The Falling (Brightest Stars, #1)(3)

“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice even lower than it was before.

It sounded the same as it did those damp nights when we fell asleep with the windows open—the whole room would be dewy the next morning, our bodies wet and sticky. I used to love the way his hot skin felt when my fingertips danced across the smooth contours of his jaw. Even his lips were warm, feverish at times. The southern Georgia air was so thick you could taste it, and Kael’s temperature always ran so hot. Another thing I pretended to forget.

He clears his throat and asks again if I’m okay. I snap out of it.

I know what he’s thinking. He can tell that I’ve left earth with my thoughts and he’s trying to bring me back. I can read his face as clearly as the neon But First, Coffee sign hanging on the wall behind him. I hate that those memories are the ones my brain associates with him. It doesn’t make this any easier.

“Kare.” His voice is soft as he reaches across the table to touch my hand. I jerk it away so fast you’d think it was on fire. It’s strange to remember the way we were, the way I never knew where he ended and I began. We were so in tune . . . so different than the way things are now. There was a time when he’d say my name, and just like that, I’d give him anything he wanted. I consider this for a moment. How I’d give that man anything he wanted.

I thought I was further along in my recovery from us, that whole getting over him thing. At least far enough along that I wouldn’t be thinking about the way his voice sounded when I had to wake him up early for physical training, or the way he used to scream in the night. My head is starting to spin and if I don’t shut my mind off now, the memories will split me apart, on this chair, in this little coffee shop, right in front of him.

I force myself to nod and pick up my latte to buy some time, just a moment so I can find my voice. “Yeah. I’m all right. I mean, funerals are kind of my thing.”

“Tell me about it.”

I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see his grief or share my own, so I try to diffuse the intensity of what we’re both feeling with some dark humor.

“We’re running out of fingers to count the funerals we’ve been to in the last two years alone and—”

“There’s nothing you could have done, regardless. Don’t tell me you’re thinking you could’ve—” He pauses and I stare harder at the small chip in my mug. I run my finger over the cracked ceramic.

“Karina. Look at me.”

I shake my head, not even close to jumping down this rabbit hole with him. I don’t have it in me. “I’m fine. Seriously.” I pause and take in the expression on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay.”

“You’re always fine.” He runs his hand over the hair on his face and sighs, his shoulders leaning onto the back of the plastic chair.

He’s not buying it. He can feel my anxiety.

He’s right. That whole fake-it-till-you-make-it thing? I own it.

What other choice do I have?

“How long are you in town?” he asks, scooting his chair a little bit closer.

Should I lie to him? Why don’t I want to?

“For two days. Maybe less. I booked a room at the W.”

“Oh, fancy.” He smiles.

“It’s so loud . . .”

He nods and thanks the server as she sets his tea in front of him. Her eyes take him in and she tucks her hair behind her ear with a big, beautiful smile that makes my stomach burn. I want to disappear.

He doesn’t look away from my eyes.

“And so unlike you,” he says.

“Huh?” I’ve already forgotten what we were even talking about.

“The hotel.” He takes a drink of his tea and I try to catch my breath.

Being around him is still so dangerous for me. Sometimes warning signs and butterflies are one and the same.





CHAPTER ONE




Two years earlier



I had hit the job jackpot. Not financially, but in all the ways that mattered. I didn’t have to open the massage studio until ten, so most mornings I could sleep in. And being able to walk there from my house—bonus! I loved this street: the mattress shop, the ice-cream place, the nail salon, and the old-fashioned candy store. I’d saved up my money and there I was, twenty years old, on that street, living in a tiny house that I’d bought. My own house. Not my dad’s. Mine.

The walk to work was brief—only five minutes and not quite long enough to be interesting. Walking along the alley behind the shops, I mostly tried to stay out of the way of the cars. The alley was wide enough for one pedestrian and one car at a time. Well, a Prius or some kind of small car would be an easy fit; unfortunately, people around here usually went for big trucks, so most of the time I pinned myself up against the bushes lining the alleyway until they passed.

Sometimes I’d create stories in my head about people in the world around me, a little bit of excitement before my shift started. Today’s story featured Bradley, the bearded man who owned the mattress store on the corner. Bradley was a nice guy, and he wore what I came to think of as his nice-guy uniform: a plaid shirt and khakis. He drove a white Ford something or other, and he worked even more than I did. I passed him every morning, already at his shop before I started at ten. Even when I worked a double or a night shift, I’d see that white truck parked in the back of the alley.