by Diana Kane
Separate Like Stars
by Diana Kane
Separate Like Stars
Copyright © 2018 Diana Kane
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons, real or imagined, are purely coincidental. Cities and locations mentioned are for added aesthetics only.
All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner without written consent from the author except for brief quotations embodied within articles or reviews. Please note that piracy of copyright materials is illegal and directly harms the author.
Dedication
To Kris and Scott. May we meet again.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
I stare at the blank page, the cursor hypnotizing me as my mind fails once again to produce something worthy of filling the void in front of me. The hushed din of the other coffee shop patrons surrounds me, providing little distraction from that taunting cursor. I came here hoping to find inspiration, perhaps that one overheard line or conversation that could unravel in my mind into my next best seller, but it just isn’t happening. I close my eyes and tip my head back, willing myself not to scream out in frustration as life carries on for those around me.
“Aren’t you Jordan Cohen?” I hear the feminine voice ask, a mixture of nervousness and excitement in her tone. I want to sigh, and if I lived in a place where this was a regular occurrence, I probably would. Instead, I plaster on my best fake smile and open my eyes to take in the young woman who stands before me. She looks to be all of 14. Is she even old enough to read my work?
“Hello,” I answer, hoping she refrains from squealing or anything else that might draw more attention to us. I finished high school here, so I’m blessedly left alone, for the most part. However, there is always that odd occurrence where someone turns my presence into a celebrity sighting. “What’s your name?” I ask when she continues to stare at me like a hungry zombie.
“Monica,” she eventually responds. “I’ve read all of your books! I can’t wait for the next one,” she excitedly informs me. It seems she’s wrested control from the cat that had her tongue at least.
I can’t wait for my next book either, I think as I continue forcing that smile. “Thank you. That really means a lot. I’ll have it out as soon as I’m able,” I promise her. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Oh, I love—.”
“Monica, come on, we have to go,” the young man interrupts Monica’s response as he takes his place at her side. He looks over at me, his eyes widening slightly in recognition as Monica scowls at him. “Aren’t you dating Addison Foster?” he asks, apparently no longer in a hurry to leave.
“I am,” I answer, hoping this interaction will be over soon. I don’t mind saying hello, maybe having a quick conversation, signing an autograph or taking a picture, but I shy away from personal questions. Part of the reason I returned to Jupiter Falls was the desire to have some semblance of private life, even if that isn’t always the case.
“She’s hot,” he informs me, like I didn’t already know. “Is she here?” he asks, turning his head left and then right to look around the coffee shop.
“Seriously Chad, stop it,” Monica chides him.
“I’m afraid she isn’t here,” I inform him, much to his disappointment.
“Bummer,” he mutters before turning to Monica. “Come on. Mom and dad are going to wonder if we got lost,” he orders as he turns to walk towards the front of the shop. Ah, the family on the move, likely stopping in this sleepy town for a coffee fix and bathroom break. Not that uncommon given that Jupiter Falls is pretty much the halfway point between major cities.
“It was nice to meet you,” she calls over her should as they walk away.
Yes, that’s me, Jordan Cohen, author of several best-selling novels, creator of the Legacy trilogy, whose final movie installment will be sweeping the world late next year. At least that’s how the world sees me. Truthfully, I’m just someone with a vivid imagination and the time on her hands to put those ideas on a page to be shared with anyone kind enough to spare some time to read them. Only now that imagination has gone on an extended vacation, leaving me to wonder if she’ll ever return.
Blink, blink, blink. The cursor continues to taunt me as my frustration grows. I tip my head back again and close my eyes, willing anyone around me to say something interesting. Maybe I should try a new location, I think as I continue eavesdropping on the people around me. I open my eyes again and search the room. Perhaps I don’t need to hear something. Maybe I simply need to see it. A physical interaction that sparks an idea. An article in a newspaper or a magazine that fosters my creativity. Hell, maybe even an image on a t-shirt would do. A quick scan of the shop yields nothing, resulting in me dropping my head and staring into my tea. I mindlessly twirl the spoon in my tepid brew as I try to brainstorm a new location to try writing in. Typically I write from the privacy of my home, preferring the quiet familiarity of my space to the distraction of unknown people and noise in the outside world. Occasionally I find myself here, seated in the comfortable armchair in the back of the town’s only coffee shop, letting my stream of consciousness flow from my fingertips.
“May I have a triple caramel soy latte please?” I’m so absorbed in stirring my tea that it takes a moment for my brain to make the connections. The association slowly pushes to the forefront of my awareness, causing an unpleasant chill to pass through me. I’d never forget her order or that sultry voice that oozes desire when you’re the object of her affection. I quickly glance around the shop, nearly spilling my tea in the process, but don’t see her anywhere. My heart races with panic. I can feel the light sheen of sweat that’s starting to coat my skin. I close my eyes and swear I can smell her perfume, the familiar musk, vanilla, and sandalwood mixture that seems to have burned its way into my receptors. I glance around the shop again before closing my eyes and taking a deep breath followed by another. The writer’s block is making me crazy, I assure myself as I pinch the bridge of my nose. I take another look around but can’t decide if I feel relief or disappointment when I don’t see her. Just my mind deceiving me. Probably the familiar order triggering all of those other memories. I mean she can’t be the only woman on the planet to survive on triple caramel soy lattes, can she? It’s not possible.
I shake my head as I start packing up my laptop, ready to give up for the day. I pause as I’m about to power it down, the pointer loitering over the shut down option. After a moment’s hesitation, I slide over and open the file, the one story that I’m not sure I’ll ever finish or allow another soul to read. The story of Olivia Bradle
y and how she swept into my world like a typhoon and left me a heartbroken mess in her wake.
No, that isn’t a story that I can finish or share. There’s too much of me in it. It’s far too personal for me to put out there, not that all stories don’t contain at least little pieces of their author. Most of all, how would I end it? I always swore that I’d give my readers at least a hopeful ending. Given that reading is a means of escapism and stress relief for so many, it’s the least that I can do. However, the story of Olivia and me doesn’t have a happy ending. Portraying it any other way feels like fraud.
But I’m getting way too far ahead of myself…
Chapter 2
August 1997
I push through the crowded hallway and finally locate my locker. This school isn’t a quarter of the size of my old one, yet I’m still paranoid that I’ll be tardy. I twist the dial to enter my combination and sigh when it fails to take on the first attempt. My anxiety ratchets up a notch as I try again, and thankfully succeed. I quickly toss my bag in and grab a notebook for my first class, AP Literature. Fortunately, the classroom is just down the hall. I flip the door shut and head in that direction, unsurprised to not see a single minority anywhere in the hallway as I dodge the chatty bodies along my path. Yep, my mother relocated me from the city to the smallest, whitest town in the country. Fantastic.
I try to tamp down my anger, but look at this place. There is no diversity. You need a car to go anywhere, and I can’t drive. My mother’s third divorce has uprooted me from yet another school, one where I was finally starting to feel comfortable and had finally made friends that I knew for more than three years. I thought I’d spend the last two years of my high school career there, but I guess not. Now I find myself starting over, new cliques to figure out and new assholes to suss out and avoid. Not that they aren’t the same everywhere. You always have the jocks, the rich kids, the kids in band, the stoners, and the overall misfits/nerds. My experience has generally been that the assholes to avoid are the jocks and rich kids. I have zero musical talent, so I’m not in band. Drugs have never held any appeal for me, so the stoners are out. It’s with the geeks and the misfits that I usually find my home, which suits me fine. I prefer to fly under the radar and fully anticipate my mother meeting husband number four and uprooting me again before I can get through these last two years of school. I only had three weeks to pack up my life, relocate and adjust to this change.
“Good morning,” a chipper woman I estimate to be in her late 30s greets me as I enter the empty classroom. “You must be Jordan,” she says as she smiles warmly at me.
“Do I seem that lost?” I try to joke as she hands me a copy of the syllabus.
“Not at all. We don’t get many new faces here, and yours was the only unfamiliar name on the roll sheet.” Of course they don’t. What reason is there to move to this town? “I’m Ms. Thomas. Please sit wherever you’d like.”
“Thanks,” I say giving her a weak smile. I immediately make a beeline for the back corner, preferring to keep the unfamiliar students in front of me, while I begin working out who’s who. I settle into my seat and look over the syllabus to see what we’ll be reading in what will likely be my favorite course. The Odyssey, Candide, Frankenstein, Their Eyes Were Watching God, 1984, The Woman Warrior, The Color Purple, and a few others. A decent selection that will likely keep us busy.
“I love your shirt,” I hear from a voice that seems quite close to me. I look up and into the soft blue eyes and confident smile attached to the girl standing next to me. She appears to be a couple of inches taller than me, possesses a slender build and short, wavy black hair. She’s wearing a vintage Ziggy Stardust shirt, paired with some torn black jeans, black Dr. Martens boots and has a black and white flannel shirt tied around her waist. She’s the picture of the 90’s grunge movement.
“You know who Tori Amos is?” I ask skeptically.
“I was at the show,” she answers, her smile broadening. “I have one of the other shirts and a poster, you know the one with the piglet,” she informs me. She’s definitely a fan. Only a fan would know about that image. I can’t help but return her smile as the thought that maybe I’ve found a friend, despite not going out of my way to meet one crosses my mind. “Are you saving this for anyone?” she asks, indicating the desk next to mine.
“All yours,” I inform her with a flourish of my hand. “I love your Ziggy shirt,” I share as I watch her claim the empty seat.
“Thanks,” she says as she settles herself. Once comfortable she turns her smile back to me. “I’m Olivia. I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“Jordan, and I’m new here,” I answer, feeling my smile falter slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Olivia,” I quickly recover.
“You too, Jordan,” she replies as her eyes take me in. “Wait, did you move into the house on Oak Road?”
“Yeah. How did you know?” I ask as I wonder if the real estate market is so non-existent in this town that everyone here will know where I live.
“My friend Katie lived in that house until the beginning of the summer. We’re neighbors,” Olivia informs me. “This is great! I can totally teach you how to sneak in and out of that house!”
“I doubt I’ll need much help with that,” I inform her, earning a questioning look. “My mom works the night shift at the hospital. Even if she is there, I can pretty much do whatever,” I explain with a shrug.
“Really?” she asks just before the bell rings. I nod as the classroom continues to fill, even though the bell rang seconds ago. “I assume you’re taking all AP classes too.” I nod again as Ms. Thomas begins writing on the marker board. “Awesome, we’ll be in all the same courses since there is only one AP schedule for juniors.” This knowledge brings a smile to my lips, despite knowing Olivia for less than five minutes. “We’ll talk later,” Olivia whispers as Ms. Thomas begins to address the class.
*****
“So this is Jen, Mike, Danielle, Jennifer, Kristy, David, Mark, and that’s Erica. Everyone, this is Jordan.” I wave to everyone and give them a shy smile hello. “Take a seat,” Olivia invites me as my stomach grumbles. I sit on her right and try to remember everyone’s names but have already either forgotten or mixed up the order.
“I haven’t seen you in any of my classes,” the girl I think is named Erica says to me.
“She’s in the AP courses with me, Erica” Olivia informs her. Erica nods her understanding as she chews a bite of her salad.
“Where did you go to school before?” one of the guys asks me.
“Waterford High,” I share before taking another bite of my sandwich.
“Doesn’t your cousin go there, David?” Olivia asks. It hasn’t escaped my attention that she is using everyone’s names again. I’m grateful for the added reinforcement. Maybe I’ll have it down by the end of lunch.
“Yeah. Do you know Aaron Jones?” he asks me after he swallows a sip of his soda.
“No, but it’s a big school,” I reply with a shrug. I’m confident that there were more students in my sophomore class at Waterford than there are in the entire school here.
“Did you drive here this morning?” Olivia asks. “We should carpool since we’re neighbors.”
Neighbors, I think and chuckle to myself. I could reach out and practically touch my neighbor’s house in the city. I had to keep my blinds closed because the neighbors had a 12-year-old son who could see straight into my bedroom window. I’m pretty convinced I could sunbathe naked on our front lawn here and not be seen for hours.
“What’s so amusing?” Olivia inquires.
“Nothing, just thinking I could sunbathe naked on my front lawn,” I share, knowing it probably sounds quite unrelated to her line of questioning. She tilts her head and looks at me, waiting for an explanation. “I was comparing the concept of neighbors in the city versus Jupiter Falls. You’d have to be inside my head I guess.”
“Sounds interesting,” she replies with an unreadable grin on her face.
> “Anyway, my mom dropped me off this morning before she went to bed. I’ll be taking the bus from here on out,” I inform her, causing her brow to furrow slightly. “I don’t have a driver’s license. Didn’t need one in the city.”
“The bus,” Olivia says and shudders. “No. I can pick you up and give you a ride home. It’s not even out of my way.”
“That’s really kind of you, but I can survive on the bus.”
“I insist. We’re practically going to the same place. Besides, it’ll be nice to have a passenger who shares my taste in music,” she says through a chuckle. “This lot all survive on top 40 and country,” she adds as she makes a face to convey her distaste.
“Ugh,” I concur with her unspoken sentiment. “If you insist, I guess I can’t say no.” I’m actually relieved that I won’t be riding the bus, trying to shut out the inevitable screaming from the underclassmen.
“Good. I’d hate for us to have our first fight already since we just became friends. It’ll be nice to have a study buddy since none of these guys decided to earn a few early college credits,” she says before shaking her head. “Not that my parents gave me a choice,” she finishes without elaborating. “So how do you plan on going back to the city to visit if you can’t drive? Sorry, I know I tend to talk a lot and ask a lot of questions,” she adds before I can answer her first question. We both laugh at this before I’m able to reply.