Page 50 of To Love the Stars too Fondly

It rang. And rang. And rang….

And hit voicemail.

I curled in on myself, the pain of inaction keeping me paralyzed. The paparazzi had ruined her, I knew. They’d stalked her and captured her worst moments for the whole world to see.

The phone screen lit up. I scrambled to open it.

Yeah, hope so.

It wasn’t much, but relief flooded me. I mulled over potential replies, but the three little dots signified there was more for her to say.

I’m not going to make it to the shop at 8 like I normally do. But I’ll pick you up at home. Does 5 work?

I quickly typed a reply. Aw, damn. I’ll miss our morning banter 😉 5 is perfect.

I would miss it, but this was better. We’d have time to talk. I could tell her I knew. I could tell her I didn’t care. If she could grow past her history, perhaps I could grow past mine, too.

I’ll see you then. You should get some sleep.

Of course. Goodnight ❤️

Hopefully the heart wasn’t too much.

Goodnight ❤️

All was well. I wouldn’t be sleeping, my stomach a churning mess as I tried to amalgamate the beautiful afternoon we’d spent with the endless hell of tabloids, but Myth Busters once proved that trying to sleep was better than not, so I rolled over and shut my eyes.

Friday

“You stupid bitch,” Liam muttered.

I failed to give any sort of scathing look, too exhausted from a night of no sleep. Those headlines haunted me, the mystery of whatever had happened to Alex’s beloved niece irritating me like a rock in my shoe. But I was on the clock, and I faked a smile for a customer before turning back to the scowling Liam.

“Took you long enough,” Liam continued, quietly lest anyone else overhear. “Made out in the car, sure.”

“That really is all—”

“You go on one date, and you’re positively twitterpated.” He shook his head. “When does the U-Hauling begin?”

A smile tugged at my lips. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You want to though.”

I had nothing to say to that.

He turned away from the espresso machine to glower at me. “I’m proud of you. Dumbass.”

I smiled as I accepted a customer tip, then sniped back with a, “Proud of what?”

“Accepting that maybe you’re just a goddamn lesbian.”

It’s what I’d called myself in high school, a word I’d cherished, tended to like a tender plant, and kept proudly in the sun.

When El had died, I’d put the plant into the shadows, where it had wilted. I’d willed it to die.

Truth couldn’t die, no matter how cruelly trauma tried to grind it to dust.

My smile came softly. “Yeah.”