Where the Stars Still Shine(26)

Tucker shuffles into the kitchen a short time later wearing space-themed footed pajamas and carrying a book about Spider-Man. Alex scrubs a hand over his face and only I hear the groan.

“Spider-Man, again?” He swings Tucker up onto his shoulders. “Come on, buddy, let’s go pick out something we haven’t read yet.”

I finish up the dishes by myself and stand alone in the kitchen. I consider joining Greg and Phoebe in the living room, where I can hear them discussing which on-demand movie they should watch. I don’t want to sit through any more awkward silences. And when I think about Alex, reading bedtime stories to Tucker and Joe, I’m not sure I can maintain the charade of pretending we’ve never met. So I slip out the back door.





The fairy lights glow strong and white now that it’s dark outside. It’s odd that such a small thing can make such a big difference, but Kat was right—the lights make everything seem softer, prettier, and they keep the darkness at bay. I think about reading one of my new books—maybe the Hiaasen novel I bought so I can understand why Alex keeps five of them in his sink—but I don’t. I think about taking my guitar out of its case, where it’s been since I arrived in Tarpon Springs—but I don’t do that, either. I strip down to my bra and underwear—new ones that didn’t come in a sack with seven other pairs—and lie on my bed, looking up at the string of electric lights and remembering the feel of his hands on my skin. I trace the edge of my lower lip with my fingertip, but it’s not the same as kissing.

I’m not sure what time it is when I hear a soft knock on my door, but all the lights in the house are off so the whole family is probably asleep for the night. I don’t bother getting dressed because I’m almost certain I know who it is.

I let him in.

“Jesus, Callie.” Alex stares at me and there’s something in his eyes I can’t name. It makes me nervous and live-wire exposed, and I reach for him to make him stop looking at me that way. As his arms come around me, he whispers in my ear, “You are so damn beautiful.”

My face flushes, but in the glow of the fairy lights I don’t think he can tell. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

My new bra has a clasp in the front instead of the back, but as he kisses me, Alex seems to already know this. He slides the bra off and lets it drop to the floor, then does the same with my underwear. This is not the same as last time when our clothes were being shed quickly, and at the same time. He’s still wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and it makes me uncomfortable. I yank the end of the sheet around me, holding it closed over my nakedness. “Take off your clothes.”

He laughs a little, then his face goes serious when he sees my hand shaking. “Callie? What’s wrong?”

“I would feel better if you took off your clothes.”

He probably thinks I’m a complete freak, but I can’t tell him that Frank would remove my pajamas and sometimes open his pants to rub himself, but he never, ever took off his clothes. I wouldn’t blame Alex if he left right now and never returned. Except he tilts his head and looks at me as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve—and then he takes off his clothes.

We have to start all over from the beginning, and I’m not sure why he even bothers when he could easily go find someone less damaged to have sex with him, but Alex kisses me and slides his fingers through my hair in a way that makes me feel as beautiful as he claims I am, until I release my grip on the sheet.

“You wanna get ice cream?” he asks later, as I lie with my head on his chest. My eyes don’t want to stay open, so I close them and listen to the thump of his heartbeat as it returns to its normal pace beneath my ear. His fingers move through my hair, making me shiver.

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“What if Greg finds out?”

“He’s asleep and we’ll be quiet.”

Now that I’m thinking about ice cream, I can’t unthink it. “Let’s go.”

Alex uses the bathroom to clean up while I put on my clothes. When we’re dressed, we sneak out of the trailer and hug the dark perimeter of the yard, crouching like spies—and trying not to laugh—until we’re away from the house.

“My truck is up on Grand,” he says. “I parked up there earlier, then doubled back on foot.”

“Resourceful.”

“I have my moments.”

We reach the truck and he drives down Pinellas to the Sparta gas station. Alex goes inside first and leads me to a low white freezer chest filled with ice-cream treats, like Klondike bars, ice-cream sandwiches, and rocket pops.

My favorite is the ice-cream sandwich. Mom and I get them sometimes as a special treat, and she was the one who taught me that the best way to eat them is to lick away the ice cream until it’s only a thin layer inside the chocolate sandwich.

“What are you going to have?” Cold air blasts out as Alex opens the door and selects a Drumstick ice-cream cone. My hand reaches for the ice-cream sandwich, but it occurs to me that I don’t have to choose it because Mom and I always do. I can get whatever I want. Instead I take a Drumstick.

We get to the checkout counter when I change my mind. “Wait.”

I go back for the ice-cream sandwich.

As we sit on the dropped tailgate of Alex’s truck under a streetlight in the gas-station parking lot, he licks the peanut bits off his Drumstick, oblivious to the inner turmoil I’m suffering over ice cream. And now that the frozen sandwich is in my hand, paid for and unwrapped, I don’t want it. Tears prickle my eyes, and I hate that I’m making something as simple as choosing ice cream more complicated than it needs to be. And I hate that I seem to cry all the time. I’m so tired of crying.