Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
I have an inferiority complex, but it’s not a very good one.
—From Bash’s dad joke collection
Bash
“That was…eye opening. And powerful.” Bash scrubbed a hand down his face and collapsed on the couch, emotionally spent.
He and Arabella had spent three hours at St. Dymphna’s.
He’d been moved, almost to tears, by the safe house’s programs—from living space, to counseling, job training, aftercare programs, and more.
Anya, the executive director, toured him with pride.
He met all the current residents, the photographer Melody hired ensuring she only captured the backs of their heads.
They would also pixelate the images to further protect identities.
He’d ensured his donation was anonymous—his financial manager was deft at that—but sensed Anya had connected the dots between a timely eight-figure donation and his presence in Arabella’s life. Multiple times, he saw the question forming on Anya’s lips, and he’d carefully redirected her attention.
“It wasn’t…too much?”
Arabella perched on the couch next to him, her back ramrod straight. She’d been unusually quiet on the drive back, waving a warm good evening to the departing security officer at change of shift outside her house, but not talking at all. Bash could feel the heaviness of her heart in his.
“No, Arabella. Not too much. It was…” he blew out a breath. “I understand why you’d sell your soul to the devil for that place. For those women. And children.”
“Sebastian,” she whispered, turning to him. “I didn’t sell my soul. Far from it.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for coming with me. It means a lot.”
“Not sure how a Hollywood actor coming to visit is meaningful to people who fear enough for their safety and lives that they flee their homes.”
“I meant to me.” Arabella’s smile was soft, her eyes sad. “But also to them. Your generosity is already making a difference. And now Anya has the funds to not only stay open, but to expand St. D’s mission. She wants to open safe houses across the region.”
Bash nodded, his throat thick with tears he needed to shed.
“Tell me about what you did today. I was busy catching up with Nell, one of the volunteers.”
“Anya toured me around. I played video games with a couple preteens—they kicked my ass.” He winked at her. “I talked with some of the residents. And I watched you read to that little girl.”
He’d just finished spectacularly losing a video game when a woman and her young daughter emerged from a bathroom.
He’d greeted them, politely ignoring the extreme bruising around the young mother’s face and neck.
The left side of her face had been grotesquely swollen, she had a vicious black eye, and bruises the shape of fingerprints ringed her neck.
Just as heartbreaking was her little girl—a tiny thing in a tinier arm cast who jumped at the smallest sounds.
She’d been terrified of Bash, but after a few wary moments, she’d warmed up to Arabella, snuggling in her arms as his queen read her a children’s book while the mother attended a therapy session.
“I expected misery and sadness.”
“You didn’t find it there, did you?” Arabella’s sad smile was knowing.
“No. It was…hopeful and helpful. And watching you in your element—it was just…everything. I’m so glad that’s where you wanted your devil’s deal money to go, Arabella. I can’t get over the magnitude of need. And you make a difference, every time you walk in the door.”
Bash shook his head, punched in the solar plexus with new evidence of the frivolity of his existence. He reflected on his tunnel vision about Paradise. How it had once seemed like the most important priority in his candy-coated life.
“Your day job and your volunteer work are important, Arabella. You change lives. And me? I memorize lines and pretend to be someone I’m not. I’m just an overpaid fool and a charlatan.”