Chapter 22
SAM
Eli is really good at avoiding people at a party—specifically me. Every time I move even a little in his direction, he somehow ends up turning into another conversation like it just happened naturally.
It's so smooth it's almost impressive. Like he's done it enough times that it's just muscle memory now.
Happy belated birthday, asshole. I’d say it to your face if you'd stop acting like I’m contagious.
I take another sip of my lukewarm beer, watching as he laughs at something some girl in a cropped sweater says.
"You're doing it again," Zach says, appearing beside me with the stealth of a brother who knows exactly when I'm mentally plotting someone's demise.
"Doing what?" I blink innocently.
"That thing where you stare at Eli like you're trying to make his head explode with your mind." He mimics my expression, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips in what I'm sure is a grotesque exaggeration.
"I don't look like that." I punch his arm lightly. "And I'm not staring. I'm observing. There's a difference."
"Mmhmm." Zach doesn't sound convinced. "Well, stop observing and come observe how I'm going to destroy the Archer twins at beer pong. Caroline's already claimed a front-row seat."
I glance over to where Care is perched on the arm of a sofa near the beer pong table, her chin resting on her palm, looking like someone who has found the perfect spot to watch a bloodbath.
"The Archers? Seriously?" I say, grateful for the distraction. "Those two couldn't hit water if they fell out of a boat."
"Exactly why I need you as my partner. Easy victory." Zach grins. "Unless you'd rather spend the next hour playing will-he-won't-he with Mr. Popularity over there."
I take one last look at Eli, who has now migrated to the kitchen with his new entourage. His eyes briefly meet mine before he turns away so quickly it's almost comical.
"Let's destroy some twins," I say, draining my beer.
The beer pong table—with the red Solo cups arranged in triangles at either end—is surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers. Luke and Liam Archer stand at the far end, identical grins on their identical faces.
"Look who decided to grace us with her presence," Liam calls out. "Our little devil, beer pong prodigy and professional ball-buster."
"Alright, alright," Zach says, positioning himself beside me. "Standard rules. Make it, they drink it. Clear the table, game over."
"And no crying when we win," I add sweetly. "It's unattractive and makes your faces all blotchy."
"Big talk for someone who's about to get absolutely annihilated," Luke says, bouncing a ping pong ball against the table and catching it. "Ladies first."
I catch the ball he tosses to me and step up to the imaginary line. The twins' cups are arranged in a perfect triangle, begging to be dismantled. I blow on the ball like it's a loaded die, close one eye, and release.
The ping pong ball arcs through the stale room air and lands with a satisfying plunk in the center cup.
"Beginners luck," Liam mutters, fishing out the ball and downing the beer.
"Beginners?" I gasp in mock offense. "I'll have you know I've been throwing balls at cups since before you knew how to tie your hockey skates."
Zach goes next, sinking his shot into one of the front cups. Luke drinks that one, grimacing.
"I think they've been practicing, bro," he says to Liam.
"Or maybe you two just suck," Caroline calls from her spectator position. When the twins shoot her twin glares, she blows them a kiss.
The game continues with a steady rhythm. Liam misses. Luke makes one. I sink another. Zach misses but comes close enough to earn some sympathetic "oohs" from the crowd. The friendly trash talk escalates with each round.
"My grandma has better aim than that," Zach tell Luke after he misses by a good six inches.
"At least your grandma knows when to keep her mouth shut," he fires back.
"That's actually pretty good," Zach concede, raising his cup in salute before taking a sip.
"He's been waiting all night to use that," Liam says.
"Shut up," Luke elbows him — which throws off Liam's aim completely. The ball ricochets off the table and hits the floor.
By the time we're down to our last few cups, my throat feels scratchy and raw. I suppress a cough behind my hand, hoping nobody notices. The room is packed with bodies, but somehow I'm shivering.
Great timing, immune system.
Really appreciate you choosing now to remind me you're completely useless.
"Angel?" Zach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Your turn."
I step up, trying to focus on the cups instead of the dull ache spreading across my shoulders. The twins have three cups left. We have two. I take a deep breath that tickles my throat dangerously.
"Is this your strategy now?" Liam teases. "Stare at the cups until they surrender?"
"I'm giving you time to prepare emotionally for what's about to happen," I retort, then toss the ball. It lands squarely in one of their cups with a satisfying splash.
"Boom!" Zach shouts, a little too close to my ear. "That's my sister! Genetic superiority!"
I laugh, but it triggers the cough I've been holding back. I turn away quickly, covering my mouth while trying to make it sound like I'm just clearing my throat.
"You good?" Zach asks quietly.
"Yeah," I rasp, forcing a smile. "Just beer went down the wrong pipe earlier."
The twins are down to their last two cups after Liam makes his shot and Zach has to drink. When it's my turn again, a shiver runs through me so violently that I almost drop the ball.
What the hell? The room must be eighty degrees with all these people.
I make the shot anyway, because I'm not about to let a little chill ruin my beer pong domination. The twins are down to one cup now, and the crowd around us has grown.
"Finish them!" someone calls out from behind me.
Zach steps up, bounces the ball once on the table, and we all watch as it soars in a perfect arc, landing with a splash in the final cup.
"And that's how it's done!" I cheer, raising my arms in victory, trying to ignore how the movement makes my body ache.
"Rematch," Luke demands immediately. "That was just our warm-up round."
"Sure, if you want to lose twice in one night," I say, but my voice catches on the last word as another cough threatens to break through.
While Liam resets the cups, I rub my arms, trying to generate some warmth. The shirt I'm wearing suddenly feels like tissue paper against the apparent arctic blast that only I can feel.
Zach's eyes narrow as he watches me. "Are you cold?"
"No," I lie automatically, then amend, "Maybe a little. It's nothing."
"It's like a sauna in here," he says, looking concerned. His forehead creases the same way our dad's does when he's worried. It's both annoying and endearing.
"I'm fine," I insist. "Let's play."
The second game goes much like the first, except my aim is getting shakier and I'm having a harder time pretending I'm not freezing. After I miss an easy shot, Zach pulls me aside.
"I'm going to tell them to turn down the AC," he says in a low voice.
"No!" I grab his arm. "Don't be ridiculous. There are like a hundred people in here. Everyone else will melt."
"I don't care about everyone else," he says, and there's that Westbrook stubbornness I know so well. "You're shivering, angel."
"It's just... I think I'm coming down with something," I admit. "Probably just a cold. It's that time of year." The semester's been kicking my ass, and I've barely been sleeping. A cold is perfectly normal. Completely explainable.
"All the more reason to make it warmer in here," he argues.
"Zach, I swear to God, if you make a scene about the temperature at this party, I will tell everyone about the time you cried watching A Walk to Remember."
He gasps. "You promised that would stay between us!"
"And it will, as long as you drop this AC crusade." I soften my voice. "I appreciate it, really, but I'm okay."
"Fine. But at least take this." He unzips his hoodie and shrugs it off, holding it out to me.
"Won't you be cold?" I ask, even as my fingers reach for the soft fabric.
"I run hot, you know that. Too much raw masculinity." He flexes jokingly.
"Gross." I laugh, but gratefully slip my arms into the sleeves. The hoodie is still warm from his body and smells like his stupid expensive cologne. It's at least two sizes too big, but it feels like being wrapped in a hug.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much." I roll up the sleeves so my hands are visible. "Though I look like a kid playing dress-up."
"You look like my little sister who needs to take better care of herself," he says, helping me adjust the hood. His expression changes suddenly as he grabs my wrist. "What the hell is this?"
I follow his gaze to the inside of my arm, where the sleeve has ridden up. A purple bruise, roughly the size of a golf ball, marks the crook of my elbow. The sight of it sends an icy finger of fear down my spine that has nothing to do with my chills.
"Oh, that." I try to sound casual as I tug the sleeve back down. "Library accident. Tried to get a book from the top shelf, and half the English literature section decided to assault me."
Zach isn't laughing. "That looks bad, Angel." His voice lace with worry.
"It's just a bruise," I say, ignoring the fact that it's one of several I've noticed lately. "Bront?'s works are heavier than they look."
Zach stares at me, unconvinced. "Are you sure you're okay? I also notice you've seemed tired lately."
"I'm a college student," I remind him. "Tired is our natural state of being. Like how your natural state is overprotective big brother."
"Sam—"
"Yo! Are we playing or what?" Liam calls over, interrupting whatever third degree Zach was about to give me. "Or are you two forfeiting because you know you can't win twice?"
"Did you hear that?" I ask Zach, raising my eyebrows. "I think he's challenging our family honor."
Zach hesitates, still looking at me with concern.
"I'm fine," I say firmly, lowering my voice. "Really. It's just a bruise and maybe a cold. Nothing worth freaking out over."
I don't tell him about waking up drenched in sweat three nights this week. Or about how I've been popping Tylenol like candy to manage the low-grade fever I can't seem to shake. Or about how sometimes, when I stand up too quickly, the world tilts and darkens at the edges. Because there's a normal explanation for all of it. There has to be.
"If you say so," he finally relents, though his eyes tell me this conversation isn't over.
"I say so," I confirm, turning back to the table. "Now let's go destroy these hockey jocks again so I can add it to my resume under 'Special Skills.'"
"Are you two done with your secret sibling meeting?" Luke asks. "Some of us have drinking to do."
"Just discussing strategy," I say, stepping back up to the table and pushing everything else—the chills, the bruises, the nagging worry—to the back of my mind. "Specifically, how to make you cry without smudging your mascara."
"I don't wear—" Luke starts, then stops when he realizes I'm messing with him. "Very funny, little devil."
"I try," I say, lining up my shot as the game resumes and the crowd closes in around us again.
But as I throw the ball and watch it land perfectly in one of the twins' cups, I catch Zach watching me instead of celebrating the shot. And I know that however good I am at beer pong, I'm not nearly as good at hiding things from my brother as I thought.
Twenty minutes later, I sigh in sweet relief. My bladder finally surrenders after three rounds of being held hostage by the competitive twins and their endless beer pong rematches.
I swear those two would rather wet themselves than admit defeat. Actually, they'd probably just blame their wet pants on spilled beer and demand another round.
As I wash my hands, enjoying the small victory of basic bodily functions, I catch a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—droplets of crimson splattered across the white porcelain sink like some kind of horror movie teaser.
Wait. Is that—?
I look up at the mirror and, yep, there it is—my nose doing its best Carrie impression. Blood trickles from my left nostril.
"Fantastic. Just what I needed," I mutter, grabbing for the tissue box.
I press a wad of tissues against my nose, tilting my head back slightly. My reflection stares back at me with accusatory eyes. I look like hell warmed over—pale skin that would make vampires seem sun-kissed, dark circles that suggest I haven't slept in ages, and now this charming bloody accessory.
The bathroom door rattles with an impatient knock.
"Just a minute!" I call out, my voice muffled by tissues.
I check the tissue—still red. I grab another and continue the pressure.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only three minutes, the bleeding stops. I splash cold water on my face. The cool water feels good against my skin, which has been flushed from the heat of too many bodies packed into too small a space.
The room tilts slightly to the left, then rights itself, which can't be a good sign. Maybe I should call it a night, find my brother and ask him to take me back to the dorm.
After one final check to ensure I don't look like an extra from a zombie movie, I unlock the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, immediately assaulted by the bass-heavy music that makes the floorboards vibrate.
I navigate through the crowd, searching for my brother amid the sea of red cups and grinding bodies. But then, like some cosmic reward for my suffering, I spot him. Not my brother—someone much better.
My Eli.
Standing alone in the kitchen, pulling a beer bottle from the fridge.
My heart does this stupid little flutter thing that I wish I could control but can't. It's been nearly impossible to catch him alone all night, but now here he is—no entourage, no girls hanging off his arm, just Eli in all his brooding glory.
I try to smooth down my hair, which probably looks like I've been sticking my finger in electrical outlets for fun. I lick my lips, taste the waxy residue of lipstick, and immediately regret it.
I straighten my shoulders and walk toward him with what I hope is casual confidence but probably looks more like someone trying to cross an icy sidewalk in heels.
"Hey, Eli," I say, the words coming out higher-pitched than intended.
The beer bottle hovers at his lips as he notices me. His cold stare makes me feel like a bug he's deciding whether or not to squash. I wear an awkward smile that feels plastered to my face with industrial-strength adhesive.
He takes a slow sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving mine, then slams the fridge door with enough force to make the condiment bottles inside rattle. He doesn't respond, just turns to walk past me as if I'm made of air.
Ouch. Okay, not the warm reception I was hoping for.
"Eli, wait..." I reach out but stop short of touching him.
"Let me go, Sam," he says, his voice flat.
"B-but, uhm, let me just—"
"I said let me go!" He snaps his head toward me, scowling with such intensity that I take an involuntary step back. "Stop bothering me. Why don't you go find and bother your Loverboy instead? Where is he anyway?"
"Lover...boy?" I ask, genuinely confused. "Who are you talking about?"
"Who else? That Adam boy," he says, Adam's name slithering from his mouth like something rotten.
"He already left—"
His mouth kicks up into a mocking smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. "He left you behind? Did you wear him out already?"
My cheeks heat up at the implication, but I refuse to take his bait. "Actually, he didn't stay because he just dropped Caroline and me off. He has someplace to go." I pause, tilting my head. "Wait, why are you calling him Loverboy?"
"Well, what else do you call someone you've been getting cozy with recently?" His voice rises a notch. "Someone you've been kissing—in front of the whole freaking arena, no less. What, is he just your make-out tutor? Your lip-lock consultant?"
"What?" A soft giggle escapes me before I can stop it. The absurdity of his assumption hits me like a refreshing splash of water. "Adam and I are just..." I pause, studying his face. The tension in his jaw. The slight flare of his nostrils. The way his fingers grip the beer bottle like he's trying to strangle it.
Holy crap.
A warm, bubbly feeling rises in my chest as realization dawns. The twinkle that had abandoned my eyes earlier returns with reinforcements.
I purse my lips, failing miserably at suppressing a grin. "Wait, are you jealous?"
Eli jerks his head back like I've slapped him, his eyebrows knitting together in a dark line. "No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are," I say, gleeful as a kid who's just been told ice cream is now a breakfast food. My hand presses against my chest dramatically. "Elijah Deveraux is jealous. Oh. My. God."
My pulse races. Maybe I haven’t been deluding myself all this time.
“Eli, you don’ t have to be jea—”
“I said I’m not fucking jealous!” he snarls, the word rattling out.
I shrink back as that spark in me deflates.
"Did what I said to you last time not clear enough for you?" He points at me, then at himself, his finger jabbing the air between us like a dagger.
"You and I are never gonna happen. So why don't you stay out of my sight? I’m so done with you following me around."
His words land like punches. I look away, afraid he’ll see how much they hurt.
"Seriously, Samantha, let my shirt go," he says after a moment, his voice tight.
I look up, confusion temporarily overriding humiliation. I'm not touching him—I wouldn't dare after that verbal evisceration. Then I notice the hem of his shirt snagged on a splinter in the kitchen island.
"I'm not grabbing your shirt," I say, my voice small and hollow. I take a step closer, feeling his eyes on me as I gently free the fabric. "There," I murmur, stepping back immediately, giving him the space he so clearly wants from me.
A look flashes across his face—embarrassment, maybe?—and I hear him mutter "Shit" under his breath.
I clear my throat, desperate to salvage some dignity from this train wreck of an interaction. "I just wanted to say... happy birthday. I know this is just a post-birthday celebration tonight, but I didn't get to greet you happy birthday in person last Friday. That's all."
He opens his mouth, but before he can answer, Izzie appears, looping her arm around his waist with a possessiveness that makes my stomach twist. She presses herself against his side as if she has any right to be there.
I wait for Eli to remove her hand, to step away, to give any indication that her touch is unwelcome.
He doesn't.
Izzie acts as though I'm invisible, focusing entirely on Eli with a practiced smile. "Happy birthday, handsome. You should have told me it was your birthday. I would have gotten you something special."
"You don't need to get me anything, Iz," he says, his voice noticeably softer than it had been moments ago with me.
"Yeah, but we've known each other for a long time," Izzie says, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "I should at least get you something." She leans in closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear. "Tell me what you want, Elijah. Is it the same thing you wanted that night in my room last semester? Because I can still give you a good—"
"I should go," I blurt, my voice unnaturally loud. I take several rapid steps backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. "I need to find my brother. Have a... have a good night."
I turn and flee before either of them can respond, before Izzie can finish whatever vulgar reminder she was about to share. The party suddenly feels too loud, too crowded, too everything. My nose tingles with the threat of another nosebleed, or maybe it's just the precursor to tears.
My only clear thought as I push through the crowd is that I'd like to find a hole to crawl into—preferably one deep enough that I'd never have to face Elijah Deveraux again.
*****
ELIJAH
I shouldn't care.
That's the part that pisses me off the most.
I shouldn't care that she looked like she was about to cry after I snapped at her. I shouldn't care that her mouth trembled for half a second before she forced that fake composure back on. I shouldn't care that I saw her blink too fast like she was fighting it.
But I do.
And that's the problem.
I was already wound too tight tonight. This whole night has been a disaster from the start. What was supposed to be a celebration—my celebration—has turned into me watching Sam from across the room, getting progressively more wasted while trying to ignore the fact that I saw her laughing with Adam earlier. The way she touched his arm. The way he leaned in to say something in her ear.
Just thinking about it makes me want to put my fist through something.
So I've been avoiding her. Drinking more than I should. Making rounds through the party like some kind of social pinball, bouncing from conversation to conversation without really engaging in any of them. And the women—Jesus Christ—they've been circling all night like they're waiting for the moment I'm drunk enough to say yes to whatever they're offering.
"I love how you play. So aggressive. Are you like that off the ice too?"
"Your room is just upstairs, right? Do you want to get away from all this noise and have our own private celebration?"
It's all the same. Empty words from girls whose faces blur together. They don't give a shit about me—they want to hook up with a hockey player, like I'm just some trophy they can brag about to their friends tomorrow. Like I'm nothing but a walking, talking dick with a stick.
I hate it.
I hate how they look at me, like they already know what I'll say, what I'll do. I hate how they talk about nothing while their eyes tell me they're just waiting for me to suggest we go somewhere more private.
And then Sam cornered me in the kitchen.
And what do animals do when they feel cornered?
They lash out.
So I did.
I was already on edge. Already three shots past where I should have stopped. Already imagining her and Adam, wondering if she'd come to tell me she was leaving with him. I snapped.
Because what was I supposed to say? That I've been losing my mind since I saw her with Adam? That I can't stand the idea of her with anyone else? That would mean admitting things I'm not ready to admit, even to myself.
Then embarrassed myself by thinking she was grabbing my shirt to stop me from leaving. When the damn thing was just caught on a splintered edge of the kitchen island.
Brilliant, Deveraux. Really alpha behavior.
I should've apologized right there. I was about to. But then Izzie showed up and said things I wish she hadn't. Before I could apologize to Sam, she was gone—not walking, running. I knew she'd heard every word Izzie had said about that night last semester. For a split second, her eyes betrayed her. She tried to hide the hurt, but I caught it, and my chest tightened like someone had taken a knife to it.
I should've felt relieved that Sam wasn't hovering or inserting herself into the conversation like she usually does when I talk to other women. Instead, I just felt like garbage.
What is wrong with me?
I'm acting like a complete jackass. Sam hasn't done anything wrong. She's allowed to talk to whoever she wants. She's allowed to laugh with Adam. She's allowed to kiss anyone. She's allowed to have a life that doesn't revolve around me. The problem isn't her—it's me and these feelings I can't seem to control or understand.
I'm a fucking idiot. A jealous, insecure, pathetic excuse for a man.
I don't even bother finishing my conversation with Izzie. I leave her to look for Sam.
The crowd swallows me as I search for her, scanning over heads, looking for that familiar sandy blonde hair. Ten minutes of pushing through sweaty bodies, of checking corners and hallways, and I'm starting to panic a little.
What if she left? What if she's so upset she walked home alone? What if she's crying alone somewhere in this huge house?
Then I catch a glimpse through an upstairs window—the balcony off the second floor. Sam's leaning against the railing, her back to the house, shoulders hunched.
Relief floods through me because she's still here.
I can fix this. I can apologize.
I can tell her I've been a moody dick all night because I was jealous.
Jealous. God, even thinking the word makes my jaw tighten.
Maybe if I just admit it—if I tell her that seeing her with Adam has been driving me insane ever since I saw him kissed her the other night—that tight, burning thing in my chest will finally loosen. Maybe saying it out loud will take the edge off this rage that's been simmering under my skin for days.
Maybe honesty would free me from this stupid, suffocating pride that keeps me pretending I don't care when I clearly care too damn much.
I take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with more than just exertion. I reach the door to the balcony, hand on the handle, ready to push it open—and freeze.
Sam isn't alone.
Adam's there, standing close to her, too close, saying something that makes her nod. As I watch, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so intimate it makes me feel like I've been doused in ice water.
The jealousy that I'd been trying to tamp down all night comes roaring back, a monster I can't control. It claws at my insides, makes my hands shake, turns my vision a little red around the edges.
Before I can do something stupid—like burst onto the balcony and deck Adam in his perfect teeth—I turn and storm back down the hall. My breathing is ragged, my thoughts a mess. I need another drink. Several drinks. I need to not feel like this anymore.
Back downstairs, I head straight for the kitchen, ignoring everyone who tries to talk to me. I grab the nearest bottle—tequila, it turns out—and pour a shot. Then another. The liquor burns all the way down, a physical pain to distract from the emotional one.
"Whoa, easy there, birthday boy," someone says, but I ignore them.
I just want to get wasted. I want to drink until I can't picture Sam and Adam together anymore. Until I can't remember the hurt in her eyes when I snapped at her.
Until I can't feel this ache in my chest that won't go away.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from one of my teammates, maybe even from Sam—though that's wishful thinking.
Instead, my father's name flashes on the screen.
For a second, I'm surprised. Dad never calls. And he definitely never remembers my birthday. Maybe he finally got his shit together this year?
"Hello?" I answer, stepping outside where it's quieter.
"You think you're so much better than me, don't you?" His words are slurred, and my heart sinks. He's drunk. Of course he's drunk.
"Dad, it's late—"
"Your mother," he spits the word like it tastes bad, "just posted about her anniversary. Did you see it? Did you fucking see it?"
I close my eyes, leaning against the porch railing. "No, Dad. I didn't see it."
"Athens!" he shouts, and I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "They're in fucking Athens! Must be nice to have all that money, huh? Must be nice to have a 'perfect husband' who's 'such a great provider.' That's what she wrote. Can you believe that shit?"
I can, actually. Mom's husband is loaded. And he is a good provider. And he doesn't call his stepson at midnight, drunk off his ass, to rage about a woman who left him over a decade ago.
"Why are you even following her social media?" I ask, knowing it's pointless. We've had this conversation a hundred times. "It just upsets you."
"I have a right to know what she's doing," he slurs. "After what she did to me. After she cheated and took everything."
I sigh heavily.
"You listening to me, boy?" he demands. "This is what happens when you fall in love. This is what you have to look forward to. Women—they'll ruin your life. They'll make you think they love you and then they'll leave you with nothing."
I listen silently as he rants, the same old bitter diatribe I've heard since I was a kid. How mom betrayed him. How she broke his heart. How love is a trap that only idiots fall into.
I used to argue with him. Used to try to get him to see that he was the one who drove her away with his drinking, gambling, his jealousy, his controlling behavior. But it's pointless. He'll never change. He'll never admit that he was the problem.
So I just let him talk, making the occasional noise to let him know I'm still on the line. Meanwhile, the tequila I downed is mixing with the beer from earlier, and my head is starting to swim. The night air is cold against my skin, but I barely feel it.
Some birthday this turned out to be.
When Dad finally runs out of steam, he doesn't even say goodbye. Just hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone, feeling emptier than before.
I think about going back inside. About finding another bottle and drinking until I pass out. But what's the point? The party's ruined for me. This whole night is shot to hell.
Sam's face flashes in my mind again—the hurt in her eyes when I snapped at her, the way she looked standing next to Adam on the balcony. My chest aches with a feeling I don't want to name.
Dad's definitely right about one thing though. Love is just another word for pain, and that's why I swore it off a long time ago—because over my dead body will I let myself hand someone the kind of power that could ruin me from the inside out.
I slide down until I'm sitting on the porch steps, head in my hands. The world spins a little, and I close my eyes to stop it.
Some fucking birthday.