The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(13)

He looked so big next to my little leather couch. Actually, he looked so big next to everything in my house, even the china cabinet I bought off Craigslist, before I realized how dangerous it was to meet strangers in the back of the Walmart parking lot. I had a lot of stuff in my house, most of it old and previously owned. Until now, I’d never thought about how my home may have looked to others, but suddenly I felt insecure that he might be judging me. Did he notice the pile of dirty clothes desperately waiting to be washed, the stack of dirty dishes in the sink?

And why did I care?

“If there’s that one pie . . .” Elodie struggled for the English word. “The one with the little cer—” She held up her fingers and I finished her thought for her.

“Cherries?” I had retained zero of what I learned from high school French class. Elodie nodded, but she didn’t have to. I knew she could eat an entire cherry pie in one sitting—I’d seen her do it. And who could blame her? My dad’s wife, Estelle, was a decent cook. If I liked her more, I would admit that she was a great cook. But I didn’t, so I wouldn’t.

I assured Elodie if there was cherry pie on offer it would be hers.

“Is he always this quiet?” I asked her. Then I shouted, “Towels are in the closet behind the bathroom door!” loud enough that he would hear me. Of course, he didn’t respond, but I heard the cabinet creak, so I knew he’d heard me.

She shrugged and winced a little. “I don’t know . . .”

“Yeah, don’t remind me.” I sighed, wondering again what I had agreed to.

She chewed on her lip the way she always did, and I gave her a somewhat reassuring smile. I left before another minute could pass.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN




I was late. Not a five-minute, “Oh, there was traffic” late. This was big late, the kind of late that would end with my dad’s dramatic sighs and a lecture about how Estelle had to keep the oven on to warm the food, but now the chicken was all dried up, and did I ever think of anyone but myself? I was already supposed to be at my dad’s house and I was still sitting in my driveway. As I said, late.

I wasn’t sure why I was prolonging my lateness by sitting in my car and staring out the windshield in silence. Sometimes I wished my car wouldn’t start, so I wouldn’t have to go, though my dad would complain even more and come pick me up. I hated any and all obligations that I had no control over. I didn’t like to be told what to do and where to be, and yet I let my dad put that burden on me. He’d applied that kind of pressure my whole life—and I did nothing to stop it.

I checked my phone again: a missed call from a random number. When I called back, an automated robot voice said it was a collect call for my mother. I bet the bill collector would have more success finding her than I would. My mom was the last person I needed to think about right now, and I started to feel that sinking pit in my stomach that I didn’t have the energy for tonight.

I went on Instagram out of habit and scrolled through pictures of girls I had known in high school who were now starting their adult lives or in the military themselves. Not a ton of people I went to high school with ended up going to college. For money or whatever reason, it just wasn’t the norm like it was in movies. I stopped scrolling when I saw a picture of a coast, bright blue water, and white sands. This was the backdrop to a couple of lounge chairs shaded by beach umbrellas, and in the corner of the photo, two hands clinking glasses of what I guessed were pi?a coladas. The caption read “OMG if you think this view is nice, wait till we post pics tonight!!! The sky here is sooooo beautiful!” with a bunch of heart-eye emojis. The account belonged to Josie Spooner, a onetime friend and a complete social narcissist who posted every time she left the house. Her daily coffee cup with a quote about how she’s “ready to kick Monday’s ass!” or “Ugh, people suck. So bad. Don’t feel like talking about it!” filled my feed often. What was the purpose of telling the world that she didn’t want to talk about it—why post it? I didn’t know why I didn’t just delete her, or my whole account. I hadn’t spoken to her since we moved from Texas. Then again, if I deleted everyone who annoyed me on social media, I would have zero friends.

I was mid–eye roll when I caught something out of the corner of my peripheral vision. It was Kael, dressed in his tan camouflage ACUs, striding down the grass and onto the sidewalk.

I rolled my window down and called to him. “Hey!”

He walked toward my car and leaned into the open passenger-side window. He had to duck down a little so he could see me. His eyes were bright in the setting sun. They were more than bright, they were striking. They were distracting; the unnerving cocktail of vulnerability and certainty in them seemed to sway me, to make me want to be kind to him.

“Where are you going? Was something wrong with the shower? I know it can be a pain in the ass. The water goes from boiling to freezing in like one second and—”

“Shower was fine.” He had one of his hands hidden in the pocket of his uniform pants and the other was resting on the window lining. The black ink tattoo on his forearm was in full view. I couldn’t tell what it was without staring, and he was way too close to not notice.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“To my company,” he answered softly.

“Right now?” I looked at the street to see who was there to pick him up, but there were no cars. “You’re walking?” I asked, again engaging in way too much conversation with him. Every few seconds I forgot I was already late to dinner.