The Stars Will Shine (4 page)

***

A door slams outside my room, and it jerks me awake. I shoot up, back straight, eyes like saucers and a gasp still being sucked through my windpipe. I’m sweating, and I don’t know where I am. My mind hasn’t quite adjusted to reality yet, so I’m suspended in that in-between stage where my last dream is superimposed on the real world. The darkness from it sweeps over the pink walls, clothing the room in gothic maroon. And that face—his face—the one I never want to see again—still hovers before my eyes, a sweet nothing on his lips and desire like a fire beneath his stone gray eyes. I blink hard, but when my eyes shut, I feel his touch on me, fingers crawling over the skin of my thighs, higher and higher…

And disgust consumes me because in the thump of my heart and in the tingling of my skin, I feel how much I wanted it then and how much I regret that now.

I throw on a bra under my tank top, loosely braid my long hair over one shoulder, and make my way out of the bedroom, past the bathroom, which I assume by the closed door is currently occupied by Dylan, and down the stairs, a bad mood bubbling like food poisoning inside of me. When I’m standing in the foyer, Aunt Miranda calls from the dining room, probably having heard me thoroughly thump down the stairs, “You must be starving, Delilah, seeing as you skipped dinner last night.”

Her tone is clipped, and the disappointment on her face becomes clear to me the second I look up and see her peeking around the corner from where she sits. I don’t know why she really cares; it must be embedded in her lifestyle, in her constant need to please and impress.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I fell asleep. Long drive yesterday.” I go around the other way to the kitchen so that I don’t have to pass her in the dining room. My feet stick to the light marble tiles as I make my way to the cabinets next to the stainless steel refrigerator, thinking briefly how even the smallest of crumbs could be spotted instantly in this bright, white kitchen.

Aunt Miranda is right—I really am starving. I begin my quest for food by opening one of the cupboards and perusing its shelves.

“We had grilled salmon and rosemary red potatoes,” Aunt Miranda says. I nod, as though she can see me, but I don’t say anything. There’s some kind of fancy granola mix sitting on the shelf before me and it looks a little too healthy for my taste. I shut the cabinet with a grimace. They have an eleven-year-old for Christ’s sake…Where’s the Frosted Flakes and Pop Tarts?

“I apologize for the bathroom situation upstairs,” Aunt Miranda continues, still trying to make conversation and still not getting that I desire no interaction of the sort. “We are remodeling the other one up there; otherwise, that one would have been yours.” I open the refrigerator and browse its contents, tapping my chin.

A pair of footfalls make their way down the grand staircase, and I can only assume they belong to Dylan, the one and only. Sure enough, he shuffles into the kitchen, ruffling up his wet, dark hair. He’s wearing black gym shorts, a red Rolling Stones tee-shirt, and black socks that stretch straight up, not quite to mid-shin. All in all, he stands in stark contrast to this blinding kitchen, and I can’t help but feel like, as much as I hate him, he’s a sight for sore eyes. And I really do mean sore eyes; mine are physically aching from how bright this kitchen is. Dylan barely glances at me before reaching over my arm and pulling the milk jug off the refrigerator shelf.

I narrow my eyes at his forearm as Aunt Miranda continues to yap from the dining room. “If you’d like, you can have one of the bathrooms down here, but that might be more of a hassle for you. Besides, Dylan doesn’t take up much space in there, do you, honey?”

“Though it’s not really the space I’m concerned about,” I say idly, deciding the time has come for a response. “Apparently Dylan takes lengthy showers and even longer shits.”

A spoon clanks to the table in the dining room. There’s a snort to my left, and I turn to catch Dylan’s eye. He’s leaning back against the counter, ankles crossed, holding a glass of milk in one hand that’s halfway to his mouth. Amusement flashes across his face as he watches me scowl at him. He gulps his milk down as I turn back to the refrigerator. The cold air gives me goosebumps, and I shut the door with a shiver and a groan. I’m going to starve in a rich family’s kitchen.

When Aunt Miranda speaks next, it’s from this room, just a few steps away from me.

“Delilah, we don’t use those words in this household,” she says softly. Her face contains a wrinkle of concern. She’s like a therapist, gauging how to talk to me, how to draw me out.

I stare at her, oblivious. “What
words?”

“Well…inappropriate words.” She straightens her gold chain necklace and folds her hands neatly in front of her.

“Inappropriate words,” I repeat slowly, still not getting it. And then finally it clicks. “Ohhh, you mean ‘shit,’” I say bluntly. “And other words of the foul sort.” I twiddle my thumbs and feign an apologetic face. “Words like ‘bitch’ and ‘ass’ and ‘fuck’?” Aunt Miranda cringes especially hard on the last one…You’d think she was the Virgin Mary, purified from sin by God himself.

“Yes,” she says, her lips thinning. “
Those
words.”

A smile curls one side of my lips, and I just stare at her darkly for a drawn out moment. As soon as she starts to move uneasily under my gaze, I pop my lips and ask, “Did my dear daddy inform you of my sexcapades?” She nearly chokes. I turn back to the refrigerator and open it once more. “He’s hoping, you know, that you can reform me”—I give her a pointed look over my shoulder—“as he’s been unsuccessful himself.” I’m not sure what drives me to push people’s buttons, to make them writhe in their skin, but I do it. I always do it.

A sneer takes my face, and maybe it’s only me that knows it’s to hide the bitter truth—that there’s a dead soul inside of me. I close the refrigerator again, hands still empty, and turn back to Aunt Miranda. She stares at me, her eyes stony and the lines of her face drawn hard. I don’t know what Dylan’s expression looks like, but I can feel his gaze burning the back of my head. Why are they shocked? They knew how I am. Or maybe Aunt Miranda really didn’t know what she was getting into, taking me in, until now.

“He was probably too embarrassed to tell you everything I’ve done.” I’m unable to stop myself now. “Like my hitchhiking story.” I run my tongue over my upper lip, still curled, and Aunt Miranda flinches. I think she suspects what I’ll say next. “That was the last straw for him, you know…When four college guys picked me up, and I thoroughly repaid each and every one of th—”

“Enough.” Aunt Miranda’s face is tight, and she hunches over in a sickly way. I had to say it, though; I had to see on her face that lack of doubt, the way she didn’t question, even in her mind, what I said. Because it’s too believable—that I am so fucking screwed up, I would give it up to four strangers as payment for helping me out.

I laugh once in disbelief then leave the kitchen in a blur, having unsuccessfully found breakfast, but having very successfully alienated my hosts. My eyes water up just the slightest before I exit the house and slam the front door behind me. With a gasp, I suck in the rural California air, and the tears that were on the verge of falling slide back in retreat.

And I convince myself that if the tears don’t fall, they don’t exist.

Chapter Three

There’s something about home improvement stores that relaxes me. Maybe it’s the cold, hard gray floors; the stacks of stiff wood; the acrid, synthetic smell of paint; the sounds of saws buzzing and metal clashing on metal.

I’m standing in the interior paint section of Lowe’s, browsing the wall of too many color samples, trying to find the one color I’d be willing to stare at for a whole year. A Lowe’s employee, maybe a year or two older than me, approaches. Her blonde hair is tied back in a low ponytail, and she wears khaki pants and a red employee vest, which looks a little too big on her small frame. The lopsided nametag on her chest reads Sammie K.

“Can I help you?” she asks as she straightens the nametag.

I shrug. “I don’t know, Sammie K. Can you?”

She moves in, ready to give her practiced spiel, but I hold my hand up to stop her before she can begin. “I’m looking for one color and one color only, with which to paint my bedroom walls.” Sammie K. looks like she wants to suggest a two or three color palette, but I say again with finality, “One color. That’s all I need.”

She nods and pushes her lips to the side in thought, surveys me first in my black skinny jeans, tank top, and red Chucks, then peruses the paint samples.

“How about a nice, soft blue?” she suggests, eyeing me with one hazel orb.

But I shake my head.
Seriously, Sammie K.? Look at me.
Do I look like a soft blue to you?
She continues to browse the selection.

“A nice, soft green?” she tries again.

No, a nice, soft
any
color won’t do, Sammie K., you’re failing me.

“I’m thinking a bold neon orange?” a male voice says from behind me. I can hear the after-ponder in his tone, with a hint of satisfaction, like he knows he’s spot on.

“A neon orange?” Sammie K. echoes doubtfully as she turns to get a look at our new acquaintance. I turn, too—maybe a bit too quickly—and find myself face-to-face, or rather face-to-chin, with some guy. I jump in surprise.

“Whoa,” he says, taking a step back and steadying me by my shoulders. He’s wearing a gray beanie and pushes it back a little as his eyes find mine. “Sorry. I was looking over your shoulder at the color samples.”

His hair is long enough that pieces have escaped the beanie and are pressed to his cheeks and forehead. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his low hanging blue jeans, and the action makes the lean muscles in his arms stand out. His smile is slightly sheepish, but it lifts higher on one side, as if it holds a little wonder or sees secrets.

“I’m Aiden Crosser,” he says. He offers his hand for a shake and, after an embarrassing moment in which I just sort of stare at his hand hovering between us, I rush to meet it.

“Delilah Swan,” I say. His smile brightens along with his eyes.

“So how about it, Delilah?” he asks, searching my face. His brown eyes linger a half-second too long on the spot where my jaw angles down from my ear, so I press my fingers there, as though hiding that part of me will hide all of me.

When his eyes flick back to mine, he says again, “A bold neon orange?”

I turn back to the color samples, and my sight narrows in on it, as if the color has been calling to me all along but I only now paid attention. I pluck it from the selection and hand it over to Sammie K.

“Three gallons, please.”

She scans it so the machine can mix and pour the paint into cans for me to take home. I stare toward the exit doors, where the morning sun radiates through, and I tune all my focus to that tight, subtly painful feeling of my pupils constricting.

“Delilah,” Aiden calls quietly. I hear his voice as though it’s on another plane, as though it’s a whisper or an echo or a chime, or maybe all three. Intimate and distant all at once, it’s a shy warmth that rolls over me but escapes my catch, like sunshine riding on a summer breeze.

I close my eyes, and it breaks. I’m drawn back to this plane, where the weight of my loneliness bears down on me so that I feel heavy even though I’m empty inside.

“Are you alright?” Aiden asks. When I duck my head, he moves quickly to my side, sensing the answer I won’t admit. His hand touches my elbow.

I press my fingers to my temple and shake my head. “Yeah, just a little dizzy, that’s all.” I step away from his touch, from the way the heat of my body rushes toward his fingers. I risk a glance at him, hoping he’s looking away, but he’s not. He’s looking straight at me with his dark heavy brows dipped inward and unasked questions sliding through his eyes. “I’m okay,” I say with strained certitude. Aiden appears unconvinced, but he doesn’t say so.

“Your paint, ma’am,” Sammie K. squeaks as she hands me a can and places the other two at my feet. She seems like the type of girl who prefers to avoid awkward situations like this one, so I’m not surprised when she hastily shuffles off and takes the first left down the closest aisle.

Aiden swings over a nearby abandoned cart.

“Thanks.” I place the first can in with a clashing thud.

“Let me help you,” he says as he stoops for the remaining two cans. I feel like his words hold more meaning than they probably do, and I know it’s irrational, but the irritation at it flashes through me like a bolt of lightning.

“I don’t need help.”

Aiden sets the cans back on the floor and takes a step back with raised palms. “Okay.” The line of his mouth is straight, but he seems more attentive than offended by my reaction. I load the cans in myself then wrap my palms around the handle of the cart and push. As I move past him, Aiden quickly joins me in stride, a smile pulling at one corner of his lips.

“You look familiar,” he says. “Do you go to Sonoma High?”

“No.”

“You sure? You look like a girl who was in my English class last semester.”

I push the cart faster, but he picks up his pace, too. “I just moved here from Arizona actually. So, no, sorry.” I pluck a set of paint rollers, brushes, and trays off a shelf and toss them into my cart.