by Cole McCade
Ion. Ion was here, looking up at her from Lily’s side.
Her lips worked soundlessly. She clutched the cards until they crumpled. People murmured, shifting restively, but she hardly noticed. She saw only Ion, and the lies she’d told reflected in his eyes.
Then he turned and walked away, ignoring Lily’s call and pushing toward the door.
Celeste couldn’t breathe. Her chest crushed in while everyone stared at her, waiting for her to say something—and she couldn’t. She couldn’t do this. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, please excuse me.”
She fled the stage, index cards fluttering to the floor. Jennie tried to catch her, but she shook her off and slipped through the rear doors out to the side lot. When she tried to run, her heels nearly tripped her. She bent and tore them off before racing around the side of the building, ignoring the sting of gravel biting into bare soles.
He was halfway across the lot before she caught up with him. “Ion.” Stumbling to a halt, she grasped his arm. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
He tore away and turned toward her, face set in hard lines, mouth drawn bitter and tight. “That’s all you can say? You run away from me and I find you here, and all you can say is ‘I thought you weren’t coming?’”
“I’m…I’m kind of coming up short on anything else.” She swallowed hard; guilt rocked through her, and she tasted acid in the back of her throat. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“So that made it okay to lie to me.”
“No, I never meant—”
“I don’t get it, Cel. God, I guess I can’t even call you Cel anymore.” He dragged both hands through his hair, stalking left, right, before flinging his hands out. “Celeste London. Mary Haverford. Was this all some kind of scam? You had business cards, for God’s sake. I looked for you in Los Angeles. All I got was a landlord who said you’d moved weeks ago. Is that what you do? Scam people and move on?”
She pressed her fingers to her mouth. He’d gone to Los Angeles? He’d cared enough to follow her, and she’d lied to him. She was scum, pure and simple. She didn’t even deserve to apologize—but he deserved an explanation, even if wouldn’t help.
“It wasn’t a scam,” she mumbled, then forced herself to drop her fingers and speak clearly. Cowering would only make the situation worse. She’d done this; she had to own it. “Celeste is my middle name. London is my mother’s maiden name.” Her voice broke. “I…I never meant it to happen this way. I got sick of being Hairy Mary, then sick of everyone caring more about my father’s name than what I could do. So I just…shifted my name. That’s all it was. But then I met you in Paris and when you didn’t recognize me I had no idea what to say, what to do…so I did something stupid. I wanted to be near you so much that I made a selfish choice. The wrong choice.”
“So you knew,” he said, his breathing ragged. “You knew me this entire time, and you never said a word.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why didn’t you just tell me?” He held up a hand sharply. “No. Don’t answer that. Just don’t.”
He turned away. She reached for him.
“Ion, wait—!”
But when he stopped, back rigid, fists clenched, she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know the words to fix this.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean…I…”
“Is this why you wouldn’t stay?” he bit off.
“Part of it,” she admitted. “At first it wasn’t a big deal, but by the time you asked me to stay…I’d been pretending so long I knew you’d never forgive me.”
“Pretending.” He laughed, rough and choked, tipping his head back toward the sky. “That’s all it was. Pretend. This whole time, playing games with me and pretending to be someone else. I’ve been pouring my heart out, but you already knew everything, didn’t you?”
“No. No, I—”
“Incredible.” He turned to face her. The eyes that had once made her shiver now cut deep, finding everything vulnerable inside and leaving her bleeding. “This is the second time in my life I’ve fallen in love with you, but the first time I know who you really are.”
Of all the ways to hear he loved her. I love you too, she wanted to say, but the words choked her, a noose around her neck. Her heart was a thing of glass, filled to the brim, ready to shatter. She almost didn’t want to know, hands wringing her purse until she nearly ripped it, but she made herself ask, “Second time…?”
“Four years.” He shook his head, angry mask cracking to show raw, unfiltered pain. Pain that was her fault. “All throughout high school, I could never work up the nerve to talk to you. I thought you were fearless. Indomitable. No matter what anyone said, you did your own thing—with your blue hair and notebooks full of stars. I admired that.” His throat worked in a swallow. His gaze fixed on her necklace. “You were the ideal that created Violet, Celeste. You were the dream I’ve been chasing all along.” The pain in his eyes sealed away behind a wall she could never breach again, leaving only cold, cruel distance. “Only to find out you’re such a coward you’re afraid to even be yourself.”
He stalked away. She stumbled after him as the world blurred and the painful burn of tears built tight and rough. “Ion!” she cried.
He didn’t turn back. He only jerked open the door of a sleek black coupe and slid inside. The tail lights came on, before the car backed out and tore from the lot in a squeal of spinning tires. He was gone.
He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SHE’D LIED TO HIM.
Ion parked the rental car on the riverfront and stared across the water, the moon cast in shards against near-black waves. His fingers dug into the steering wheel until the leather squeaked. All this time he’d been chasing a lie. No wonder she’d been so secretive. No wonder something had felt familiar, just enough to be off. All those hints; all those subtle gaps in everything she’d said. They all added up. He’d been so blind. Her astrophysicist father. Her dead mother. Her little quirks and mannerisms. Of course he’d remember she was on the damned debate team; they’d been on the same team, even if they’d somehow managed to never speak one word to each other. And that smile, same as he remembered, but he’d been so caught by the impossibility—and so trusting, so idealistic, so lovestruck, so naive—that he hadn’t even made the comparison.
He’d been such a fool.
A lifetime worshipping this ideal. Only the girl he’d adored—and the woman he’d envisioned—were just as fictional as his books.
He couldn’t fucking breathe. He spilled from the car with a deep, gulping gasp, easing the burning in his chest. His fists clenched as he watched the water, listening to it splash and lap against the pier. His mind ran in circles, frozen and numb with shock, torn between rage and grief and the heavy ache of missing her. Missing who he’d thought she was. He’d been so busy trying to forget his Violet that he hadn’t realized he’d had her in his arms the entire time.
How could she lie to him like that? How could she?
Every night came back to him. The way she kissed him, touched him. The hurt and warmth and love in her eyes when she’d told him about her family, her life, her memories, all of it so real. Had it all been a game? An act? Why? What could she possibly have gained from toying with him like that?
What did she gain from making him love a lie?
I wanted to be near you so much that I made a selfish choice. The wrong choice.
He sank to the weathered pier and buried his face in his hands. He wanted to hate her, but even now he couldn’t. Not when she’d looked at him with tears in her eyes and sounded so sincere.
A harsh laugh escaped. Sincere. He doubted she even knew the meaning of the word.
He knew he should let her explain, but not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready to hear all her reasons. He wasn’t sure he could believe her, that this had just been coincidence mixed with one bad choice because she thought
he wouldn’t want her.
She’d thought she had to be someone else for him to love her.
Maybe he’d thought that, too. Maybe he’d been so fixated on finding the next Violet, the woman who could live up to her ideal, that he’d almost missed the chance to love a very real woman who was nothing and everything like this…icon he’d created.
This was what he got for being stuck in the past.
She’d never known how he’d felt about her. Not then. Not now. And after this he didn’t know how he’d find the strength to say another word to her, or if it would matter. He should just forget everything, once and for all. Start over, instead of swearing he would after just one more book. She’d moved forward with her life by changing her identity, trying to change herself.
It was time for him to move on, too. Because the sickness in the pit of his stomach couldn’t handle this anymore.
His phone rang in his pocket; he swore. Of all the fucking times for Drake to want something. He dragged the HTC from his pocket, but didn’t recognize the number. With a snarl, he lifted the phone to his ear.
“What?”
“Well, aren’t we in a mood tonight,” Evelyn Madigan purred.
“How the hell did you get this number?”
“I have my ways.” She probably thought her laugh was sultry. “I hear you’re back in the States.”
“You must pay people quite well to stalk me.”
“Only way to get my story.”
“Seems like you’ve been doing fine making one up. Not sure why you need me.”
“It turns out people are more interested in loving you than destroying you, Mr. Blackwell. Creating controversy gets ratings, but I’d get more with your cooperation.”
He clenched his teeth. “You’ve been doing a shitty job of currying favor, if that’s what you want.”
“My methods got your attention.”
“And made me want to wring your pretty little neck.”
“Such flattery.” That fake laugh again. “I’m not a terrible person, you know.”
“I’m about fed up with liars for tonight.”
“Then I’ll level with you straight. We work together on one interview. Your book sales skyrocket in advance of the film release, I get my talk show bump, and we forget each other. I won’t be a thorn in your side anymore. We both benefit.”
His upper lip curled. He wasn’t surprised she’d been angling for personal advancement; no wonder she wouldn’t get her teeth out of him. “You’ll be fired if you don’t deliver, won’t you?”
“So the rumors about your insight are true.”
“You’re fairly transparent, but I don’t see why I should care.”
“Because while I may not be that terrible, I know enough about you to know you’re better than that.”
He raked a hand through his hair and glared across the water. He wished he didn’t understand where she was coming from. He wasn’t in the mood to be lenient, even if deep-seated instinct told him this was it. This was his chance to spin this situation in his favor and make the most of it, even if he wasn’t yet sure exactly how. Raw fury made him want to say no. He would hate himself for caving, but might hate himself even more for costing this woman her job, no matter how deserved it might be. Just because she’d panicked and done something wrong didn’t mean he shouldn’t do what was right.
God fucking damn it.
Something inside him broke, hard and painful and deep. He tilted his head back to look at the stars with a groan. “You must think this is real funny,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. You want a story?” he bit off, breath scouring his throat. “Meet me in New York. Two days. I’ll tell you everything—but we do this on my terms and my terms alone.”
* * *
Celeste sat on a concrete wheel stop and buried her face in her hands, struggling not to burst out sobbing. She didn’t deserve to—and she was too proud to sit, her bare feet filthy, in the parking lot of her high school gym and cry. Not again. She’d done too much of that as a girl, while those same people partied through dances and assemblies, oblivious to her suffering.
Suffering she’d brought on herself. So she’d been picked on in high school. She’d been too busy wallowing in her insecurity to see the good things. Good things like Lily, who’d stood up for her—and all Celeste had seen was that she was perfect for Ion while Celeste wasn’t.
And Ion…who’d wanted her for who she was, instead of who she’d pretended to be.
She sniffled roughly, rubbing her nose, then texted Ophelia. Can you come get me? This was a disaster.
Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t get to answer. Slender legs imposed on her vision, and she looked up into Lily’s sympathetic smile. She offered Celeste’s shoes, dangling from two fingers.
“Lost these, Cinderella.” When Celeste took her heels, Lily sat down on the wheel stop next to her, baby bump and all. “You okay?”
Celeste scrubbed her eyes with a trembling smile. “Not really.”
“What happened with Ion?”
“It’s complicated. Beyond complicated.”
“Looked like.” Lily patted her knee. “He’s always had a quick temper. Let him cool down, and he’s usually more willing to talk.”
“You two were close, huh?”
“Close friends.” Lily leaned against her. “But you know, he always loved you.”
Somehow, knowing that didn’t help.
She was grateful for Lily’s warm, supportive company while she waited until she saw her sister’s Day-Glo car coming down the block. But she was surprised when, as they stood, Lily pulled her into another hug and whispered,
“It’ll be okay. Whatever it is, just believe it’ll be okay.”
Celeste squeezed her tight, and wished she’d been smart enough to realize what a friend she could’ve had. Then she pulled away, smiling, before folding herself into Ophelia’s little tin can.
At least she made it home before the waterworks hit. She curled up in bed with her head in Ophelia’s lap and told her everything, sobbing. Ophelia didn’t judge. Didn’t chide her for her mistake. She just held her and stroked her hair, and let her cry until the pain ebbed and she could breathe.
Exhaustion brought sleep more easily that night, but still she woke before dawn. She curled against the headboard and watched the sun rise, taking away her stars. Her phone sat on the nightstand, almost accusing. She bit her lip and eyed it, before picking it up. Her hands trembled as she hit Ion’s contact, pressed call, and lifted the phone to her ear.
It didn’t even ring once before going straight to voicemail.
Either he’d shut his phone off, or he’d blacklisted her.
She closed her eyes and sucked in a pained breath. She couldn’t blame him for stonewalling her, but she tapped out a text anyway. Just because she hadn’t had the nerve to leave a voicemail, but she couldn’t let this go unsaid.
I’m so sorry, Ion. If you’re still in Louisiana, please—can we meet and talk? I’ll explain everything. I never wanted to hurt you.
He didn’t answer.
She curled in on herself and let herself just hurt, hoping maybe, just maybe he was taking his time—or asleep. But when she heard her family up and about, moving through the house, she made herself get up and greet the morning. She’d screwed up. She’d screwed up big time. But she had things to do, and they couldn’t wait for her to beat herself up. She’d known from the beginning Ion wasn’t for her. When the daydream was over, her father still needed her. It hurt, but it was better to let it go.
Broken heart or not, life moved on.
She distracted herself by helping around the house. It had sat partly empty for a time, with Ophelia living in New Orleans on weekdays and Celeste in Los Angeles with their father. They spent days cleaning, sorting through boxes of junk, airing everything out, putting on a fresh coat of paint. Turning it into a home again, just as it had been when Ophelia and Celeste were young and thei
r father had no idea what to do with two little girls on his own.
Her moving boxes arrived with her lab equipment. As the movers stacked boxes in her bedroom, one bumped her desk—and tumbled her telescope onto the floor. She lunged for it, fingers grasping desperately, but she couldn’t stop it. It crashed and rolled against the wood, ripping her apart with every jarring clang. The body dented and scratched. The objective lens shattered, and her heart shattered with it. She crumpled to her knees, picking up the pieces, and curled around them with a low, hurting moan.
Everything kept breaking. Why couldn’t she stop breaking everything?
Her life went on hold for days while she repaired it—sanding out the damage, replacing the lens, working over it painstakingly, hunched over the workbench in her father’s garage lab. Her life could break in a dozen ways, but this was one thing she could fix—one thing she needed to fix, no matter what. Come hell or high water, she would always repair the Orion.
As she ran a sanding cloth over the last of the scratches, a shadow fell over her. She glanced up to find her sister watching her thoughtfully, violet eyes soft and sympathetic.
“You know, it’s funny.” Ophelia said. “How people will do anything to fix something they love.”
Her sister sat with her for a while, quiet and comforting. After she left, Celeste picked up her phone and stared at Ion’s listing with a sense of déjà vu. So many things felt unfinished. He’d never called back. Never texted, or even emailed. Nothing. She couldn’t leave things hanging like this. She was tempted to send a safe, easy email; she still had his address saved on her phone. [email protected]. Emails were neutral. Emails kept a safe distance. Emails let her think about the words before she blurted them out.
Emails were cowardly.
She hit dial before she could talk herself out of it and just listened, eyes closed and praying—but once again, he didn’t answer. This time she waited for the voicemail, aching at the sound of his voice.
This is Blackwell. Do what you have to do.