When Stars Fall

by Wendy Million

  He takes his seat and I smother the urge to lean forward. I don’t see his movies—I’m not interested in pretend-Wyatt—but I can never resist his interviews. If I still did drugs, he’d be crack.

  They banter about Wyatt’s race-car movie. When Wyatt turns on the charm, he is breathtaking. Jackson shuffles the cue cards on his desk after the brief movie clip plays. A nervous habit. I’ve been a guest on his show enough times to recognize the pattern. I narrow my eyes. He and Wyatt are genuine friends, so his nerves make no sense.

  Wyatt appears sober, which is a delightful change. Sober Wyatt wasn’t someone I saw very often, but he’d spent years balancing his moods with drugs before we met. Another ten years since to hone his skills to appear sober.

  His suit fits him like a glove, and seeing him so together stirs long-buried desires. My eyes travel the length of his body, taking in his dark hair, broad shoulders, and narrow hips. When he gestures to Jackson, his biceps flex under the suit coat. He looks good—too good.

  No. No. No. If I saw him in person, I’d run the other way. I’ve been turning away with military precision for ten years. Sober, witty Wyatt in a nice suit can’t change the past, the choices we made.

  Jackson squares his shoulders and grins. Wyatt tugs at the neck of his shirt. It’s brief, but noticeable. I sit forward. Another nervous habit. There’s a vibe between them that I’ve never seen before.

  “Are you single right now?” Jackson’s inquiry is a softball. “Anyone special in your life?”

  The crowd goes wild, and I cringe. I hate that question—for him, for me.

  “You know,” Wyatt says, “I’ve been thinking a lot about old flames still flickering.” He winks at the camera.

  Jackson laughs. “Old flames. Give us a hint?”

  Wyatt opens his jacket and leans against the couch, throwing an arm over the back. Confidence blasts from him like a siren’s call. My ship longs to steer toward him.

  “Have you got a photo, Jackson? Help a guy out?”

  Jackson rotates in his chair and a familiar photograph of the two of us pops up behind him.

  There’s an explosion in the crowd. My heart threatens to gallop away.

  What is he doing?

  My phone on the coffee table jumps to life. Nikki’s name flashes across the screen. I send her to voice mail. My attention sticks to the screen. When my phone buzzes again, I don’t check who it is. I send them to voice mail. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it.

  Shit. This can’t be happening.

  The crowd is alive with wolf whistles, catcalls, and screaming. An album of old photos of me and Wyatt flips across the screen.

  The memories. Oh, my heart. The memories.

  “Ellie Cooper.” Wyatt draws out my name like he’s licking an ice-cream cone, and his attention is glued to the last photo of us.

  Ten years since I’ve heard my name leave his lips. The genuine animation in him, the love on his face when he stares at the picture, softens me, even as rage builds deep in my gut. He loved me so hard once.

  “Have you and Ellie been in touch?” Jackson asks.

  I will tear Jackson apart for agreeing to be part of this ridiculous spectacle. He’ll never have me on his show again. He’s dead to me. I’m half tempted to call my manager right now, but that would mean missing where this is going. Wyatt must realize the storm he’s setting off. People still label us #couplegoals. The stories I could tell them . . .

  “I’m hoping to be reacquainted with her soon.” Wyatt laughs. “Anyone know how I can get in touch with her?” His hopeful bewilderment plays to the crowd. His brazenness is achingly familiar. He wasn’t the only one who loved hard.

  “Wyllie was huge when you two were together. I think people even wore T-shirts picking sides when you split. But in the ten years since, neither of you have spoken publicly about what happened.”

  “Ellie’s a classy woman.” He holds up a finger. “The best woman. I mean . . .” His expression softens. “That face.” He points to another, more recent photo that’s appeared behind Jackson. “Brains, beauty, the biggest heart. Our breakup was my fault—completely my fault. I couldn’t give up the drugs.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to get off them.”

  “And where are you at now?”

  Wyatt or his people approved these questions. Unbelievable. We’ve never spoken about each other. You ask, you’re blacklisted from interviewing me. I assumed Wyatt had the same rule since he’s never talked about me either. Our relationship is a void stuffed with public opinion and speculation.

  A constant stream of buzzing comes from my phone as calls, texts, and social media notifications flood in. If I ever see Wyatt again, it’ll be too soon. I’m ghosting the jackass harder than I’ve been the last ten years. It might not be possible to intensify our distance any more, considering we haven’t shared a room since I left our house, but he’s not getting anywhere near me now.

  “I’ve been drug-free for two years now. I’d never tell anyone sobriety is easy, but I’m ready to put the past behind me.”

  Sure, Wyatt. All talk. He might be sober at this moment, but sober for two years? Impossible. His morning routine consisted of popping Vicodin, oxycodone, Percocet, or Adderall and drinking a coffee, often chased with a few shots of Jim Beam or a couple of beers. Lean smoothies of codeine, hard candy, and soda were a favorite snack.

  Wyatt, even when he looked sober, was never without something in his system. His supply was endless and his taste eclectic.

  His addictions weren’t to be questioned or analyzed, just accepted. One taste. A little buzz to take the edge off. A sharpness that needed to be constantly dulled. For him to be on national television talking about his habits, he must be high.

  “I’m sure people battling their demons find a lot of hope in your words.” Jackson turns to the audience. “What would it be now? Ten years ago that Isaac Sharma died from an overdose while you and Ellie were with him?”

  He’s letting Jackson bring up Isaac’s death? Talk about a shot to the heart.

  “Yeah.” Wyatt stares at his hands. “Almost eleven.”

  There’s a deep sadness in Wyatt’s voice. Whatever else is going on in this interview, the rawness of his loss remains the same.

  “We all expected Isaac’s death to be enough motivation for you to get sober.”

  “It should have been.” Wyatt tips his head.

  Sometimes I hate myself for watching these interviews. Hearing him talk about Isaac and about me will cause me to spiral into uncertainty for weeks. His movie must be turning into quite a lemon in postproduction if the studio convinced him to get on Jackson’s show and talk about the more salacious bits of his life.

  “Remind me again where you and Ellie met?” Jackson stares at Wyatt. He knows. Everyone knows. We had the biggest movie in the world the year it came out.

  “On the set of Love Letters from Spain,” Wyatt says. “There was something about Ellie. Right from the start.” His eyes bore into the camera, coming through the screen, threatening to burrow into my soul. “I was a fool to let her go, but I’m not a fool anymore.”

  In a panic, I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen. Then I flick it back on.

  The crowd quiets, and Jackson laughs. “You’re going to reignite #Wyllie fans.”

  He did not do that. Another great rush of humming comes from my phone, but I refuse to acknowledge the notifications. People can think what they want. I answer to no one. Besides, I’ll have levitated off Bermuda and be landing in New York to commit Jackson’s murder soon.

  “Maybe they deserve to be reignited.” A cocky, playful smile bursts onto his face.

  This time when I switch off the TV, I do it with finality. We wouldn’t have needed to be reignited if the jackass chose me instead of an 8 ball.

  Emotions dash through me, hard to identify. Anger, for sure. Fear. But under those is one I don’t want to consider because it feels a lot
like hope. What could I hope for? He’s lying. Wyatt lies. He’s not sober. Drugs have been part of his life for as long as he can remember. His constant companions were his prescription pill bottle stuffed with whatever he could get his hands on and a water bottle of codeine, soda, and hard candy mixed together. Lean was his drink of choice.

  One of the first memories he told me about was sitting beside his dad and being offered a glass of lean. Those first sips tipped Wyatt and his younger sister, Anna, into a spiral of addiction. Neither of them ever had any desire to climb out. They blamed their parents for their troubles, and I never doubted they were a huge factor in Wyatt and Anna’s issues. According to Wyatt, his parents were always desperate for their next fix, and they didn’t mind who paid for it or what it cost. But any suggestion of Wyatt or Anna seeking help was met with resistance. They were content to wallow in their dysfunctions. To think Wyatt ditched it all two years ago is impossible for me.

  I pray my manager is mobilizing my PR staff, otherwise this stunt could spin out of control. It took years for the swirl surrounding our breakup to die enough for me to be able to spend time in Los Angeles. Any trips there were carefully coordinated to avoid paparazzi. Those damn team T-shirts were everywhere, breaking my heart, mocking my choice.

  In a daze, I wander the narrow hall to my bedroom at the rear of my home. Although I can afford a lavish house, I have a small three-bedroom bungalow on an oceanfront lot. Nothing fancy, but it suits my needs. When I have to, I put on the glitz and glamor, but for the most part, I’m hidden away here in Hamilton, Bermuda. The frantic pace of Los Angeles is kept at bay by careful scheduling and an adherence to privacy above all else. The Hollywood pomp and circumstance were never for me; just the right place and people. Wyatt never understood that.

  My security intercom buzzes, and I answer the nearest receiver. “Headed to bed, Freddie. What’s up?”

  “Uh, Ellie, there’s a man here who wants to see you.”

  “It’s late. I have jet lag. No one who knows me would come this late.”

  I’ve made sure my house is hard to find. Entrances and exits are concealed by overgrown bushes and shrubs. The property is gated and not listed on any documents that are easy to access. Cab drivers and sightseeing tours get a hefty donation at the end of their high season if they haven’t used my name or property to advertise their businesses. Extreme privacy has been my companion since I left Wyatt and Los Angeles behind.

  “It’s Mr. Wyatt Burgess, and he says he isn’t leaving until you agree to speak to him.”

  Ice freezes in my veins and then fire chases it out. Turns out I don’t need to levitate off the island to commit murder tonight. “Oh, Freddie. I have a thing or two to say to Mr. Burgess. You can deliver him to the door.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A grin is evident in his voice. He must have watched The Jackson Billows Show too. With the show taped in the late morning, Wyatt had lots of opportunities to hop on a two-hour flight here. Never occurred to me he would.

  I check my appearance in the kitchen mirror and then scold myself. I’ll open the door only to tell him to go to hell. Using national television to declare his undying love after ten years and a series of bad choices and then expecting me to take him back?! I don’t think so. Not happening.

  At the side entrance where expected guests are delivered, I swing the door wide.

  Immediately, I realize my mistake. He’s taller than I remembered, which seems ridiculous. That’s not all, though. His dark hair is a little darker, and his blue-green eyes more electric. Without the barrier of the screen, everything jumps at me at once.

  My heart does one loud, crushing thump and falls to pieces.

  Ten years, gone in a heartbeat.

  Chapter Four

  Ellie

  Thirteen Years Ago

  The rat-a-tat-tat on my trailer door stops me in my tracks, and I grin. Isaac knocks the same way every time. It’s late, but filming just wrapped for the day. Isaac must have been in one of the final shots.

  “Come in.” No matter the time, I’d answer for him. I drop my phone into my purse and check the rest of the trailer for anything I’ll need overnight.

  When Isaac enters, he shoves his hands into his pockets. His grin splits his face. “Hey, Ellie. We’re heading out to Club Cobra tonight. You in?” His almost-too-white teeth glow next to his brown skin.

  One of the most notorious clubs in LA. I’ve never been, but if the tabloids can be believed, anyone who’s even remotely famous parties there. From the studio, it’ll take at least an hour to get to it. LA traffic is horrendous. “What’s your call time tomorrow?”

  “Six.”

  “At night?” I throw the last couple of things in my bag. A late night is a bad idea for me; I’m on set at eight in the morning.

  “Nope. In the morning. You in, Short Stuff, or what?”

  He was a child star and can ride on his name recognition. Isaac Sharma is beautiful and rich, and he has a wicked sense of humor. Everyone loves him.

  This movie is my big break. Screwing up isn’t an option. I bite the tip of a manicured nail.

  “You’re twenty-one, not sixty-one. Come out. I’ll cover your ass if we’re tired.”

  We’re only two weeks into filming, and I’ve heard enough about my costars to realize there’s a good chance they won’t sleep tonight.

  “Last week in Cali before we leave for Spain. Live a little,” he says.

  “Oh, fine.” With a small shake of my head, I loop my arm through his and vow to keep my wits. Should be easy enough. In the two weeks that I’ve known Isaac, we’ve become good friends, and he won’t lead me astray.

  As we wander to where he requested a limo meet us, he maintains a running stream of inappropriate but hilarious jokes. Up ahead, a gaggle of models, extras, and crew stand at the edge of the lot.

  “Where’s everyone going?” I whisper into Isaac’s ear.

  “Oh, Ellie. We’re going out. We’re gonna make it rain money.” He throws his hands up flamboyantly. I suspect he’s already high on something.

  The money from this movie pays my rent until I get another job. There is no guarantee for me that there will be another film role. I slow my pace beside him.

  “Isaac!” Wyatt jogs up behind us, emerging from the darkness and into the streetlights like a myth come to life. “Man, I thought you were going to leave without me.” He slaps Isaac on the shoulder.

  “Would have, but I had to convince Ellie.” Isaac steps to the side so Wyatt’s view of me is clear.

  Was I hiding from him? I think I was hiding. Heat fills my cheeks, and I let my long blond-brown hair swing forward to partially conceal my face. On a film set I can hold my own, but when the mask of a character is removed, I’m tongue-tied.

  “Ellie Cooper is finally coming out?” Wyatt sweeps me into a giant hug.

  My heart thuds at the warmth of his embrace. If Isaac is beautiful and classy, Wyatt is dark and dangerous. He’s a storm thundering off over the ocean. Everything about him makes me anxious when we aren’t acting together. He’s too unpredictable when someone isn’t directing him.

  My laugh sounds nervous to my ears, and I ease away from him, shifting my purse higher on my arm. He was making me sound like a prude. Finally coming out?

  Wyatt deftly rolls a joint, the paper crinkling in the surrounding stillness. He lights it, takes a deep drag, and then passes it to me. Without hesitating, I accept it, inhale for a full second, and grin at him before passing it to Isaac. See? I’m fun.

  Isaac waves me off. “Nah, man, I got better stuff.”

  Wyatt’s brow furrows, and he gives Isaac a dark look. “You keep that away from her.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Isaac laughs. “I bet you’re loaded to the gills.” Isaac howls, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Wyatt takes the joint back. “We don’t want her ruined on the first night out. They could still fire her ass.” He peruses me, amusement dancing
across his features. “And I like working with her.”

  Thank God it’s nighttime and he can’t see the full impact of his words. I’m like a schoolgirl desperate for a compliment from a cool kid. “Gee, thanks.”

  Wyatt tips his chin at me in challenge. “What have you done?”

  “Like, acting?” I pluck the joint from him again and take a deep drag. Maybe this will help suffocate my nerves.

  “No, like, drugs.” His tone is mocking. I don’t know why he always unnerves me so much. He must find me so ridiculously boring.

  “Weed, that’s it.” No point in lying. My mother is a doctor specializing in addiction treatment, and so my parents would have murdered me when I was younger for even touching marijuana. Even when I was no longer living under their roof, I didn’t stray far from their guidance.

  Wyatt’s eyebrows lift in silent communication with Isaac.

  “Point taken.” Isaac’s expression turns rueful.

  “Well, what have you two done, then? If you’re both so hard?” I take another puff from the joint.

  Isaac loops his arm around my neck and tugs me to him as smoke billows out of my mouth into the midnight sky. “Name anything and I bet we’ve tried it. Wyatt and I go way back to the Petalateers days.”

  “You weren’t doing drugs when you were on a Daisy Network show.” Adults wouldn’t have allowed that to happen.

  They both burst into laughter. “How do you think we survived Daisy?” Wyatt asks.

  “What about your parents?” Someone had to be looking out for them.

  My parents insisted I get an education—anything useful—before moving to Los Angeles. Massage therapy has proven to be a good choice. Until I landed the leading role in this drama, Love Letters from Spain, opposite Wyatt, I gathered massage clients in between auditions for movies, TV, and commercials, while taking some smaller parts in whatever I could get. Massage offered a flexible schedule and decent money. At the end of this film, I might have to rebuild my clientele, but this role and paycheck could be the start of something. My agent is convinced this will be my big break. Massage was always plan B.