Swearing Off Stars

by Danielle Wong

  Chapter 27

  LIA

  I was trapped beneath a pile of emotional rubble, struggling to breathe. A mixture of rage and confusion coursed through my body as I tried to forget again. I tried to eject the past three decades from my memory banks. But it was impossible. Scarlett Daniels had left an indelible imprint on my heart.

  I threw myself into work even harder than usual. Some nights were spent at the office, devoid of sleep and full of strong coffee. As each of my coworkers left for the evening, they exchanged concerned looks of pity and confusion. I briefly wondered what it would be like to have someone to go home to. How would that feel? I tried to shake off every unproductive thought and bury myself in stories and edits.

  My chatty secretary, Giselle, eventually forced me out of the office.

  “You have to at least go home and shower,” she said with an upturned nose one morning. “And put on some fresh clothes.”

  I agreed reluctantly. “But I’ll be back later this afternoon,” I said as she shooed me out of the office.

  The spotty sun quickly faded during my walk home, and I found myself caught in an East Coast rainstorm without an umbrella. The angry sky glared down at me behind a thick layer of clouds. I tried to hail a taxi but quickly realized they were all taken. Water sloshed around in my boots as I hurried home. The walk home to my tiny apartment took thirty minutes.

  As I approached the depressing beige building I called home, a rain-soaked man caught my attention. My father was sitting on the worn-down front step. I almost dropped my chunky keychain before curbing my surprise.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I said.

  “We’ve been calling you every day,” he countered.

  “Well, I’ve been busy.”

  My dad shot me a frustrated look.

  “Please, please let me tell you the whole story,” he pleaded.

  I shook my head and walked past him, approaching the tall iron gates in front of my apartment complex. My icy hands trembled, and I failed to place the correct key in the simple lock. Between the rainwater running down my face and tears creeping out of my tired eyes, I was a mess.

  I felt my father behind me. “Please, Lia, my love.” He placed his hands lightly on top of mine, and we unlocked the gates together.

  We walked slowly and silently up the six flights of stairs to my unit. He remained five paces behind me the entire time. I left the door open after I stepped inside, but didn’t say a word to my dad. Instead I lay down on my fluffy sofa, sopping wet and quivering from the cold.

  I must have drifted off from exhaustion, because a crackling fire woke me up some time later. Orange and amber tones illuminated my normally dim apartment. I turned over, warm despite the damp sofa cushions beneath me, and realized that my dad must have covered me with a blanket while I slept. I blinked twice and he came into focus, sitting calmly in a leather armchair across the room. He smiled at me sadly, and then spoke softly.

  “I’m going to explain, okay?”

  I stared at him with the same confused hostility I’d felt during our last encounter. “I can’t talk to you right now,” I said flatly.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Look, I don’t know what Robbie told you, but—”

  “Lia. He was trying to help.”

  “What on earth did he say? Robbie doesn’t even know the whole story.” I mentally acknowledged the lie as it left my lips.

  “He told me that there was someone at Oxford . . . a female student . . .”

  I couldn’t help but feel sorry for my poor, conservative dad, struggling to put it all into words.

  “He told you that I was . . . homosexual?” I asked quietly.

  He stared out into the darkness and nodded. “I think that he still loved you and was worried about you . . .”

  “I haven’t seen Robbie in ages,” I said sourly.

  My dad continued to stare out the apartment window, looking for something that wasn’t there.

  “I am,” I said softly. “Homosexual, I mean.”

  He broke his stare and slowly turned back toward me. “I know, sweetie. I know.”

  I tried to think of something to say next, but couldn’t. So my father filled the void.

  “Robbie came to me because he was concerned. Not about you being homosexual, but about what could happen to you if”— his sturdy voice broke—“He wanted us to know the truth . . . said you were worried about what we’d think.”

  I nodded slightly.

  “This was just a few months after you returned home. Your mother and I were sure that he was mistaken. But then that letter came and . . .”

  “You were scared that he was right.” I said what he couldn’t.

  He nodded again.

  “And Mom?”

  “She was more terrified than I was. We’d heard so many stories over the years about people being attacked and injured—or worse. The thought of you being institutionalized or becoming one of those tragedies . . .”

  “Why didn’t you ever talk to me about it?”

  “We didn’t know what to say, my love. I still don’t.”

  “I’m still your daughter, Dad,” I whispered. “I’m still me.”

  “I know that, baby,” he said. He stood up and walked over to me.

  “So many years . . .” I shook my head. “And you thought that hiding the letter would—”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured as tears welled beneath his wrinkly eyelids. “I’m so sorry, Lia.”

  We talked for the rest of the night. There was more yelling and screaming and crying. There was frustration and resentment and regret. But in the end, there was understanding.

  I awoke with newfound strength and a welcome sense of ease. I crept out of my bedroom and saw my dad sleeping on the sofa. He was snoring softly, and his quiet breath made me beam for the first time in a while. I walked into the kitchen, noticing how the early-morning light flattered its bright cherry-red walls and overused appliances. I ran my fingers along the white enamel oven and sighed—I’d cooked so many meals for one on that stovetop. As fragrant coffee brewed, I thought back to my last conversation with Scarlett. Why did it end so abruptly?

  “So what do we do now?”

  “The same thing we’ve been doing for the past ten years,” she said.

  “But Scarlett, we’ve finally found a way back to each other . . .”

  “Happy accident,” she muttered, tilting her head to the side.

  “You don’t even want me back in your life?” I asked, growing desperate.

  “I wish that you could have been in my life for the past decade. But things change, Lia.”

  What did she mean? That wasn’t the Scarlett that I used to know and love. She was so composed, so devoid of every emotion I couldn’t seem to suppress. There I was, tearing my heart out and handing it to her—laying my soul right on the table—and all she could do was look away and flash her million-dollar smile in the other direction. I realized that nothing was going to change. So I got up and walked out.

  “Good morning, darlin’.” My dad startled me out of my trance.

  “Oh—good morning.”

  “You okay?” He put his callused hand on my shoulder and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Coffee’s ready,” I murmured, realizing that our conversation would take several nights to fully sleep off.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  I nodded and walked over to the sturdy table Robbie had handcrafted for me several years earlier. Coffee rings caught my attention as I ran my hand over its smooth surface. After pulling out one of the mahogany chairs, I looked around my cozy apartment. The living room was filled with a strange energy from the night before. I didn’t know exactly how to feel.

  “Here ya go, hun.” My dad put two mugs of steamy joe on the table and sat down.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I took a long sip of burning hot coffee and looked out the window. Another overcast day with clouds proliferating in the sky.

/>   “You have to go after her, Lia.”

  I let the words drift around me for a while before responding. “I only told you about all that because I wanted to be honest. But what’s done is done, Dad. I’m an old woman now.”

  “And what does that make me?”

  “A slightly older man.” I smiled.

  My dad shook his head and laughed. My parents had me when they were only sixteen.

  “The way you talk about Scarlett . . . I can tell you still love her.”

  “Why are you suddenly so supportive of me?”

  “I’ve always supported you, Lia. But this . . . this was hard to accept. I’m sorry that it took me so long. But I’m here for you now like I couldn’t be back then.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. I’ve moved on.”

  “Sweetie, you’ve done incredible things for others. I admire all of the measures you fight for. I really do. But I know that work has become your entire life—”

  “It gives me purpose.”

  “And that’s great. But you can’t give up on love, honey. Especially a love like this.”

  I looked into his twinkling eyes and wondered what our conversation would have been like several years earlier. Would we even be talking? Would my parents have tried to understand then as he’s trying to now?

  After I hugged my father good-bye, I thought about what he said. My love for Scarlett had endured heartbreak and time, doubt and rejection. Was it still worth fighting for?

  Chapter 28

  I spent a whole month trying to answer that very question. Some days made me feel like our love was worth fighting for, while others convinced me that it was not. Scarlett had made no attempt to contact me after our meeting in London nineteen years before, which I took as a discouraging sign, to say the least. Then again, her lost letter more than spoke for itself.

  I reread it by the fire one night when I couldn’t sleep. Her words leaped off the page and into my head as I replayed everything over and over again. I turned the wrinkled paper over in my hands, much as I had done with Scarlett’s coral ribbon on that first fateful day we met.

  Perhaps it was that lingering memory, or maybe it was something else. But the next morning left me feeling optimistic and determined. I resolved to go after Scarlett Daniels one more time. If it didn’t work, I would accept the failure as permanent defeat. But I had to try to win her back for one last time before giving up on us completely.

  I fished her old agent’s business card out of my cluttered desk drawer and stared at his telephone number. I wasn’t even sure if they were still working together. My fingers hovered over the phone for a full minute before I worked up the courage to dial.

  A gruff voice finally answered on the tenth ring.

  “Joe Lancaster speaking. Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Lancaster, hello. This is Amelia Cole, calling about Scarlett?”

  “Who?”

  “Her good friend from Oxford?”

  There was no response.

  “Never mind,” I sighed. “I was wondering if you might be able to connect me with Scarlett. We used to be . . . great friends.”

  “I don’t give out Ms. Daniels’ personal number. If you’re some kind of press—”

  “I’m not a journalist, Mr. Lancaster,” I lied.

  “Look, whoever you are, don’t call this number again. Ms. Daniels is a very busy woman and I’m an even busier man!”

  I hung up the receiver and looked out into Brooklyn’s dismal Tuesday sky. What a frustrating conversation. It was a wonder I’d ever gotten through to him years ago. Now what?

  Between appointments and work consultations, I devoted my time to searching out Scarlett’s whereabouts—secretly, of course. Although my coworkers knew a lot about me, nobody at the journal was privy to the details of my past. The news staff was intelligent and forward-thinking, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t talk outside of the office. I couldn’t take any chances.

  After another busy week, I had done absolutely nothing but burn myself out. Scarlett was nowhere to be found, and her staff members were being extremely discreet about her current filming schedule. Her hair stylist, Collette, hung up on me mid-sentence before I could ask where she was. And her publicist, Nathan, never returned my calls—his secretary blatantly asked me to stop calling after my fourth attempt.

  I crawled into bed with the intention of reading The House of Mirth, but drifted off into sleep instead.

  “Lia,” she whispers.

  “Hmm?”

  “Wake up, sleepyhead. It’s Christmas!”

  “Too early,” I murmur as I pull the fluffy white duvet over my head. “More sleep . . .”

  “We have to go explore London,” Scarlett says, rubbing my back softly.

  I move slowly out of my sleepy haze. “Christmas?” I ask, finally opening my eyes to look at her.

  Scarlett nods and smiles down at me from the feathery hotel pillow she’s perched on, loose blond curls tumbling over her bare shoulders.

  “Let’s stay here forever,” I whisper as I pull her back into bed with me.

  Something glass shattered in the apartment above mine. I opened my eyes, startled but still impossibly drowsy. A bitter draft rushed in from my open window, but I was too tired to get up and close it. The chills sent me further underneath my covers, hiding from the Brooklyn cold and the hectic day ahead of me. I lay there for another hour, caught somewhere in between awareness and slumber. The warm scene from my dream washed over me, and then another unwelcome breeze chased it away, confirming that it was just that, a memory.

  Without an umbrella or decent hat, I stepped out of my apartment building and into the rain. Drops fell onto my lashes, and I continuously brushed them away. As bright yellow taxis drove by, I crossed the muddy path that I took almost every day. Left, right, left . . .

  “Lia?”

  My head whirled around before I could process the sound.

  “I thought it was you.”

  Robbie Wells stood directly in front of me.

  My jaw dropped open. “Robbie.” I could barely believe it.

  We stood there, stationary, as hurried cars drove by and heavy showers soaked our heads.

  FIVE emotionally charged hours later, and I felt back to normal with Robbie Wells. The conversation started off all wrong; we kept talking over each other in between long, dramatic pauses. But about an hour into our long-overdue exchange, something changed.

  “What happened to you?” I gestured to the thick scar on his right arm.

  “Bullet wound,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s not so bad. I did what I could over there, you know.” Robbie stared out my window as sheets of rain pelted the glass.

  “Are you discharged, then?”

  “Not yet, but hopefully soon.” His gray eyes were remote as he continued. “Fifteen-plus years, I served . . .”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “I did things, Lia. Horrible things.” His remorseful tone scared me.

  “It was a war, Robbie,” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he said quietly.

  Robbie was lost in a memory—something I could identify because I knew the feeling. Silence plagued my cold apartment until he spoke again.

  “So . . . you’re still working for the paper, then?” He set his mug on my oak coffee table.

  “Yes. I volunteered as a nurse for a while, though . . .”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d be at the office during the day, then go to the hospital after work and on the weekends.”

  “Always keeping busy,” he chuckled.

  “It felt like the right thing,” I responded. “Plus, I like keeping busy.”

  Robbie smiled.

  “Any progress at work?”

  “With the journal? I like to think that we make progress every day, but no monumental strides. We haven’t had a real breakthrough in a while . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Lia.”

&nb
sp; “It’s okay. I mean, it’s odd going to work every day when you—”

  “I mean about telling your dad.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t prepared to launch into that discussion again. I didn’t even realize that my dad had contacted Robbie.

  “Really, I am.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly.

  “I was just trying to help—”

  “Yeah, I know. Because you thought that you knew best, right?”

  “No. Because I loved you.”

  “Robbie, I—”

  “Oh, c’mon. I told you that years ago.”

  “I remember . . .”

  “That time we spent together changed my life,” he said.

  “Me too, but in a very different way—”

  “I know.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile as he placed his hand on top of mine.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said. “For telling you about everything when you came to visit. I can only imagine how hard—”

  “Don’t be,” he whispered.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Oh, Lia. It’s in the past.”

  It was strange to realize that Robbie and I had never talked about that day at Oxford. Not even after I lived with him in New York.

  “But you never even said anything to me after that day I told you about Scarlett,” I objected. “You went off to London for a holiday and we didn’t see each other again until I was back home.”

  “Didn’t have to say anything.” He shook his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I saw you that day at Oxford, you were different. I’d never seen you so happy.”

  I looked down at my lap.

  “And when you see the girl you love so blissfully unaware,” he said, “you don’t want to ruin that for her. Besides, you explained everything to me.”

  “It was that simple for you?”

  “It was hard at first, but I carried on as best I could. And so much has happened since then. I ended up meeting Ness, and . . . the rest is history.” He forced a smile.

  “You loved her like no one else,” I said quietly.

  “I did,” Robbie agreed. “I do.”