Where the Stars Still Shine(31)

“To Australia, Central America, the Galapagos, Polynesia, the Caribbean, and maybe even the Florida Keys.” I tick them off on my fingers the way he did and the corner of his mouth tilts up. “You should,” I say. “You should go everywhere you want to go.”

“Someday.” He stands up and aims his thumb over his shoulder at his boat. “But right now, I’m gonna go grab a quick nap. Wanna join me?”

“Yes.” I’m so tired and, despite watching two more boatloads of tourists fawn over him, Alex is still such a temptation. “But I have to work now.”

“It’s an open offer,” he says, stepping up onto the side of the boat. “If you ever need a place to hide out or take a nap, the combination is the numeric version of my name.”

“L and X are double digits,” I say, doing the math in my head.

“I’m sure you’ll eventually work it out.”

“I already have.” I stand and brush the pita crumbs off my shorts, then walk over to the boat. He steps aside and I click the numbers 1-3-5-6 into place on his combination lock. It opens.

“So smart.” His lips beside my ear make my nerves light up, and I can feel his fingers through the fabric of my shirt as he touches my lower back. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”

I look through the doorway at his bed and I’m not sure at all. “I, um—I have to go.”

“No problem.” He drops his hand away and I want it back. “Another time.”

When I reach the shop, Kat is straightening the T-shirt display.

“You looked pretty cozy with Alex,” she says without looking at me.

“If offering him some hummus is cozy, then okay,” I say.

“On his boat?”

“Since you seem to have been watching the whole time, you already know I was on the boat for about twenty seconds.” I throw a stray wool sponge in its proper basket and wonder how this is any of her business. “Does this need to be an issue?”

“I’m just looking out for you,” she says. “Excuse me if I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

I could tell her I’ve been hurt in ways she can’t imagine, in ways Alex Kosta couldn’t even begin to accomplish. I could also tell her that even in my non-existent experience when it comes to friendships, I’m pretty sure looking out for someone shouldn’t be the same as telling them what to do. But I’m not trying to pick a fight with her, so I keep my mouth shut. When she drives me home at the end of our shift, there’s a silent thread of anger connecting us and neither of us does anything to cut it.





Chapter 11


Greg is sitting on the front-porch steps, a plate balanced on his thigh and a sweaty bottle of beer beside him. Through the open door, I can hear Pearl Jam’s “Corduroy” on the stereo. Nostalgia overtakes me and being angry with Kat fades to nothingness, replaced by a twisting guilt I’d forgotten to feel and a sadness so sharp it takes my breath away.

I did it again.

I got so caught up in silly drama that I stopped thinking about Mom.

“Hey, Cal,” he greets. “How was your first day on the job?”

“It was okay, I guess.” I sit down beside him and incline my head toward the house. “I didn’t know you were a Pearl Jam fan.”

“Not hard-core the way Veronica was, though.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice, as if maybe we were both thinking about her. When I see him with Phoebe it’s easy to forget that he once loved Mom, too.

“She calls me a blasphemous child for not worshipping at the altar of Eddie Vedder.”

“There is a certain sacrilege to that.” He takes a sip of beer. When he sets it down, the wet label slips sideways. “There’s an extra burger in the kitchen for you if you’re hungry. Phoebe and the boys are visiting her folks.”

“You didn’t go?”

“Not today.” His smile is not strong enough to make it up to his eyes. There’s something that needs to be said, and it makes me wonder if he stayed behind so he could say it. Whatever it may be, I don’t want to hear it right now. I stand.

“I’m going to go get that burger.”

On my way through the living room I pause at the stereo. On the floor is a shoe box filled with CDs, the lid dusty and the tape pulled away as if the box hasn’t been opened in a while. I squat down to riffle through them. Nirvana. Soundgarden. Alice in Chains. Hole. The soundtrack of my life with my mother.

The CD changes as I’m building a cheeseburger and the house fills with the melancholy twang of Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You.” It was my favorite song when I was small, and whenever I wanted to listen to it, Mom would ruffle my hair and call me her little hippie chick. It was the first song I taught myself to play on my guitar. Every word—every note—rips another hole in my heart and I can’t stop the tears that run down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away.

“Callie?” Greg comes into the kitchen with his empty plate. “What’s wrong?”

“I miss her.”

He takes a deep breath as he hands me a towel that I use to wipe my face, then blows it out slowly. “Okay, I was going to wait until you had a chance to eat, but … I got a call today from Veronica’s father. Your mom was extradited this past week, and her parents posted bond Friday.”