Shattered Stars

by Shari Ryan

  “I’m taking her with me, and I’ve thought it through already, so you don’t have to worry.” Mom has gotten good at giving me her two cents on some issues that pertain to Aly, but mostly, she lets me navigate this parenting thing. We have had lengthy conversations about what I want versus her concerns, and I’ve made it clear I won’t let Aly down no matter what happens, but at the same time, I won’t learn how to be a good mother without learning the same way every other new mother figures out how to raise a child.

  “Oh, okay then. Well, I hope you two have a fun time tonight,” Mom says, still eyeing me as if she wants more information.

  “We’re going to Maxine’s for dinner. That’s all. I’m driving and meeting him there.”

  “Dani,” Mom says, tilting her head to the side. She places her hands gently on my shoulders. “You make good decisions. You don’t need to prove anything. I’m not judging you. Do you understand?”

  The transition between being a teenage daughter to a teenage mother has been confusing and a hard change. Rules aren’t new to me, neither is answering to Mom or arguing my point-of-view, but since becoming a mother, Mom looks at me differently. She speaks to me as if we’re on the same page of life, treats me like an adult, and as if I have everything figured out for the time being. I don’t understand how she could change her way of thinking so quickly, but sometimes, I miss just being a teenager, getting into trouble, and arguing my rights. It sounds like a silly thing to miss, but I wasn’t ready to be an adult yet, and I didn’t get the chance to make certain decisions. The only choice I had was whether to keep my daughter or if I should let her go.

  I tucked Aly into her car-seat carrier, wearing an outfit Lexi gave her on her birthday. The little leggings look adorable on her chunky thighs, and the white ruffled shirt with a matching headband makes her look like a baby model on a Gap sign. Of course, no outfit is complete without a pair of mini Uggs, so I popped those on her feet too. This is the first time I’ve had any real reason to get Aly dressed up, and it was more fun than getting myself ready. I still managed to put some effort into my appearance though. I even dried my hair, blowing it into long, lazy waves. Then, I squeezed into some black leggings and a loose fit top. I kept the colors on the darker side, but I’m trying.

  We pull up in front of Maxine’s, a popular Italian restaurant in the middle of town, across from the roof-covered carousel that overlooks the rocky beach along the seaside. I turn the volume of the music down so I don’t give away a hint that I may have been listening to Layne’s songs on repeat for the past week.

  I glance around for a moment, but then I spot him. Layne is waiting in front of the restaurant, leaning up against the lamp post. He has on a black, leather coat and torn up jeans loosely tucked into a pair of biker boots. I’ve never been in awe of such a dark style before, but he has a way of making it work.

  I feel like a hot mess as I lug Aly’s car-seat out of the car, then drop the strap of my oversized baby bag over my shoulder. I think most people don’t show up to have dinner with a guy like Layne with their baby in tow. This is why I haven’t gone out to many places with Aly. The looks we get kill what’s left of my confidence.

  Maxine’s parking lot is small, but I’m already ambling with a weird limp by the time I reach Layne. Plus, the car-seat carrier gets heavier and heavier as she continues to grow, and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to cart her around in this thing, but it’s the easiest way to get around with her. He looks happy to see me by the smile inching across his cheeks.

  Layne wraps his arm around my shoulder, giving me a sweet side hug since I can’t reciprocate. “I’m so glad you could come out tonight,” he says, glancing down at Aly.

  “Yeah, me too!” I tell him, breathlessly.

  “You must be Alyson,” Layne coos and sweeps the side of his finger against Aly’s cheek. His hands are clean from ink today, but he still has on all of his rings, which I dig.

  Aly surprisingly gives Layne a toothy smile, showing off her four lonely teeth. “Aly, can you say hi?” I prompt her.

  “D-eam s-eet d-eam” she mumbles. Oh, God. His lyrics. She knows less than a hundred words and Layne’s lyrics are some of them. Maybe he didn’t pick up on what she said. Aly smiles a little harder and spits at him. That’s my girl—spitting at boys. Just how I taught her to act.

  “I think I know those words,” Layne says, accenting his statement with a wink. “I already like her.” Layne laughs and nudges his shoulder into mine. “I’m flattered … if those are my lyrics.” I’m flattered that he’s still speaking to me.

  “She must have heard your song somewhere,” I tell him, trying not to blush.

  “Maybe. Here let me help you with the car-seat. I know those things are heavy. It’s almost bigger than you are.”

  I don’t agree or disagree when he takes the car-seat from my hand, but I appreciate the relief in my shoulder. Normally, I might attack a person for trying to take my daughter, but I feel comfortable with Layne, which is odd since I’ve only met him once. I’m amazed he doesn’t care about the looks people are giving him as we walk into the restaurant with a baby in tow. Layne doesn’t necessarily look like he’s eighteen, but he doesn’t appear to be much older. Plus, the biker-musician look isn’t common in our town, so that might get him a glance or two, anyway.

  I’m in a fog as he speaks to the restaurant host, but I continue to feel like I’m walking on clouds while following Layne and Aly to our table. The Italian spices and aroma of garlic infiltrate my senses, provoking hunger pangs in my stomach.

  Layne places the car-seat on the tabletop and turns to watch the waiter who retrieves a highchair from the corner of the restaurant. I unbuckle Aly from her seat and lift her up. As if he’s done this before, Layne moves the car-seat to the far side of the booth and tosses his coat on top. “I’ll take her so you can get comfortable,” he says.

  I feel a tug in my chest this time, handing her over so easily to someone who is nearly a stranger, but the moment she’s in his arms looking much smaller than she normally does, the concern shifts to relief and warmth. Layne tickles Aly’s neck and speaks baby gibberish to her at the same time. How is he the same sweat-covered guy who was down on his knees, yanking at his hair while belting his soul out into a microphone just a few nights ago?

  I place the baby bag down onto the seat and pull out a high chair liner. I drop the fabric into place and remove my coat, placing it on top of the bag. Just as I’m about to reach for Aly, Layne adjusts the highchair liner and carefully sits Aly down, buckling her up, then centering the chair at the head of the table. “Wow, you’re a natural,” I tell him. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t inferring that he fit the role, but it might have sounded that way. “I mean, it seems like you have experience taking care of a baby.”

  “Yeah, I have a nephew who’s five, but he was a handful for a while. My sister asked for help a lot in the earlier days, so I guess I learned a few tricks with him.”

  I hand Aly her favorite crinkly, cotton-filled teething book, which will buy me enough time to find something to order off the menu before I need to replace her toy with a snack. She’s such a good baby, but she’s predictable, and I know she has a hard time sitting still for more than ten minutes.

  I’m the first to reach for one of the two menus, but Layne grabs his after I take mine. “I always get the sloppy joe here. It’s one of the few places that still serve it as a dinner entrée.”

  I glance up at him, gauging his level of seriousness, but his lips are in a straight line which tells me he’s very sincere. “You come to a nice Italian restaurant to order sloppy joe?” I can’t help my curiosity about this, but I realize my question might embarrass or offend him too. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but I figured—”

  “It’s my favorite meal on the menu,” he says, his lips part and curl into a lopsided grin.

  “You can’t say much after the cake-eating skills I witnessed the other night,” h
e adds.

  I was thinking about his desire to eat the messiest meal possible while out with a girl, but I made the first move with my eating habits, and this isn’t a labeled date, so I suppose we are on fair playing grounds. “But that was cake, not saucy meat.”

  “Don’t hate on the saucy meat unless you’ve had it here.” Thank goodness Lexi isn’t sitting here with her dirty mind and lack of a filter because I can just imagine what she would say right now. Our conversation can be taken out of context, and the thought of it is making me want to laugh, but then I’d have to explain why I’m laughing. I must control the urge to channel my inner Lexi.

  Layne is staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to respond to his statement, but I’m doing my best to act like a lady. Therefore, it’s best I don’t respond. “Have you tried the meatball platter?” I ask him.

  Out of nowhere, Layne falls into a fit of laughter, covering his face with the side of his hand as he leans into the booth. “This is the dirtiest conversation I’ve had in months, and I hang out with a group of guys every day.” He was thinking the same thing I was, and that’s awesome.

  “I don’t understand,” I play with him, trying to keep a straight face.

  His cheeks are burning red, but he can’t stop laughing, which makes me want to laugh because his laugh is infectious, and his smile is enchanting.

  Aly is staring at Layne like he has two heads right before she starts laughing along with him. “Aly, what did I tell you about telling people dirty jokes,” I scold her. “I will need to wash your mouth out with soap, young lady.” Whatever tone of voice I’m using must be hilarious to Aly because she’s now laughing as hard as Layne.

  “Was it my question about the meatballs? Do you like them seasoned or saucy?” I continue.

  “Stop it. You’re killing me,” he says. His eyes have filled up with tears from laughing so hard, and he’s clutching his chest, trying to stop himself. “Oh my gosh, you’re unbelievable.”

  Unbelievable? “I’m just talking about ordering meat—”

  “Don’t say it again, please, spare me.”

  I release my laughter that I had been holding. “You’re different from a lot of guys I know … in a good way,” I tell him, catching my breath. “Which makes me wonder why you asked me to go out with you tonight.” I was planning to say this later in the evening, but I can’t allow myself to have this kind of fun without knowing if there is a premeditated intention here. Men like Layne don’t fawn over a girl like me.

  The laughter seizes in response to my question, but his smile doesn’t falter. Layne pushes himself up into a straighter position, clasps his fingers together and leans forward against the table. “Initially, I planned to pick your brain about a project I’m working on, but it was my excuse to go out with you, too. You’re not like a lot of girls I meet, Dani … and I also mean this in a good way.”

  My gaze drifts over to Aly, understanding the meaning of what he’s saying, whether Aly has anything to do with his statement. “I know I’ve got a lot of baggage,” I tell him. I have way more baggage than he knows, but it seems like he’s made some accurate assumptions so far.

  “We all have baggage. That’s not what I mean. You have this ingenuous aura and a sense of candor in your eyes. I don’t feel like you’re trying to impress me or be the person you wish to be. You’re authentic, is what I’m trying to say.”

  My gaze falls to my hands, watching as I tug at the hangnail on my pinky finger. I yank the skin at once, so it doesn’t hurt, but blood pools in the bed of my nail so I pull my hands off the table, grabbing the napkin on the way. “I don’t do a great job of hiding who I am, and sometimes I wish I was better at it, but I am who I am.”

  “Why hide?” he asks. His eyes haven’t broken focus from my face since I asked my initial question.

  “It feels safer to hide,” I answer.

  “Do you feel you’re in danger? Is that why you hide?” His questions are deep, for me anyway, but I’m not sure he’s trying to push me to reveal my life’s stories. He seems more curious than anything else, but I also have learned what can happen when I give away too much information at once.

  “At the moment? No, I don’t feel like I’m in danger. Usually, though? Yes, since I suffer from post traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Understood,” Layne says. “You don’t have to get into details. I wasn’t trying to push, but if you ever want to talk, I promise I’m a good listener, and I don’t shut people off when things get heavy.”

  “That’s good to know.” I try to force a smile, but my chest hurts from knowing how pathetic I must seem to everyone. I withstand this internal agony that’s painted across my face, scarring every part of me, preventing me from hiding, no matter how hard I try.

  “Anyway,” he says, placing his palms flat on the table. “I hope this doesn’t sound offensive or like I’m trying to get you to talk, but the song I have—the one about fears … I’ve been asking friends questions about what they fear the most while I brainstorm ideas for a music video opportunity we have. Anyway, you mentioned your fear about heights and falling. I was intrigued by you because you said your nightmares are made from visions of rollercoasters, which made me realize how intuitive your mind is that it can place together a perfect storm to embrace your fears.”

  I swear there is another world in this man’s eyes. He looks so enriched with his thoughts that I kind of want to switch sides and peel away his layers to see how his mind works. Yet, he’s intrigued by me of all people.

  “Yeah, I can’t fathom the thought of getting on a roller coaster. I’m not sure why or what caused my fears, but I’ve had this one particular dread since I was a kid.”

  “Do you know how specialists help people overcome their fears?” he asks.

  “I do, which is why I will never go to a specialist,” I respond, chuckling nervously. I don’t see a good reason to kill my fear of heights. Nothing good happens when my feet aren’t on the ground.

  “Wellll … after we talked at the show, my inspiration sort of shifted and I can’t stop thinking about a roller coaster scene featuring a girl in fear of heights, being the focus. The song is about someone breaking through personal obstacles, allowing them to move forward in life and not just reach for the stars, but shatter them when passing.”

  I’m a bit winded, listening to him. He wants to use my fear as the focus of his music video. I can’t say I’m offended because he’s inspired, but I’m not so sure a fear of roller coasters is too common. I don’t think many would understand the intense apprehension I feel when just thinking about crawling up metal rails to a peak that can’t be peered over until plummeting toward the ground. I’m sure some people don’t like the idea of roller coasters, but fears are different.

  “You’re welcome to use my fear if that’s what you’re asking,” I offer. I’m not sure what else he needs, but there’s a wild look in his eyes. However, the wild look disappears as Aly chucks her book at Layne’s head though.

  I need a breather in this conversation, and I’m grateful my girl has a good arm and that the book didn’t hurt Layne’s pretty face.

  “Hey you,” Layne turns to Aly, reaching over and tickling her cheek. “Did you just throw this at me?”

  Aly covers her chubby little hand over her mouth and blows a raspberry against her palm.

  “That’s what I thought too,” Layne tells her, handing the book back.

  A waitress approaches the table just as Aly is getting ready to throw her book again. We put in our order, and I scoot closer to Aly, who is about to put on a full Broadway production. “Anyway, yeah, feel free to go with the roller coaster scene. I think that would be cool.” I refocus my attention on Aly, trying to appear more distracted than I feel.

  “Well, I was hoping you could be in the music video with me,” he says. His question or statement seems hesitant, or maybe he’s apprehensive to ask me, but he’s quiet and squinting one eye to prepare for my reaction.

  “Wh
at do you mean?” I ask, trying to brush off the complexity of his question. I twist in my seat, reaching into the baby bag to pull out a bag of Cheerios, and a disposable placemat to stick down in front of Aly. I take a minute to set her up with a snack that should keep her quiet until the food arrives.

  “I mean, I want you to be in the music video with me,” he says.

  I heard him the first time, but I’m still trying to make sense of what he’s saying. Why on earth would he want me to be in a music video with him? We hardly know each other, and I’m not exactly music video material. I can’t dance or act, so I think he might have assumed I’m a little different from the way I am. “That’s ridiculous.” I place Aly’s spit covered book into the bag now that she’s content with Cheerios.

  “It’s not ridiculous. You’re real.”

  The waitress interrupts us again, thankfully, and places down our two side salads that come with our entrees. She leaves as quickly as she arrived though. “Layne, you’re very sweet to think I could pull off a role like this, it’s an honor, but I don’t exactly fit the look for a music video. I assure you I don’t have any talent that could qualify me as a suitable candidate.”

  “This isn’t about you having talent or not having talent. This is about a woman living with a fear, and I want to show that true emotion on the video because it will resonate with my fans and followers. That’s what I mean by real. All that other stuff you see on music videos is a fantasy, made to look real through smoke and mirrors. My music is raw, and I need to hold on to that image.”

  “Wait,” I tell him. “Am I understanding you correctly … you want me to go on a roller coaster to prove how scared I am to be on a roller coaster?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m asking you.”

  “No, is what I’m telling you,” I reply without thought. There is no way in hell I’m getting on a roller coaster.

  “Okay, okay, I won’t push,” he says.