’t make her invisible. Unfortunately.
“There she is. The birthday girl,” Stacey said.
Everly winced. There. Birthday acknowledged. You didn’t go up in flames. Time for work. “Hey,” she muttered, staring down at her purple Converse.
“My eyes are up here, sunshine.”
A small laugh escaped. “But your feet are so pretty. Are you wearing orange polish?”
“I am.”
Everly walked toward the door that separated their booths and had her hand on the knob.
“Ev?”
Inhaling deeply, locking her lips into a smile, she turned her head. Everly looked straight at her friend, right into her eyes, hoping Stacey knew her well enough to read her mood—to know she could not handle any conversation right now. Even without knowing the details, surely Everly’s mood transmitted clearly. Was she visibly shaking?
Any other day or maybe one when she hadn’t found her now-ex entertaining a very well-endowed—and flexible—woman in his bedroom at 6:00 a.m., she could do this. But if she said anything right now, she’d be a volcano set for eruption.
; “You, my lovely, beautiful friend, are thirty,” Stacey said, a smile on her pink lips—the woman actually got out of bed early to put on makeup. When Everly argued they were in the booths all morning, why bother when no one saw them, Stacey told her there was never a reason not to look her best. And she always did. Everly liked her in spite of this.
Everly offered a weak smile. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Undeterred, Stacey added, “It’s a big deal.”
“Hmm.”
“A day worth celebrating.”
“Sure.” Her hand tightened on the knob.
“And to start that celebration, I’m going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you,” Stacey said, taking a step closer.
Please no. “Pass.”
Stacey laughed. Everly turned the knob. Just a few more steps. Hold it together.
“You can’t escape.” Stacey started to sing. Loudly. Loudly enough that the rest of the station might hear and, God forbid, come join in.
Everly let go of the knob and took a step toward the deejay. “Stop,” she hissed.
Stacey shook her head and drew out the words, throwing her arms out dramatically, her voice growing louder. “Happy b—”
“Stacey Joanne Ryan, stop singing right now!”
Her friend’s words died abruptly. Fittingly, like radio silence. She blinked. “Huh?”
Everly hated that her breath shook along with her hands. She hadn’t been in love with the jerk or looking to have his babies. She’d thought if she tried to let him in on what was, to most people, a celebratory day, it would bring them closer. Ha. Any closer, you might have lost an eye. So much for putting herself out there. Blinking away tears, she did her best to give her friend a quick rundown.
“It. Is. Not. A. Happy. Birthday.” She leaned in closer, her chest uncomfortably tight. “None of them are particularly great, but this one is an epic disaster. I found Simon in bed with his personal assistant this morning. You do not want to know how she was assisting him. Lucky me, I stood there like an idiot until they finally noticed me. After which, I mumbled something incoherent and ran from the room, dropping bagels and coffee all over the floor. So, while I appreciate your friendship and your enthusiasm and your inexplicable love of acknowledging the date of my birth, I do not want to celebrate or be sung to. No cake. No presents. There’s a slight possibility I’ll want a stiff drink after work if you’re up for that. But if we go out? I don’t want to meet anyone. I don’t want anyone else buying me drinks. I want to forget what today is, forget what happened, and while I’m at it … you know what? You can throw men onto that list. I’m done.”
Stacey’s eyes widened at the same time her jaw dropped open. But Everly didn’t stop when her friend started to speak. That was what happened with a dormant volcano; it was quiet forever, and then it blew, destroying everything in its path.
She pointed at Stacey. “No birthdays. No men. Actually, you know what? I’ll amend that. If you happen to find a man who looks like Chris Pine, acts like Chris Hemsworth, smiles like Chris Pratt, and has a body like Chris Evans’s, I’ll rethink things. But until then? I am officially off the market.” She nodded as if she agreed with herself. She felt oddly exhausted after the outburst. “Understood?”
Stacey nodded, her lips trembling, and guilt crashed into Everly with a thud. The other woman’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. Everly hadn’t meant to be so cruel, but she was having a hell of a morning already and just wanted a few minutes to absorb what had happened. Now she’d done this. To someone who cared. Like the crash that followed a junk-food binge, all her energy and anger evaporated.
“I’m so sorry, Stace. That was completely uncalled for. I—”
“Stop. Stop talking. Right now.” She actually put her hand on Everly’s mouth.
Everly’s gasp was completely muffled, along with her words when she tried to speak around her friend’s palm. Stacey shook her head frantically. “Stop. Stop. I’m so sorry.”
Why was she whispering? She tried to look around, but no one else was hovering nearby. Everly pushed at Stacey’s hand, but Stacey was surprisingly strong.
“We’re on-air, Ev. We’re live. Stop. I’m so sorry.”
Everly thought she knew what rock bottom felt like. She definitely knew it looked like a very tall, stacked blonde perched over her boyfriend. She hadn’t known, until this moment, that it was possible to fall further. At the bottom of the drop, the red On Air sign shone like a warning light. Mortification swamped her like high tide pulling her under. Her brain went a little fuzzy. Her skin tingled.
Stacey pulled her hand away, index finger at her lips, and backed away, swiping her hand over the control buttons. As soon as she’d done that, as soon as they weren’t live, her friend charged her with a tackle hug. “I am so sorry. What a jackass bastard. I cannot believe that. I will buy you as many drinks as you want. For life. You deserve it.”
No. No. She had not just announced to all the listeners that she was off men and the reason why. But she had. She couldn’t give a speech to a group of her closest friends, but she’d just shared her love life with thousands of listeners. Her stomach nose-dived even as her skin heated. No. Pulling out of Stacey’s embrace, she lost the battle against tears. Everly swiped the first few from her cheeks. “I can’t believe this. Why the hell were you live?”
Stacey’s face crumpled. “I wanted to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you on the air. To make you feel special. I’m so sorry I did this to you.”
They stood there staring at each other, and Everly felt like she’d slipped into a different dimension. One that was upside down and backward and full of potholes.
Luke, the morning janitor, popped his head in. “You got dead air, Stace.”
Stacey gasped and hurried to the board, pressing buttons. “Damn it! No. Okay, thanks, Luke. My bad.” Her eyes found Everly’s, and Everly could tell her friend wanted to say more, to apologize again. It wouldn’t change anything.
It just kept getting worse. Everly stepped backward, her hands up, her purse shifting awkwardly on her shoulder so she almost dropped it. “I can’t do this. We can’t talk about this right now. The day has barely started, and it’s already horrible. We need to get to work.” She could handle work. Quiet, solitude, and her job.
Hurrying into the production booth, she got herself set up and tried to avoid Stacey’s regretful gaze through the plexiglass. This birthday just got bumped up to a solid 9.5. Rule three: Stay home on birthdays.
Calls started coming into the station almost immediately. Typically, it was Everly’s job to screen the callers, but the phone lines lit up like a Christmas tree and she couldn’t keep up. They ignored them for the time being while Stacey tried to laugh off sharing her producer’s personal drama. Everly hoped that was the end of it. Just another thing about the day to forget.
Hopes of the wish coming true vanished when the station manager came into the deejay booth. Through the glass, his eyes locked on Everly’s, tipping her stomach upside down. Her stomach always went a little weird around him. Nerves, most likely, since she didn’t think he liked her all that much. Today probably lowered his opinion.
Walking forward, his lips pressed together in a tight line, he pushed open the door. With his broad shoulders, assessing gaze, and the light scent of his cologne, he filled the space without even trying. Everly swiveled in her chair, her heart jumping around like a kitten who’d gotten his tail caught.
“Mr. Jansen. This is a surprise. Good morning,” she said. Yup. Total peanut butter mouth. Sweat beaded along her hairline. He wasn’t particularly friendly to her on a good day, and as she’d already established to thousands of listeners, today was not one of those. Everly didn’t know what she’d done to rub him the wrong way, but since his arrival at the station less than a year ago, he’d kept his distance. With others, he laughed and joked and seemed like a regular guy in addition to a boss. With her, he took off his cloak of approachability, offering a nod in passing or being as succin
ct as possible if he had to speak to her about something work related.
“Is it? I’m surprised you think so after the morning you’ve had,” he said, his voice quiet. He wore his light brown hair perfectly trimmed and styled in a way that made it seem purposely tousled. It probably took him way too long to make it just right. Good God, focus. Maybe he wanted to say happy birthday. A bubble of nervous laughter fought to escape. The fire blazing in his hard-to-identify-the-exact-shade-of-green eyes suggested otherwise.
“Uh … you heard?” Why would you ask a question you know the answer to? As if you haven’t made yourself sound dumb enough. Great follow-up. If only invisibility shields were real, she could disappear right now. Slip away to somewhere else. Anywhere else.
When he straightened, his perfectly tailored, coal-black suit jacket moved easily with his body, showing not only the quality but his ease. She tried not to look. But clearly her eyes were dumb.
When she glanced up, she saw something that looked a lot like sympathy in his gaze. “Yes, I heard, Ms. Dean. Everyone heard. We’re being inundated with calls.”
If a sinkhole opened up under her rolling chair, she would not have been disappointed. When, after a beat, it didn’t, she stared at the wall just beyond him. If she didn’t want to talk about her lousy morning with her friend or their loyal listeners, she definitely didn’t want to talk to the by-the-book station manager about it. Especially when he usually went out of his way to not talk to her.
“You should go.”
Her eyes snapped up to his. “What?” No. No. No.
“Go home. Take the day. You don’t need to be answering the phone and fielding these calls. Consider it a birthday present.”
She stiffened. “I don’t want presents.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. “I heard that, too.”
Stacey burst into the room. “It’s not her fault. Don’t send her home. Please, Chris.”
Ten Rules for Faking It Page 1
