Fall (VIP #3)(120)

That was something she taught me.

Truth is, I’m not certain I’d even be here if it weren’t for the way she pushed me outside of my box and showed me another way to view the world, to get my head out of my ass and let go.

Like that, the pain returns. The pain of depression is one thing. Depression is inertia, self-doubt. This is another torture; it is loss and regret. I’m off-kilter, cold along the edges of my arms and back. This is a twitchy need to keep moving, to do something—anything—or I’ll start to scream.

I bottle that up too and get into the back of the Town Car that will take me home.

The band used to have a motto: no regrets. We’d channel Edith Piaf and regret nothing. We were also kids who had nothing to lose by trying. Funny how the more you care about things, the harder it is to shrug off regrets.

I’m living in a sea of that heavy emotion right now. Dove right in the minute I finished flipping out on Stella and heard the door shut as I left her.

I pushed that regret down, because, you know, I’m supposed to live in the moment and never look back. I let her go, made plans to get the hell out town. My bags are packed; my London home is being aired for my arrival. The perfect escape, and I feel like I’m dying.

This is what true regret feels like, a death of something you never fully understood but desperately want to take back.

I miss her face, the way her red-gold hair bounces when she moves her head, the little freckles that sit on her lips like a dare. I miss the sound of her voice, and the bite of her snark.

The Town Car seems to get smaller, go slower. After a few blocks, I ask Bruce to pull over.

“You dropped me off at my apartment,” I tell him, both of us knowing full well that Dad—aka, Scottie—will shit if he finds out I’m walking on my own after an event. His reasoning is a crazy could follow me. Having a bodyguard take me, or any of the guys, back to a secure location after being seen in public is one of his things.

Bruce wavers for a moment, but then nods. “Sure thing.”

He’ll probably follow me at a discreet distance. I don’t care, as long as I’m out of this car and walking.

Unfortunately, it isn’t until after I get out that I realize I’m in Union Square. I ignore the spot where I kissed Stella over bagels, but I see her smiling face, hear her laughter over the din of the city. My fingers feel the ghost of her silky, penny-bright hair sliding over them.

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans and walk faster. But I can’t outpace the ghost of her—of us. And when her face suddenly materializes right under my feet, I almost shout in shock. As it is, I come to a freaked-out halt. I must be hallucinating. But there she is, gazing up at me with those wide, lake-blue eyes I know so well.

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.