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It hits me that I’m looking at a chalk portrait of her. She’s larger than life, the whorls and spirals of her red-gold hair set with shining stars upon an indigo background. There is a sadness to her expression, a distance, like she doesn’t belong in this world.
It guts me.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” An older Hispanic man stands by my side, looking down at the pavement. Chalk stains his fingers in smudges of colors that have turned a greenish orange.
I search for his name. Ramon, the guy Stella bought coffee.
I clear my throat. “Yeah, she is.”
Ramon stares down without expression. “Star Girl isn’t for this place.”
“This place?”
His bloodshot eyes meet mine. “She doesn’t belong here with the rest of us. She’s a Star Girl.”
Stella stares up at me, distant and alone. The idea of her alone breaks my heart.
“You’re wrong,” I blurt out. “She belongs.”
Ramon shrugs. “You don’t belong either.”
A humorless laugh breaks free. “Yeah?”
“Stars belong in the sky.” His voice is vague, and he doesn’t look my way again as he shuffles off.
The hiss of water hitting the pavement has me jumping. It shoots over Stella’s face and she begins to blur.
“Stop!” I don’t know why I say it—Stella’s already melting, colors swirling into a muddy soup—but the sight unsettles me.
Ramon looks at me as though I’m off my nut. “Why?”
“It’s too pretty to ruin.” Lame reason. It’s not like I can say I’d wanted to stare at her for a little longer.
He shrugs again. “It’s just chalk.”
“How can you say that? You’re an artist.” Frankly, I’m offended on his behalf. If anyone called my music just noise, I’d be pissed.
He glances at me from the corner of his eye. For a second, I don’t think he’ll answer. He rubs a spot on the back of his head, making the graying strands stick up wildly. “Used to paint on canvas. I’d stare at my work and see the imperfections. Bothered me a lot. Got to where I couldn’t paint anymore. I’d fear what could go wrong, where I’d fail.” He turns back to hosing down the ground, cleaning Stella away from the concrete. “Better this way. I don’t hold on. I know what is real now.”
“I don’t know what is real anymore,” I find myself confessing.
Ramon reaches out and gives me a hard pinch, laughing when I glare at him. “Now you know.”
I’m guessing he means the here and now. But I’ve never been good with focusing on the moment for very long. I’m always looking back or forward. Always fucking worrying. Stella helped me focus, but she’s gone now.
Rubbing the throbbing spot on my arm, I’m torn between laughing and getting the hell home. “Thanks. You want a coffee?” Because Stella would get him one. She’d make sure he’d eaten too.
He shakes his head, visibly retreating into his own world. “Got things to do.” And then he’s kneeling over his box of chalk. I say good-bye, but he doesn’t respond.
All the way home, that spot on my arm burns. It would be easy to dismiss Ramon’s words as ramblings. But I can’t shake them. What is real? It sure as shit isn’t fear. That’s an illusion. How many times am I going to let fear take me before I learn?
The only time I’ve ever felt whole, in all my glory and imperfections, was with Stella. But what did I do for her? Did I make her world more real? Better?
You took that lonely look out of her eyes and replaced it with light, you ass.
But is it enough?
Hours later, the question still won’t go away. Is it enough? Am I?
Chapter Thirty-One
Stella
* * *
“We’re going to the beach,” Brenna states with a glare that says resistance is futile.
Since I’m huddled up in bed with the covers around my ears, I’m guessing I make a pretty pathetic picture right about now. Sighing, I fling back the quilt and stretch. “Fine.”
“Really?” She brightens. “I was prepared to drag you out of that bed.”
“Is that why you have your sneakers on already? Good traction?”
Brenna grins wide. “That’s exactly why.”
I smile as I stare up at the ceiling. “I need to get out. I hate moping.”
But moping feels so good right now. I could lie here all week if I let myself. So I haul my butt up and head for the shower. “When are we going?” I ask over my shoulder.
“As soon as you’re ready. Sophie and Libby are coming with us.”
I have not met Libby. I’m not ashamed to admit I have her album and think she’s a fantastic singer. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself with fangirl fawning.
True to Brenna fashion, she’s ordered a limo to take us. Laughing at the ostentatious display of luxury, I scramble in and find Sophie and Libby waiting. Libby looks just as she does in pictures—slim, flowing, golden-brown hair, wide-open expression, and smiling gray eyes. Apple pie with a Bourbon chaser.
