Shattered Stars

by Shari Ryan

“Will you hold my hand?” I ask her.

  She knows I’m serious, and she’s just as serious when she answers me. “All night until you let go of me. I will never let anything ever happen to you again. I swear, Dani.”

  “I will tell you until you believe me, but what happened that night was not your fault. I walked off. Remember that, okay? In any case, I love you, Lexi.”

  “Love you more, Dani. We’ll always be besties, through thick and thin until death do us part.”

  There has never been a crowd this big here. People are standing on the street outside of The Sun Shack Theatre. “I don’t think we will get into the covered area,” I tell Lexi as we walk up to the crowd.

  “Oh yeah, one more birthday present,” she says, reaching into her back pocket.

  “You’ve already done too much for my birthday. What else is there?” I ask her.

  She pulls out two VIP passes and loops one around my neck. “I got a good deal. I know a guy.”

  “Of course you do,” I say, winking at her. “This is crazy. I can’t believe you did this. I’ve never had VIP tickets to anything.”

  “Well, never say never again, lady. Here we go!” Lexi takes my hand, holds it in the air and sings excuse me with her awful fake British accent. She repeats herself over and over until we get through the people and make our past general admission. The attendant at the door checks out our passes and points to the right. “Go down that row. When you reach the wall, there will be a clear path to the pit.”

  We’re walking past the other fans as if we’re royalty, and it’s weird. “Are you sure these tickets didn’t cost you an arm and a leg?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says in a New York accent this time. “Besides, I got both arms and both legs, so it’s all good, pretty girl.”

  As ridiculous as this is, we are the only two people in the VIP section, which isn’t a large area, but it could hold a few dozen more people at least. “Where are all the other VIPs?” I ask her.

  Lexi shrugs. “Dunno. Weird.”

  “Lexi.”

  “Shh. You’re prettier when you don’t talk,” she says, sweeping her palm across my face as if she’s trying to wipe something away.

  We watch the band set up, which I wasn’t expecting to see. When she said they won the contest, I imagined an American Idol type of setup, I guess, but I doubt a winner from American Idol sets up their own stage. “Layne!” Lexi shouts through a fake cough.

  I squint when I see a guy on stage turn around as if his name is Layne. “Lexi, what are you doing?” I hiss.

  “Down here,” she continues shouting through another round of coughs.

  Who I assume to be Layne, walks toward us and kneels at the edge of the stage. “You made it,” he says. He doesn’t sound like a rock star, not that I know what a rock star sounds like when they aren’t singing, but he has a sweetness about him. He looks like a rock star though with his chin-length dark-brown hair, piercings, and tattoos that cover most of the skin on his arms. Typically, it isn’t a look I’m attracted to, but he’s got these big grassy green eyes that are making me want to stare into them in search of what he’s thinking and his smile, it’s amazing. Somehow, the small silver lip ring highlights the balanced symmetry of his smile. He’s tall and pretty built, showing off his definition under a tight black shirt and fitted jeans.

  I should stop staring.

  “Duh,” Lexi replies to him. “I told you I’d be here, and I brought my bestie, Dani. Dani, this is Layne. Layne, Dani. He’s the frontman of Dividing Oblivion.”

  “I remember you,” I tell him. Layne, the singer … he’s the guy who made the band look—I mean … sound so incredible.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dani.” He reaches his hand over for me to shake, but I’m a little too busy losing myself in the golden hue of his bright eyes staring back at me. As his hair falls in front of his right brow, I snap out of my trance and shake his hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Dani,” I accidentally say. “I mean, Layne. I’m Dani. You’re Layne.”

  He chuckles and pulls his hand away. “You’re right about that. I hope you enjoy the show.” Layne leaves us with a perfected celebrity wink and returns to his bandmates to continue the setup.

  “Thanks for the VIP tickets!” Lexi shouts over to him.

  “Anything for my favorite Divi-O groupie!”

  “You know him?” I ask her. “Divi-O?”

  “That’s their groupie/fan club name, and yes, I’ve known him for a couple years, but I didn’t fall in love with him after four seconds like you did—weirdo.”

  “I didn’t fall in love with him,” I argue. “How do you know him?”

  “I met him at an indie-rock coffee house bar. We were both pissy and sitting alone, talked, exchanged numbers, and remained distant friends.”

  “You never dated him? He’s like … he’s freaking hot,” I tell her.

  “Nah, he’s not my type.” She’s right. He’s not her type. I’m not sure how to define Lexi’s type, but I’d classify it as the attractive, not so intelligent type, who enjoys men’s fashion.

  “So, you’ve just been friends for two years and never mentioned him?” I ask.

  “It’s been super casual, and it wasn’t worth mentioning. When I found out he won the contest, I sent him a message to congratulate him, and he told me about tonight and offered me VIP Bing, bang, boom! Done.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” I tell her. Did I already say this?

  “Yeah, I thought you might think so.”

  “That’s why we’re here?” I ask her, narrowing my eyes in her direction.

  “Please. He’s about to become a hotshot. I’m not playing matchmaker. I thought it would be fun to hear them play tonight and hanging out after was an unplanned bonus. It can’t hurt to be friends with ‘the band.’ We could be groupies, Dani.” She waves her hand in the air as if she can see our invisible names hanging from the ceiling.

  “Yup, I have time to be a groupie while wiping Aly’s butt ten times a day.”

  “Well, you can be a half groupie then because I have my eyes on the drummer, so back me up here, okay?”

  “Ah, honesty. Thank you for giving me that, at least.” I squint to look over at the drummer. He’s hot too, and wearing a white sleeveless dress shirt with a black vest, loose tie and jeans. I wouldn’t have thought Lexi would go after a guy with so many tattoos or shoulder-length hair and an undercut, but the rest of his appearance most likely won over her attention.

  “You are welcome,” she enunciates.

  Four

  Current Day

  The first step to fixing a problem is admitting to having one, but if the problem isn’t fixable, I’m not sure it’s worth the confession.

  “What are you thinking about?” Mr. H asks.

  “I was thinking about the fact that school starts next week for you and Aly,” I remind him as if he’s the one who might have forgotten.

  “It sure does. I’m heading into the building tomorrow to set up my room.”

  “That’s cool,” I tell him, trying to match the ounce of excitement he appears to feel. I shouldn’t feel a small amount of relief, knowing I’ll have the house to myself again after next week, but the house became my office because I was needed at home, and now I’m not needed at home so much, which makes me feel like a lump on a log if I’m not working every second of the day.

  “Are you going to enjoy having your space back?” Mr. H questions, twisting his head to gaze at me for the brief second we are stopped at a red light.

  I lean my head back into the seat and cast my gaze out at the blurry trees flying past us. I feel like his question is a trick. I don’t want to make him feel bad. “I suppose it will be nice to sing at the top of my lungs without the incessant groans whining from Aly’s bedroom,” I joke.

  “I love when you sing at the top of your lungs,” he tells me.

  “No, you don’t,” I reply, gently shoving my elbow into his bice
p.

  “I do,” he argues. “Say what you want, but I love your voice.”

  I roll my eyes just as we pull into the parking lot next to the small brick building I have been visiting once every two weeks for the last year. “They need to pave the parking lot. It’s so bumpy,” I say.

  “Eh, I don’t think they’ll be doing that any time soon since they just paved it after the snow stopped.”

  “No, they didn’t,” I argue. Obviously, they didn’t pave. All he has to do is look at the hacked up rocky-road.

  Mr. H applies the breaks after pulling into a parking spot, then shifts the Jeep’s gear into park. “Dani,” he says, placing his hand on my knee. “Baby, don’t you remember when they blocked the entrance, and we had to park on the street. It was pouring buckets, and I believe you were cursing out Mother Nature the entire walk into the building.”

  “Oh, right, I remember now,” I lie. I don’t have a recollection of that day or of anyone paving this God-awful parking lot.

  After Mr. H turns the ignition off, the silence creeps in. I step out of the car and into the sunlight, heading for the black-iron-framed main entrance. Every two weeks, we go to this appointment together because it’s marriage counseling, and evidently marriage counseling will help us through this difficult time.

  I wonder how many people leave marriage counseling with a better marriage than when they started. My parents went to marriage counseling and all it did was help them decide that divorce was their only good option. It must have taught Dad that he didn’t need a family at all. I don’t see what good can come out of this situation. I’ve told Mr. H a million times; marriage counseling is the gateway drug to doomsday.

  However, his argument continues to be that we aren’t here for marital problems. “We’re here for life issues that are beyond our control,” as he states affirmatively at least once a week. Counseling was Mr. H’s idea, but I think a doctor planted the seed in his head at some point. Whatever the case is, I think it gives him hope, so I go for him.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hensen, how are you doing today?” The bouncy, bubbly receptionist asks us. She’s always so bright and cheery with her dark lipstick contrasting against her white as snow teeth. She has hundreds of braids in her hair and tiny little beads at the bottom that clap together whenever she moves an inch. Her nails make a similar sound when she speeds her nimble fingers across the keyboard faster than I’ve ever seen anyone type.

  “We’re-ah, we’re good. Hanging in there,” Mr. H responds. The receptionist gives us a questioning look as if she knows his words are a lie. They are. She probably hears the same lie multiple times a day. I don’t think we would be seeing her for appointments if we were, in fact, “good.”

  “I love your coat, Mrs. Hensen. The purple brings accents your fair complexion” There she goes being perfect again. She always has a compliment for me too, and I remind myself to be the first to say something nice, but I forget every time I walk up to the window.

  “Thank you,” I offer with an awkward smile. I wonder if she thinks I’m a jerk who just steals compliments and never offers one in return.

  “I love your nails,” I spit out, sounding forceful.

  “Oh, you’re so sweet. I just got them done after work yesterday.”

  “Dani was just talking about getting her nails done. Where did you go?” Mr. H doesn’t know when to end the awkwardness and men don’t ask about nail salons.

  “Oh, just down the street at the Hull and Inn Spa.”

  “Awesome,” Mr. H says. Yup, awesome. Everything is super-duper awesome.

  “Well, Jean will be out in just a moment,” she says, sliding the tempered glass closed. I spin on my heels, facing the empty waiting room, decorated with blue, leather-padded wooden chairs, two circular glass side tables, both covered with Lifestyle magazines, and then a small coffee table in the center with an assortment of brochures that will most likely not fix someone’s life with just six easy-to-read paragraphs.

  I pick the seat closest to the door Jean will come out of, and I plop down with an exaggerated oomph as if I’m carrying loads of bags on my back. Mr. H takes the seat beside me and clutches my hand as if I need to be held securely. He lifts my fisted hand and kisses the top of my knuckles. “Are we going to talk about this sudden name change you have given me?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say, popping my p like Aly does when being snarky.

  “Dani, come on, baby, work with me here. I’m trying my hardest.”

  His words irritate me even though I’m cognitive enough to understand I’m irritable. My mood isn’t controllable, or so it seems. It would be a lot of work to put on the front I wish I could. Instead, I twist in my seat and stare into his beautiful eyes-eyes that have been looking at me the same way for so many years. God, he loves me, and I’m screwing up everything. “Stop trying to fix things. Just enjoy what’s here and now.”

  He shakes his head with disappointment. “Dani, that’s not fair. I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to help make things easier.”

  “Oh, is that what this is? Because giving a guilt trip for calling you Mr. H when I can’t remember your damn name ... isn’t making things easier for me.”

  I didn’t want to say it. Jean would have called him by name, and I could have played his nickname like a practical joke. I used to do that to him a lot—prank him. I would push his buttons until he would flip me over his shoulder and run us to the bedroom. It was playful back then. We were playful.

  “What?” he asks, as if he needs confirmation that he heard me correctly.

  The door opens and Jean appears in the doorway with her usual black pleated dress pants and billowed black blouse, complemented by a scarf, covered in a monochrome pallet of gray hues in the form of simple shapes, and no therapist’s outfit is complete without her handy dandy notebook. “Hi guys,” she says with a cheerful smile. I wonder if her life outside of work is cheerful too, or is she fakes being cheerful when she’s trying to fix people. I wouldn’t be surprised if Jean is friends with Dr. Sheila. The two seem so similar, or maybe it’s just the particular professionals I’m seeing regularly. “Come on back to my office.”

  We both stand from our chairs and Mr. H follows me like my shadow—the shadow that has been stuck in one position for the last year, because time has stopped moving forward with us.

  The office is small since Jean shares her practice with one other therapist, so there are only two rooms behind the front desk. She got the corner office, which makes me wonder if she pays more money for the space than the other therapist, but I suppose they could have just tossed a quarter to determine who got the better space.

  We take our positions on the loveseat across from Jean’s black suede, regal looking chair that she seamlessly blends into with her matching outfit.

  “How are we doing this week?” she asks, looking back and forth between us, giving us each a fair opportunity to speak first.

  “Dani can’t remember my name,” Mr. H blurts out to Jean.

  I want to say I can’t believe he outed me within seconds, but I’d expect nothing less from him. He acts without thinking because his anxiety is through the roof, which is making my anxiety bad enough to cause additional side-effects—forgetting names.

  With shame running through me, I lower my head and peer down at the shredded tear on the worn area of my jeans. A peppering of paint splatters encircle the rip as if it were designed this way to look similar to a natural spill or mess like some fashion trends I see in the stores. However, I just prefer worn in jeans, and I paint a lot.

  “Is this true, Dani?” Jean asks. She sounds the way my mother used to when scolding me after acting the way Aly acts these days.

  “It’s at the tip of my tongue,” I tell her. “I’m sure it’s just my psyche playing games with me again.” We’ve spoken a lot about phantom symptoms and how the brain can manipulate truths beyond our control. Evidently, I’m a pro at this skill because I have convinced myself of an awful lot in the
last year. Sometimes, I wonder if I’m convincing myself that this whole situation I’m dealing with is just part of some weird manifestation. If I said that out loud, though, I’d likely find myself in the psychiatric hospital for further evaluation. I’ve done my research. I know what to avoid saying.

  “That could be the case,” Jean says.

  “Dani—” Mr. H says, his one-word is full of so much agony, and I’m not intentionally causing him pain. I would never.

  “One moment,” Jean says. “I apologize for interrupting you, but I’d like to try something, if you don’t mind?” Neither of us respond because neither of us have a clue how to navigate life anymore, and sometimes it’s easier to do when someone tells us how. “Don’t tell Dani your name.” Jean’s suggestion shocks me. I thought for sure she would have him state his name twenty times out loud, in my face, then ask me to repeat it back to him each time.

  “How is that going to help?” Mr. H asks.

  “It will help retrain her brain to recall information. It’s the same as giving a child an answer to a math assignment rather than teaching him or her how to come up with the right answer.”

  “Well, whoever came up with this ‘new math’ stuff probably agrees with you,” I tell Jean with a snicker.

  “I know. Those homework assignments are terrible, and I’m no good at math,” she says, joining in a quick mom moment with me. I know she’s a mom too. I see the pictures all lined up in a row on her desk of her three beautiful little girls from ages six to sixteen, or something.

  “Me neither,” I tell her. “Mr. H does all the math homework with Alyson.”

  Mr. H groans with frustration. “My wife doesn’t know my name. She’s not even referring to me by an endearing nickname. This hurts,” he says. “Mr. H? I sound like I’m some random neighbor down the street who never stops to learn anyone’s name.”

  I can’t help the look I give Jean, and she isn’t doing a lot to conceal a similar look back in my direction. “I understand,” Jean tells him. “Dani, why are you using the name, ‘Mr. H?’”