by Cole McCade
“I’ll finish the book on the plane.”
“…this girl means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Ion said. “I think she does.”
The rustle of fabric followed an irritated sound. “Just book your flight. I’ll handle cars and hotels. You said Los Angeles first?”
“Yes.” Ion grabbed a few shirts and several pairs of jeans without looking, and threw them into the suitcase. “Thanks. You’re too good to me. Tell your boyfriend I’m sorry.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just the asshole I sleep with sometimes.”
Ion groaned. “Luke again, then. Why do you keep going back to him?”
“I don’t know. He’s a bastard and he knows it.” Drake snorted. “Enough about my loveless love life. Go get your girl.”
“On my way. See you in New York.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bring ‘er with. I want to meet the woman who gets you this twisted.”
If I can find her. Celeste…what are you really so afraid of?
* * *
By the time Ophelia met her at New Orleans International, Celeste was ready to call the National Guard. The only update had been a frantic text in midair, when she was trapped inside a screaming metal box and couldn’t do anything. Their father wasn’t at the planetarium, wasn’t with the neighbors, wasn’t at his favorite restaurants. Not the park, not the docks. Nowhere, and the police weren’t having any luck.
She’d never been more miserable in her life. And as she watched the billowing clouds and tried to enjoy the view…she wished more than anything for Ion’s safe warmth to hold her when she couldn’t deal with this on her own.
The moment she saw her sister at the gate, she knew she’d been crying—nose pink, eyes puffy. Celeste hugged her close, hard as she could. “We’ll fix it,” she said, and tried to believe it. “We’ll find him.”
In Ophelia’s car, she stared out the window while the lake passed by beneath the sunlit causeway, racking her brain for where her father could be. The police had reviewed security footage at the Riverwalk. He’d last been seen wandering out the front door of the main shopping area. After that, nothing. He could be anywhere in New Orleans, or back home, or—
She slammed her hand against the dashboard, bolting upright. “I know where he is. Turn around.”
Ophelia eyed her. “We’re in the middle of a one-way lane over twenty-four miles of open water. Really, really deep water.”
“Drive faster, then turn around.”
While her sister broke a few traffic laws and fit her tiny Mini Cooper into spaces that would have crushed another car, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic, Celeste dug out her phone. A text from Ion blinked in the notification bar, but she couldn’t bear to read it. Instead she scrolled past to find her Dad’s number and sent him several texts, before trying a call. Nothing.
“Damn it, Dad, pick up!”
“That’s why I’m so scared,” Ophelia said. “It’s been over a day. If he’s okay, why isn’t he answering?”
The moment she hit the first crossover, Ophelia slewed the car around while Celeste kept an eye out for the causeway police. No sirens. Thank God. She only hoped she was right, or they were wasting time.
The moment they were back on the New Orleans side of the bridge, Celeste directed Ophelia along a route she knew by memory. After several blocks, Ophelia slowed at a crossroad, watching the red light, face set tightly. Her fingers drummed against the steering wheel. “We’re going to the cemetery.”
“Yeah,” Celeste said. “Just call it a hunch.”
The sun was setting by the time Ophelia parked outside the cemetery gates. Celeste opened the door onto air drenched by the humid, heavy scent of magnolias; the shade of broad, glossy leaves fell over the moss-edged pillars and statues of the old cemetery’s many tombs and mausoleums, pale slabs taking on a green cast that tinted the rolling, ghostly stretch of land as if it shimmered through cool water.
“Stay here,” Celeste said, and slipped out.
“But—”
“It’s okay, ‘feela.” Celeste leaned in the window with a smile. “I know you hate it here. I’ll go look, and be right back.”
Her sister nodded, eyes wide. The cemetery had always upset Ophelia; when they were younger she’d refused to come on birthdays, when Celeste and their father had put flowers on their mother’s grave. As the eldest, she’d had longer to know their mother—and more to mourn when they’d lost her. She’d hid it by being strong for Celeste, but right now…right now, Celeste could at least save her having to walk past those cemetery gates.
She followed a familiar path through the headstones until she saw her father’s rangy build and the stoop his shoulders had taken on over the years, as if the weight of life was sometimes unbearable. His clothing was wrinkled and drooping from over twenty-four hours of wear, his hair damp, likely from a humid night and sweaty day; she didn’t doubt he’d been out here since he’d left the Riverwalk. She pressed her lips together and picked her way through the rows.
He looked down at a spotlessly maintained marble plaque set into a rise in the earth, framed by fresh flowers. Cordelia London Haverford, loving wife and mother. Next to it stood older headstones for Joseph and Laura London, her mother’s grandparents—and others, generations of her mother’s family. When Celeste stopped at her father’s side, she slipped her keys from her pocket and pressed her keychain against his palm as she clasped their hands.
“One star for you and one for me,” she murmured, “to always guide us home to each other.”
“Cordelia?” he whispered, lifting his head, looking right through her. She fought to hold back the sick choking burn of tears. His eyes cleared, and his fingers locked almost too tight around hers. Her keys bit into her palm, but she didn’t pull away. “Celeste,” he corrected with a wistful smile. “Hey, starlet.”
“Hey. You were never really lost, were you?”
“No.” He shook his head with a humorless laugh. “I love your sister, but she needs to stop smothering me and let me be the parent.”
“You could’ve answered your phone. You scared us to death. Ophelia had kittens. We called the cops.”
“Always hated that contraption.” Her father stroked his weathered thumb over her hand. “I just wanted to be alone for a while. I’m sick. I know that. But I’m not demented, and I can’t take the nannying. And I can’t stand you girls tearing apart your lives for me.”
“We do it because we love you.” She leaned against him. “I’m sorry if we went overboard.”
“It’s all right. I know it’s out of love. But…” He eyed her. “I thought you were in Paris, young lady.”
“Conference ended yesterday. Yesterday-ish. Friday. Time zones. Whatever.” At his skeptical look, she laughed. “Seriously, it’s okay.”
“That’s not your ‘okay’ face.”
She winced. Her stomach sank and she leaned harder into him, needing his familiar warmth. Needing her father, for all that she wasn’t a little girl anymore. “No…I guess it’s not.”
“You met someone there,” he said, with that insight that had always made them close. He and Ophelia loved each other, but he always seemed to understand Celeste at a deeper level. She sighed, closing her eyes.
“Yeah.”
“Good guy?”
“The greatest.”
He hummed under his breath. “You should get a new interview suit. Something stylish. I hear workplace fashion in Paris is very chic.”
“Wishful thinking, right?” She opened her eyes to peek at him.
“She used to say wishes are all we have.” He nodded toward the headstone. “It’s what we do with them that counts.”
“What if the right thing is to do nothing?”
“Doing nothing just leaves you stuck.” He chuckled. “Yet here I am, lingering on the past. It’s not what your mother would have wanted for either of us.”
“Dad?” she whispered, almost afraid to ask.
“Yeah?
”
“What happens if you forget Mom?”
He closed his eyes with a shuddering breath. “That will never happen. Loving someone that much…the heart remembers even when the mind fails.”
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“If you’ve ever been in love, starlet…” The life seemed to go out of him with his exhalation. He leaned against her, both taking and giving comfort. “When you lose them, it’s like the sun goes out. Just an endless night, with no morning in sight and only the stars for solace.”
She looked up at the sky. The stars were coming out, but in Paris it would be full night. She wondered if Ion was looking up at the sky and thinking of those faraway motes that might be only a ghost, a memory, gone before they ever had a chance to reach him.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
* * *
They remained until twilight settled into night, and their phones lit up with texts. They exchanged indulgent smiles, then walked back to the gate. Ophelia paced over the sidewalk—and exploded when she saw them. How could Dad run off like that, was he okay, why didn’t Cel call when she found him, why were they gone so long, what were they thinking? Celeste just let it roll over her—then pulled her sister into a hug, laughing and ruffling her hair.
Between calming Ophelia and calling the police off the search, they didn’t make it back to Bayou’s End until well after midnight. After such a stressful flight and with jet lag kicking her ass, Celeste barely managed to stumble to her room before collapsing into sleep.
But she jolted awake when, near dawn, she rolled over to reach for Ion—and he wasn’t there. With a sigh, she picked up her phone and finally read his text.
Hope you’re home safe. Maybe one day soon, I’ll see you again.
Sleep came hard until morning. For the longest time she laid on her back and watched the stars on her ceiling, wondering if she should answer.
So wherever we are, we’re always looking up at the same sky.
She’d been such a lovestruck fool.
The reunion was in three days. She spent the time between puttering around the house or sitting on the docks and working over her speech. She’d written it before leaving for Paris, but now the little witticisms about reaching for the stars seemed trite. But she’d get through it, like she got through everything. It no longer mattered that these were people who’d known her as Hairy Mary since junior high. They’d been kids. Kids said stupid things. They’d probably already forgotten. She was the one who’d had to change her name, her entire identity, to let go—instead of realizing high school was only the beginning.
She’d made an amazing career for herself since then. An amazing life. One silly reunion with people who wouldn’t even remember her couldn’t change that.
On the night of the reunion, as she leaned over the bathroom mirror and daubed on the thinnest sheen of shadow and eyeliner, she reminded herself of that fiercely, and tried to settle her sick, tight stomach. Tonight would just be a trip down nostalgia lane. Fun. Trivial. Easily forgotten.
She smoothed her short strapless cocktail dress. The soft white layered chiffon clung until she moved, when it fanned around her thighs in flurries; a black sash flowed through its folds. She’d left her hair loose to pour over her shoulders and down her back, disdained the glasses for contacts, and dusted her shoulders with a faint pearl shimmer to bring out the misty shine of her dress. Maybe not the most professional image of an astrophysicist and keynote speaker, but no one would be looking to hire her tonight.
And the necklace Ion had given her nestled against her throat. A silent reminder that she could face anything, and she had the stars within her grasp.
Ophelia gave her a ride to the school. The party was in full swing by the time they pulled up; lights shone from the gym windows while music—at least fifteen years out of date—pumped through the open doors. Streamers festooned everywhere, while the giant WELCOME HOME TIGERS!!! banner over the doors fluttered in the balmy breeze. Celeste smiled. She was pretty sure they’d been using the same sign since she was a kid.
She watched the dark figures streaming across the parking lot with a mixture of excitement and dread. Her sister squeezed her hand.
“You look beautiful,” Ophelia said. “I’d say they won’t even recognize their ugly little duckling, but you were never ugly.”
Celeste hugged her tight. “You’re still the best sister ever.”
With a laugh, Ophelia thumped her back. “Easy to say when I’m the only one you have.”
“Accept the compliment, idiot.”
“Brat.” Her sister shoved her. “Go. Knock ‘em dead.”
Celeste slid out of the car, cursing when she bumped her elbows in the tight confines, and smoothed her dress. She lifted her chin high before heading across the parking lot, breath rattling in her throat and fingers digging into her little sequined clutch purse. She could do this. It was no different from speaking to a room full of renowned astrophysicists. And maybe her old friends would be around—Giselle and Kendrick and Barrett.
At least Ion wouldn’t be here.
She joined the crowd streaming inside. Looked like her entire graduating class of two hundred and seven had found their way home; they milled in a cloud of glittery dresses and pressed suits and the scent of cocktails. She caught a few familiar faces, refined by age, but kept on the sidelines as she threaded her way to the registration table to pick up her nametag. Habit, in this crowd. Wallflower Girl; that was her.
She scanned the handwritten laminated badges, and guiltily realized she was looking for Celeste, not Mary. She glanced at the woman manning the table. Maybe a teacher Cel didn’t recognize; not one of her classmates, but not someone she felt comfortable asking for a new nametag. With a sigh, she snagged the bright red Mary Haverford tag and pinned it to her dress.
Strobe lights and music washed over her as she circled the throng, on a crash course for the refreshment table. She scanned the crowd for Jennie Parker, the alumni organizer who’d recruited her to speak. She should probably let her know she was here, in case they had a schedule. But she’d barely snagged a cup of punch that smelled more like gin than anything before someone grabbed her and spun her into a hug, narrowly missing spilling punch down her white dress.
“Mary!” The name made her cringe, but her assailant just hugged her tighter. “You look amazing. I wouldn’t have recognized you without the nametag. How have you been?”
Celeste pried herself back, reeling like she’d been sucker-punched, and stared. Bright green eyes looked back, wide and sweet and filled with laughter.
Lily.
Even more beautiful than in high school, her shining golden curls piled in an artfully messy twist, her face almost luminous in its loveliness. She had the figure of a supermodel. A very pregnant supermodel, from the baby bump thrusting against her sheer organza dress.
Still perfect. Right down to that bright smile and genuine warmth that made it impossible to hate her for being so effortlessly flawless.
No wonder Ion couldn’t forget her.
“I—I’ve been fine,” Celeste managed to stammer. “You look…wow. You’re glowing.”
“It’s all hormones. Pretty soon ‘glowing’ will turn into ‘groaning and miserable.’” Lily laughed and linked her arm with Celeste’s, leaning on her as if they were best friends. “Trust me. This is my third. If you don’t have any, hold off as long as you can. Your back will thank you.”
“I d-don’t have kids…” Oh hey there, Twilight Zone. I’ve missed you since Paris. “You got married?”
“I’d drag Jake over, but he’s hovering near the men’s room and avoiding Jessica Snyder. I hear she’s on the prowl,” Lily said with a conspiratorial giggle, eyes glittering.
Celeste just blinked at her, before relaxing into a smile. It was impossible not to be charmed by Lily; might as well roll with it. “When was she ever not?”
“I know, right? I suppose stealing husbands is a ste
p up.” Lily tightened her grip. “I’m so glad I found you. Someone here really wants to see you.”
“They do?”
Before Lily could answer, a somewhat familiar voice called, “Mary, there you are.” Jennie caught up to them; she’d grown from a pert brown sparrow of a girl into a pert brown sparrow of a woman, quick and darting with dark, intelligent eyes. She held her clipboard just as tight as she used to hold her Trapper Keeper. “We’re ready.”
Celeste extricated herself from Lily with a quick smile. “Need to go, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Lily waved and winked. “We’ll catch up later.”
Cel just stared. She and Lily had never been friends in high school, even if there’d been no malice between them—and Lily was one of the few who’d shushed people for calling her Hairy Mary. But she didn’t understand where this camaraderie had come from, either, and she had to be pulled out of her daze to stumble after Jennie, who dragged her through the crowd with her arm for a leash.
She let herself be ushered backstage, where Jennie tugged and fussed at her dress, looked her over, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Two minutes. Come out when I call you.”
“Got it.”
Jennie darted out on stage. Celeste smoothed her dress and watched from behind the curtain. The music died, and Jennie raised her voice to welcome everyone to their ten-year reunion. Her speech was as tight and tense as Jennie herself, but the crowd applauded dutifully. It only increased marginally when Jennie announced Celeste as the keynote speaker.
Right. That was her cue. She shuffled her index cards, squared her shoulders, put on her best smile, and stepped out on the stage.
The gymnasium was a blur, just a riot of colors beyond the stage, lights blinding. The disco ball didn’t help, throwing bright fragments into her eyes like shards of glass. She squinted against the glare as she took her place behind the podium, forced another deep breath, checked her cards, and began, “Class of—”
Her tongue went thick and slow, choking her. As her eyes adjusted a particular stance caught her, a familiar stillness that arrested her attention and shot a bullet through her heart. The impact left her chest hollow, pain blooming and bleeding out, as she met blue eyes turned hard by anger and betrayal.