Starlight Nights

  “I’m not. Expecting that, I mean.”

  She regards me steadily. “Just because it’s the opposite tactic of pretending not to give a shit doesn’t mean it’s any better if he’s still the reason.”

  “I told you,” I snap. “It has nothing to do with him.” A drop of sweat trickles down my temple, and I wipe it away as quickly as possible. “Besides, I don’t think you’re really the one to give me advice on dealing with pain-in-the-ass parents.”

  She stiffens, and I brace myself. But she just turns her head toward the front. “Jimmy, you can turn down the heat now. I think Eric is melting.” Her voice is flat.

  I hate this. We never used to snipe at each other like this. Argue, yes, debate even, but this is new and ugly.

  “Calista,” I begin.

  “No,” she says. “You’re right. It’s none of my business how you handle Rawley.” She adjusts her position on the seat, angling herself away from me with her hand on her crappy laptop to keep it from falling.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t care, Eric,” she says. “I really don’t.” And with that, she opens her laptop again.

  I close my mouth, clenching my teeth until it hurts.

  * * *

  The rest of the trip passes, slowly, painfully.

  When Jimmy pulls up to the curb, it takes effort to wait until he stops the car.

  At the trunk, Jimmy hands out our bags. I take Callie’s before she can wrestle with it.

  “I can do it,” she says with a dark look. “I’m not broken.”

  Not anymore, and I’m not so sure about that. “Just leave it.” I turn my attention to Jimmy and the clipboard he’s holding out with the credit card slip. “Thank you for everything, sir,” I say, scrawling a generous tip and my name across the bottom.

  “Not a problem.” He grins at us both. “Good luck, you two.”

  “Oh, no,” Calista says immediately. “We’re not … There is no … we’re not a … two.” She finishes awkwardly and long after he’s already stepped away.

  “Nice,” I say as we start toward the sliding doors into the airport.

  “I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea,” she says, hoisting her backpack higher on her shoulders. I catch the wince and the way her hand flies toward her arm. Her bad one.

  “Give me the bag, Calista,” I say.

  “What are you, my personal bellboy? I didn’t think you even carried your own bags.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  “Forget it, I’m fine,” she says.

  “Callie.”

  “Eric,” she says back, just as sharply. Then after a moment, she shakes her head. “It’s part of my life now. It hurts sometimes. That’s just the way it is. Trying to avoid pain is how I got into trouble.”

  “I’m sorry.” And for the first time, the words emerge easily. Because I am. So desperately and horribly sorry about the accident. I could, perhaps, justify the other events of the evening, chalk them up to overindulging and the multiple levels of shitty decision-making that came with that. But the crash? That was on me. If I hadn’t chased after her. If I hadn’t gotten in the car to argue with her. If I’d noticed exactly how drunk Chase was.

  “It’s not all your fault. You’re … you. I should have known better,” she says, her shoulders squared with grim determination.

  I wince. “Calista—”

  She pulls ahead of me, effectively ending the conversation.

  She’s quiet after that as we wind our way through the airport, retrieving our tickets from the kiosk and getting in line at security.

  But she lets me help her load her backpack onto the security conveyor belt. And then she has to explain to the TSA guy that she has surgical pins in her arm, and she has a card in her wallet from her doctor. They take her away to be searched.

  Jesus. I’m such an asshole.

  When they finally clear her, I’m waiting on the other side with her backpack on my shoulders and both of our bags.

  It’s only been a few minutes, maybe ten, but she looks tired and withdrawn. “Thanks,” she says, nodding at her backpack before holding her hand out for it.

  “I’ve got it.” When her mouth tightens, I add, “Please?”

  She hesitates and then gives me a curt nod.

  Before we start walking, I reach out with my free arm and pull her close, my cheek against her temple. The familiar smell of her, something soft and flowery in her hair mixed with vanilla, fills my head. It makes my throat tight with emotion.

  “I am sorry, Calista.” I struggle to find the words. “I didn’t know how…”

  She backs up to look at me, her expression softening slightly. “I know.”

  “Ready?” she asks a moment later.

  I make myself nod. But that small portion of forgiveness actually feels worse than her continuing to hold tight to every ounce of hatred because the hate I understand. I’ve earned that.

  7

  CALISTA

  Eric is conspicuously quiet as we make our way to our gate. He’s shouldering all the bags, but he hasn’t made a single complaint or even a sarcastic comment.

  It’s a little unnerving, actually. He’s always looked out for me. But there was a line he wouldn’t cross. Too personal, and he would back off, or push away with a joke.

  The low-level yearning that had sprung to life the second I saw him yesterday, outside on the steps of Ryland, holding that dumb cigarette, is growing in intensity.

  I’ve missed him.

  Dumb, Calista. Don’t do this. He blackmailed you into coming along, remember?

  Definite asshole move. There is no excusing that.

  And yet, he wouldn’t have been able to do that if my mom and I weren’t as complicated and twisted as we are. He was simply taking advantage of an existing conflict to get what he wanted.

  That’s manipulative and smart—exactly what I know him to be. Exactly what I have admired in him in the past, when it wasn’t directed at me. Plus, the fact that his efforts are in the name of making Fly Girl the best it can be …

  STOP.

  I’m not going to go through this again. Eric is not the person I want him to be. He can’t be, and that’s not his fault. So it’s on me, me seeing what I want to see and ignoring the rest.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn to confirm with him that we’re close—O’Hare is much larger than I remembered. “I think that’s our gate up ahead. K12…”

  Only, as I turn, a woman rushes past me, almost knocking into me. “Eric!” She throws herself into his arms, and he stumbles back a step. But that does not stop her from attaching her mouth to his.

  Oh, shit.

  It’s been a long time since we’ve had to deal with people who put the fan back in fanatic, but the pulse of panic electrifying my veins is all-too-familiar. That night at the MTV movie awards when Chase and I were swarmed by the crowd remains a frequent player in my nightmares.

  I spin around, looking for someone, anyone, in a uniform. “Help! Security…” The words die in my throat as my gaze lands on Eric and the woman again. The kiss has ended, and he’s smiling. He’s dropped his bag off his shoulder and let go of my roller bag, and his hands are tight on the woman’s hips, pulling her close.

  Her fingers are in his hair with easy familiarity, and the sight makes my gut clench tight. What? Just … what is happening?

  “What happened to your cheek?” She runs her fingers lightly beneath the bruise, frowning up at him.

  He shrugs and gives her that devilish grin that I’m far too familiar with. “You know me, always charming. Until I’m not.”

  Suddenly it feels like I’m falling even though I’m standing still. The realization drops into place with the sensation of rushing air, like the ground is fast approaching in my eternal plummet.

  This is not a playful encounter with someone he once hooked up with at a party. I saw that plenty of times with the gorgeous and scary-thin models he seemed to gather like lint on sticky tape. S
ame thing with the bubble-breasted actresses who came around to his trailer. Once there was an issue with a girl who’d auditioned (and been hired) for daywork. She’d accepted the job for the express purpose of confronting him about his unfulfilled promise to text her.

  Those girls were greeted with a peck on the cheek or mouth and that irresistible “don’t hate me for not calling since the last time I saw you and we were both naked” smile.

  This is not that.

  This woman, whoever she is, is important to him. And judging by the amount of tongue on her end in that brief kiss, we’re talking important in the sharing-my-bed sort of way, not like she-saved-me-thousands-in-taxes.

  I can’t breathe. My lungs are locked as tight as the Tupperware my mom uses as a secondary barrier to protect her expensive jars of moisturizer.

  Eric is in love. With someone else.

  I am such an idiot.

  I don’t think I made any noise—it would be difficult considering it still felt like I couldn’t breathe—but something makes Eric look past her, meeting my gaze.

  I should look away, but I can’t. And my breathing resumes with a gasp.

  Whatever he sees in my expression makes him lean forward to whisper a quick word to the woman. Then he grabs up our luggage and takes her hand, and with an uncertain smile, he closes the small gap between us, bringing her with him.

  Oh, God. He’s really going to do this. Please don’t do this.

  But Eric ignores my silent plea.

  “Calista, this is Dr. Katie Wahlburg,” Eric says. “Katie, this is Calista.”

  My empty stomach roils, sending a plume of acid up the back of my throat.

  “Hi, Calista! It’s nice to meet you,” she says, pumping my hand with a firm effective grip. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She’s very pretty, but in a practical, non-Hollywood way. Her long chestnut hair is shiny and gathered up in an unartful pony tail that still manages to look elegant and pulled together with her long black coat, gorgeous knitted cowl, and battered leather bag. She’s maybe even a few years older than Eric, putting her close to thirty.

  With my jeans and Blake College hoody, I feel like a little girl in comparison, one with scraped knees and tears overflowing because my ice cream hit the sidewalk unexpectedly.

  “I…” Didn’t know you existed.

  I want to say it, I really do, but that’s a slash at Eric that will only hurt this seemingly nice woman. “Same … Doctor.” I can’t even look at him right now.

  “Please call me Katie or Dr. Katie, if you have to.” She gives a playful eyeroll. “Eric just likes being able to brag on the doctor part. No one calls me that except for the owners.”

  “The … owners?” I am not following this conversation particularly well, mainly because the blood rushing past my ears has reached a deafening level.

  “Katie’s a veterinarian at Sunrise Veterinary,” Eric explains, squeezing her hand in his.

  “For right now, but I’m hoping to start my own practice soon,” she says, with the air of a topic long-discussed. So she’s older, beautiful, has her shit together, and runs her own life.

  If it were possible to create someone by simply checking opposites on a list, Katie would be that person for me.

  “Oh.” That is truly all I can manage.

  Katie smiles at me, but her brows are furrowed with confusion. “Didn’t he tell you? We met when he brought in Bitsy. He thought he broke her leg when he stepped on her accidentally, and you know how delicate those teacup breeds are.”

  She’s gesturing while telling the story, and my brain can only comprehend a few pieces of information at a time. It’s like she’s speaking a foreign language—a few words sound familiar, but most of it is just gibberish.

  Mainly because I have no idea what she’s talking about—Eric, with an animal dependent on him?—but also because there’s an enormous diamond ring on her left ring finger that is taking up all available computing space in my brain.

  “Eric has a dog?” The syllables trickle out, sounding stilted.

  Katie looks uncertain, as if I’ve just asked her what my own name is. “Well, yeah. His teacup Yorkie. Bitsy.”

  I don’t even have words for this. Eric proposed? The rock on her left hand can mean only that.

  My mind immediately produces an image of him on his knees in front of me, his dark head bent down until he looks up with that ring box balanced on his fingertips.

  “You have a dog named Bitsy,” I say through numb lips. Engaged. They are fucking engaged.

  Eric sighs. “Not by choice. She was my mom’s. She stayed with me the last time she visited.”

  So Eric has his own place now? Or does he live with her, with Katie? The sheer amount of new information in this conversation is making me dizzy. The Eric she’s describing is not the one I know. Or knew.

  “Mom got Bitsy to keep her company, then didn’t bother to bring her home with her,” Eric says, his mouth tightening. “Now I’m stuck with her.”

  The dog, at least, I understand now. He’s not going to abandon a small helpless creature left behind by his mother. He was once in that exact same situation.

  But none of the rest of it even remotely makes sense.

  “Oh, stop, you love Bitsy and you know it.” Katie shoves at his shoulder with her free hand, that diamond sparkling like it’s doing so just to taunt me.

  “He brought her in during my shift at the emergency clinic a couple of years ago. She’s whimpering, he’s dripping blood everywhere…”

  “Lime-slicer accident. I was … being a dumbass,” Eric adds.

  Translation: He was drunk or high.

  “Jumped back when it slipped and caught my hand. Bitsy was, as always, underfoot,” Eric says. “I called for an Uber to the closest vet…”

  “… and I patched him up long enough to get X-rays for Bitsy, then I drove him to the ER,” Katie says, beaming up at him.

  They’ve obviously told this story before. It’s like a two-person play. And I’m the audience.

  “And now you’re here,” I say, my voice gravelly.

  Her smile falters momentarily. “I was in Michigan for the week, and they were going to make me transfer in Denver, but I was like, ‘duh, if I can get the change in Chicago instead, why not?’” She looks back and forth between Eric and me, as if expecting us to celebrate this development.

  “Why not?” I agree weakly.

  An awkward silence falls.

  “I should go get…” But my head is spinning, and the rest of me just wants to find a quiet corner where I can have a minute to myself, to curl up and die. “Food,” I blurt finally. “I should go get food.”

  Eric frowns at me, dark brows drawing together.

  “And the bathroom,” I add. He can’t argue that.

  “Oh,” Katie says softly. “I’m interfering. I’m sorry. I know you two have lots to talk—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Eric says. “We’re boarding in ten minutes, Callie.”

  “You guys will still have plenty of time to catch up on the flight,” Katie says with an earnestness that only makes me feel worse. I hate that she’s so nice. “Last minute, I couldn’t get anything but coach.” She wrinkles her nose up adorably, holding up her boarding pass. “And I know how Eric feels about traveling with the common folk,” she teases.

  Nope, no, I cannot do this. I cannot stand here and have this conversation. And I sure as hell cannot get on a plane and sit next to Eric for the next four hours, pretending that everything is fine and I’m not bleeding out internally. True, he doesn’t owe me anything. We were never … anything. Not really. He had every right to fall in love and get engaged to someone else. And I have no right to feel shredded over it.

  But that doesn’t change the fact that I do.

  “Oh, well, that’s just stupid,” I say too quickly. “Here.” Before Katie can protest, I’ve tugged her boarding pass free of her fingers, handing her mine.

  She takes it with a startled expressio
n. “Um, okay, but—”

  “Now the two of you are together in first class. Perfect. Problem solved.” Despite my best efforts, my voice cracks on the last word. Shit. “I’ll just be … back.”

  “Calista.” Eric’s voice is dark with warning.

  And I do not care.

  I ignore him and keep moving. There’s a bathroom directly across from our gate, but that doesn’t feel far enough away. Then it occurs to me that possibly anywhere in the state is not far enough away. Any port in a storm.

  I make a beeline for the doorway.

  Eric is on my heels. He grabs my arm, careful to avoid my shoulder, and pulls me to a halt. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you?”

  “The bathroom, Eric,” I snap. “It happens.”

  “Bullshit,” he says, releasing me. “I know you’re pissed at me for everything, but you don’t have to take it out on her. Katie’s being nice—she is nice, a good person—and you’re acting like a Grade A spoiled bitch.”

  I flinch, the insult biting deeper than I expected.

  “That’s not you,” he says.

  I know what to do. Tilt my chin up, summon my best imitation of my mother, and tell him that maybe he just doesn’t know me well enough. Wouldn’t that be a precious bit of irony?

  But that’s not what happens. “You’re getting married?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and my eyes well with tears. Damnit.

  His expression shifts from anger to surprise, his mouth falling open.

  I want to bite my tongue off. “Never mind. Just forget it,” I say in a choked voice.

  “Callie,” he says softly, and reaches out like he would touch me. But his hand falls short. “I didn’t think…” Eric scrubs his hand over his face, his jaw tightening. “I wasn’t…” He shakes his head, seeming more stunned than anything.

  “I’ll see you on the plane.” I turn away from him before he can recover and beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

  All the stalls are full, so I’m forced to wait in line. But thankfully no one seems to be interested or brazen enough to comment on the tears streaming down my face. I’m no longer famous enough for random strangers to recognize me.