Fall

by Callihan, Kristen

  This is what true regret feels like, a death of something you never fully understood but desperately want to take back.

  I miss her face, the way her red-gold hair bounces when she moves her head, the little freckles that sit on her lips like a dare. I miss the sound of her voice, and the bite of her snark.

  The Town Car seems to get smaller, go slower. After a few blocks, I ask Bruce to pull over.

  “You dropped me off at my apartment,” I tell him, both of us knowing full well that Dad—aka, Scottie—will shit if he finds out I’m walking on my own after an event. His reasoning is a crazy could follow me. Having a bodyguard take me, or any of the guys, back to a secure location after being seen in public is one of his things.

  Bruce wavers for a moment, but then nods. “Sure thing.”

  He’ll probably follow me at a discreet distance. I don’t care, as long as I’m out of this car and walking.

  Unfortunately, it isn’t until after I get out that I realize I’m in Union Square. I ignore the spot where I kissed Stella over bagels, but I see her smiling face, hear her laughter over the din of the city. My fingers feel the ghost of her silky, penny-bright hair sliding over them.

  I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and walk faster. But I can’t outpace the ghost of her—of us. And when her face suddenly materializes right under my feet, I almost shout in shock. As it is, I come to a freaked-out halt. I must be hallucinating. But there she is, gazing up at me with those wide, lake-blue eyes I know so well.

  It hits me that I’m looking at a chalk portrait of her. She’s larger than life, the whorls and spirals of her red-gold hair set with shining stars upon an indigo background. There is a sadness to her expression, a distance, like she doesn’t belong in this world.

  It guts me.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” An older Hispanic man stands by my side, looking down at the pavement. Chalk stains his fingers in smudges of colors that have turned a greenish orange.

  I search for his name. Ramon, the guy Stella bought coffee.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, she is.”

  Ramon stares down without expression. “Star Girl isn’t for this place.”

  “This place?”

  His bloodshot eyes meet mine. “She doesn’t belong here with the rest of us. She’s a Star Girl.”

  Stella stares up at me, distant and alone. The idea of her alone breaks my heart.

  “You’re wrong,” I blurt out. “She belongs.”

  Ramon shrugs. “You don’t belong either.”

  A humorless laugh breaks free. “Yeah?”

  “Stars belong in the sky.” His voice is vague, and he doesn’t look my way again as he shuffles off.

  The hiss of water hitting the pavement has me jumping. It shoots over Stella’s face and she begins to blur.

  “Stop!” I don’t know why I say it—Stella’s already melting, colors swirling into a muddy soup—but the sight unsettles me.

  Ramon looks at me as though I’m off my nut. “Why?”

  “It’s too pretty to ruin.” Lame reason. It’s not like I can say I’d wanted to stare at her for a little longer.

  He shrugs again. “It’s just chalk.”

  “How can you say that? You’re an artist.” Frankly, I’m offended on his behalf. If anyone called my music just noise, I’d be pissed.

  He glances at me from the corner of his eye. For a second, I don’t think he’ll answer. He rubs a spot on the back of his head, making the graying strands stick up wildly. “Used to paint on canvas. I’d stare at my work and see the imperfections. Bothered me a lot. Got to where I couldn’t paint anymore. I’d fear what could go wrong, where I’d fail.” He turns back to hosing down the ground, cleaning Stella away from the concrete. “Better this way. I don’t hold on. I know what is real now.”

  “I don’t know what is real anymore,” I find myself confessing.

  Ramon reaches out and gives me a hard pinch, laughing when I glare at him. “Now you know.”

  I’m guessing he means the here and now. But I’ve never been good with focusing on the moment for very long. I’m always looking back or forward. Always fucking worrying. Stella helped me focus, but she’s gone now.

  Rubbing the throbbing spot on my arm, I’m torn between laughing and getting the hell home. “Thanks. You want a coffee?” Because Stella would get him one. She’d make sure he’d eaten too.

  He shakes his head, visibly retreating into his own world. “Got things to do.” And then he’s kneeling over his box of chalk. I say good-bye, but he doesn’t respond.

  All the way home, that spot on my arm burns. It would be easy to dismiss Ramon’s words as ramblings. But I can’t shake them. What is real? It sure as shit isn’t fear. That’s an illusion. How many times am I going to let fear take me before I learn?

  The only time I’ve ever felt whole, in all my glory and imperfections, was with Stella. But what did I do for her? Did I make her world more real? Better?

  You took that lonely look out of her eyes and replaced it with light, you ass.

  But is it enough?

  Hours later, the question still won’t go away. Is it enough? Am I?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Stella

  “We’re going to the beach,” Brenna states with a glare that says resistance is futile.

  Since I’m huddled up in bed with the covers around my ears, I’m guessing I make a pretty pathetic picture right about now. Sighing, I fling back the quilt and stretch. “Fine.”

  “Really?” She brightens. “I was prepared to drag you out of that bed.”

  “Is that why you have your sneakers on already? Good traction?”

  Brenna grins wide. “That’s exactly why.”

  I smile as I stare up at the ceiling. “I need to get out. I hate moping.”

  But moping feels so good right now. I could lie here all week if I let myself. So I haul my butt up and head for the shower. “When are we going?” I ask over my shoulder.

  “As soon as you’re ready. Sophie and Libby are coming with us.”

  I have not met Libby. I’m not ashamed to admit I have her album and think she’s a fantastic singer. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself with fangirl fawning.

  True to Brenna fashion, she’s ordered a limo to take us. Laughing at the ostentatious display of luxury, I scramble in and find Sophie and Libby waiting. Libby looks just as she does in pictures—slim, flowing, golden-brown hair, wide-open expression, and smiling gray eyes. Apple pie with a Bourbon chaser.

  Her voice is honey thick and laced with a Southern drawl. “At last we meet.”

  “How are Stevens and Hawn?” I ask after we shake hands.

  Her smile widens. “Stevens is holding a grudge. Especially against Killian. We’ve seen nothing but his tail in the air, ass in our faces since we came back.”

  I laugh at that. “He seems the type to make you suffer.”

  “I told Killian to check his pillowcase for revenge pee. Hawn probably feels the same, but I’m not a fish gal so I wouldn’t know how to spot it.”

  There’s something soothing about her manner, and she’s soon digging into a hamper she brought along and handing out fried chicken sliders to go with the champagne Sophie is passing around.

  “You sure you’re okay with leaving Felix for the weekend?” Brenna asks her.

  “Not gonna lie,” Sophie says. “Momma me is weeping for her baby. But the sleep-deprived, frazzled I-gotta-be-free is weeping with relief.” She shrugs. “Gabriel urged me to go and have a break. God, I do love that man.”

  Libby gleams with glee. “I remember when I first met Scottie. He scared the shit out of me. Total ice man. Watching him become a big ol’ marshmallow is highly entertaining.”

  Sophie laughs. “Our baby boy broke him good.”

  Brenna leans in. “Before we left, I programmed his ring tone to play the Paw Patrol theme song.”

  Sophie squeals with laughter.

  “Paw Patrol?” I a
sk, half laughing at their glee.

  “A kids’ show.” Brenna waggles her brows.

  We all snicker. The ride out to the Hamptons speeds by as Libby tells us about her time in Australia. I hadn’t bothered to ask where we’re staying but the car takes a turn down a smaller lane near the sea and then stops at a gate. The tires crunch over a gravel drive, and a house comes into view. It’s a huge gray shingle-style house, complete with fluffy clouds of hydrangeas fronting the porch.

  “Wow,” I say as we come to a stop.

  “Pretty great, isn’t it?” Libby follows me out of the limo.

  “Who owns it?”

  Brenna starts up the wide center staircase. “The boys. It’s one of the few properties they bought together as a band.”

  The boys. John. I don’t want to stay at his house. It hurts to think of him here, that he’ll spend time in this house when I’m out of his life and long gone. But I can hardly say that now or ask to be taken home.

  Brenna leads us inside and into the living room. I stand there, gaping around at the creamy white paneled walls and big, comfy cream-colored sofas. Everything is soft and restful, the type of place you can dream the day away.

  “You like?” Sophie asks, standing at my side.

  “You ever see that movie Something’s Gotta Give with Diane Keaton? Where she reluctantly falls for smarmy Jack Nicholson while he’s convalescing at her spectacular Hamptons house?”

  Libby’s mouth falls open. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before. This looks exactly like her house.”

  In other words, my dream beach house.

  “You want to hear the scary bit?” Brenna says, wide-eyed herself. “Jax was in charge of design.”

  “What?” Sophie gapes. “Mr. English Manor did this?”

  It hurts to hear his name. But I have to face it sooner or later. I speak past the lump in my throat. “John has a good eye. Anyone who can successfully blend antiques with a modern loft would have to.”

  Awkward silence swells, and it’s clear they’re all unsure how to answer. I force a tight laugh. “I’m not afraid to say his name, you know. He isn’t Beetlejuice or anything.”

  “You’re right.” Sophie links her arm with mine. “I still feel bad about cramming him in your face. I didn’t think.”

  Brenna cringes. “I didn’t either. We should have gone to a resort.”

  Warmth spreads through me as the other girls nod. Every day I’m around them, I feel a little more normal, a little less alone. The absence of John is still a gaping wound in my chest. But at least I can walk without hunching over.

  “If it weren’t for you guys, I’d be curled up alone on a hard bed feeling sorry for myself.” I can’t quite look anyone in the eye, but I push on. “This means the world to me.”

  They’re all staring. God, hide me now. But then Libby hugs me tight.

  “It’s hard opening up, isn’t it?” she whispers in my ear with a tone that tells me she knows exactly how difficult it is.

  I give a quick nod as she lets me go. And then it’s like the whole exchange never happened. They’re all happy chatter and showing me to my room. I feel almost normal when we finally end up around the pool.

  Because it’s hot as hell, I take a floating lounger and drift along in the cold water, idly sipping the Mai Tai Brenna fixed for me. Libby floats along at my side.

  “So, you’re a professional friend?” she asks me.

  “I am.” I smile wryly. “You know, aside from pet sitting.”

  She laughs softly. “How does that work? I mean, are there really that many people looking for a hired friend?”

  “The world is filled with lonely people. Most of us forge our friendships in childhood or college. Maybe you make a core group of friends at your first job. But if you miss those friendship milestones?” I glance around at them. “Or a permanent change in your lifestyle has you drifting apart from your old friends, what then?”

  “It happened to me,” Libby says. “The drifting apart. I spent over a year alone, not talking to anyone, before Killian ended up on my lawn.”

  “And what do you do if no one drifts into your life?” I say. “How do you make new friends? It isn’t that easy. When you’re older, you’re less able to trust new people or let yourself go.”

  “I hate making friends,” Brenna grumbles, her nose wrinkling. “Actively hate it. Most people I meet end up asking for concert tickets or want to meet the guys.”

  Sophie hums in agreement. “It feels different with you guys. Safer, I guess. Because we aren’t looking to get anything from the other—just companionship.”

  I watch them from my spot at the edge of the pool. “I didn’t want to get in the car with you because I don’t know how to do real friendship. It’s like an ill-fitting dress that I’m always trying to tug into place.”

  Brenna’s eyes grow soft. “But you did.”

  “Because you’re in, just as we are,” Sophie says.

  In? I shake my head sadly. “I’m not, though. I’m completely out.”

  Sophie scoffs. “Even if you never speak to Jax again, you’ll still be in. You’re one of us now. We don’t abandon our friends because our other friend is being a dillweed.”

  I laugh softly, appreciating the sentiment. But I don’t want to talk about John. “Anyway, I had more customers than you might imagine. But I’m quitting.” I trail my fingers through the cold water. “It started to take too much out of me. And, really, it was never a permanent gig.”

  Libby pushes off from the corner and skims across the pool, her eyes squinting in the sunlight. “What are you planning to do now?”

  Panic. Cry. Wall myself up so tight, no one gets in again. How long is this going to hurt?

  I stuff those wild thoughts away with a long sip of fruity cocktail. “I honestly don’t know. It was stupid of me not to start a career. Here I am at thirty, and I might as well be fresh out of college for all the planning I’ve prepared. ”

  “I never had a clue either. Killian got me into singing. Even then, I resisted because I was scared.”

  “I love to fly planes,” I tell them. “But I don’t want to do it as a career. If I’m honest, the kind of flying I want to do won’t pay for a place in the city.”

  Libby’s eyes go wide. “What kind of fly do you do?”

  “Aerobatics.”

  “That’s so cool! Will you take me up some day?”

  “Sure. I can take anyone who wants to go later this week, if you want.”

  Instantly, all of them jump on the chance, with Libby doing a little happy dance in her pool float. Laughing, I make mental notes on how I can organize the flights. “I’m surprised John didn’t tell you guys about my flying,” I say when I’m done planning.

  Brenna’s tone is tentative, knowing full well that the subject of John is a potential minefield. “For all his bravado, he’s weirdly private. The more he cares about something or someone, the less he talks about it.”

  It isn’t exactly a truth bomb; I’ve known this about him for a while. But she definitely tore open a wound. Everyone looks elsewhere. Until Sophie hops into the pool, creating a nice splash over us. She reemerges, her blue hair slicked down over her shoulders. “I enjoyed photography,” she says, pretending we never veered off topic. “But I never settled into something I loved until I started taking pictures of the band.”

  “I’m a planner,” Brenna says from the bar where she’s fixing up another batch of cocktails. “That doesn’t mean I feel settled or particularly happy all the time.”

  I was happy with John. So damn happy, all the rest of my worries seemed lighter. Now, my world is heavy and dark. And, damn it all, I shouldn’t be letting a man make me sink this low.

  Brenna takes a sip from the pitcher, then adds a little more rum. “I figure none of us are ever going to feel that every aspect of our life is perfect all at once.”

  John had said much the same. God, he’s spread all through my life. I can’t produc
e a thought that doesn’t have him in it somehow. I flick the water in irritation and focus on the conversation. “I love working with people. I like helping them. I just don’t know what to do with that. I want something more concrete. Healthcare and benefits sounds really nice these days.”

  “Hmm …” Brenna comes over and gives us all a refill. At this rate, the weekend is going to pass in a drunken blur. Not that I’m complaining.

  She sits at the edge of the pool and dips her legs in. “Kill John sponsors a bunch of charities. So far, Scottie has had interns managing them, but they’re more interested in the music side of the business, and too many things have fallen through the cracks. We’ve been talking about finding someone to organize the promotion. Basically, we need an events coordinator. They’d also be responsible for developing new projects.” Her amber eyes meet mine. “You could do that.”

  “Me?” I squeak. “I don’t have any experience with that.”

  She shrugs. “And I didn’t have any PR experience when I started. We need someone who will know how to make these functions fun and stress-free for the charities involved. We’re not talking stuffy galas but lifetime experiences, finding ways to raise money while spreading happiness. I know you could do that.”

  The lump in my throat grows. “Brenna … That’s …It would be …” Wonderful. Horrible. “But I can’t. I can’t take a job where I’d eventually be in contact with … him.”

  By the way Sophie glares at Brenna and Libby is suddenly way too interested in her drink, I’m guessing they agree. But Brenna holds my gaze. “I’m not a total asshole. I know it would be hard and awkward as fuck. But, damn it, don’t let him rule your life. You want this job, it’s yours. Or I’ll help you find another one.”

  My smile wobbles as I blink rapidly. “You’re pretty awesome, Brenna.”

  She grins. “Yeah, I am. But seriously, Stella, think about it, okay? You deserve to put yourself first.”

  I can’t take the job. I’m not that strong. But she’s right; I need to figure out how to make a life without John. He was only in it for a short while, anyway. It shouldn’t be too hard to go back to how I used to live when Jax Blackwood was just a voice I heard on Pandora every now and then.