Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  Still, it feels like he just shut a door in my face.

  “What did you need?” he asks.

  “I … how is the footage from yesterday looking?” I ask. You are such a chicken-shit, Calista. But even the new me, firmly committed to baby steps of change, is not quite brave enough to press my nose against that barrier and risk it being slammed again. Eric is just as likely to help me right now and then not speak to me for years. He’s done it before. If I break ties with Lori and then Eric decides our friendship is getting too complicated—say, after his upcoming marriage and impending happily-ever-after with Katie—then I’ll have no one. Again. And maybe that’s for the best, maybe that’s what I need, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.

  Eric raises his eyebrows at me, and I brace myself for that knowing look, the one that pierces through my bullshit and forces the truth out of me.

  But then he simply answers, “Fine.” He pauses. “Good, actually. We should be able to edit together a trailer from everything this week.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Is that all?” he asks, a faint crinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

  In the distance, I can see my mother hovering. “Yeah, sure. That’s all.” Damnit.

  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more, but then he shakes his head. “Okay, people, let’s do this,” he says, raising his voice. Then he’s back to his mark.

  * * *

  This morning’s scene is a simple one. Cory, worried about Evie, sneaks in to see her, only to learn what Evie herself has recently discovered: Her powers are gone.

  My eyes are shut until Eric’s warm hand closes over mine, startling me even though it’s in the script.

  “Evie.”

  I open my eyes.

  He rubs his hand over mine. That’s Eric, though, not Cory, warming my ice-cold fingers. “You okay?”

  I nod against the pillows behind me, affecting a wince at the motion.

  “Thought you had a harder head than that,” he says with a gentle smile, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear and eyeing the bandage on my forehead.

  “I guess not,” I say. “Did anyone see you come in?”

  “No. I was careful.” He hesitates, then adds, “Stevens is out. Can’t take that risk again.” He sounds grim and a little pissed off. “I told him before we went into that warehouse that you were off limits. He never should have touched you.”

  I stare down at my toes, which are poking up beneath the blanket like distant snow-covered mountains. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “He’s dangerous. We’re not looking to hurt anyone, just taking what’s ours.” He sits on the edge of my bed, his body angled sideways so the camera will get his profile and mine. It’s awkward in real life, but it will look good on screen. “And maybe convince a few of the good guys that we’re not so bad while we’re at it.” He smiles at me, but I keep my attention focused on my toes.

  “Because robbing warehouses full of paper goods will do that?” I ask.

  “Never underestimate the recruiting power of a good origmaist.”

  That draws my gaze to him. “You made that word up.”

  He grins. “Maybe. I’ll never tell. In truth, though, we were actually looking for the warehouse full of cookies.”

  I snort with laughter and then clap my free hand over my mouth.

  “That’s better,” he says. “You’ll be back out there driving me crazy in no time.” He leans forward to kiss me.

  It’s supposed to be nothing more than a brush of his mouth over mine, after which I’m supposed to break the bad news to him in a “clear, matter-of-fact tone that might be shock or the early stages of acceptance.”

  But to my dismay, my eyes begin to sting and water. “I don’t think so,” I say in a choked voice before his lips even touch mine. Damnit. I had no intention of following my mom’s advice, but in the moment, I can’t seem to stop myself.

  Eric pauses for a half second and then, professional that he is, backs off the kiss and rolls to his next line. “You’re going to let one little bump on the head—”

  “It’s not that simple,” I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

  “What, did they finally figure out that maybe deliberate gene mutation isn’t all it’s—”

  “It’s gone,” I say.

  “What’s gone?”

  “All of it. The strength, the speed. The faster healing. I’m not … the same.” I’m not like you anymore. And the sensation of loss is almost crippling, like a hole tunneled through my mid-section, taking out all my vital organs.

  Eric/Cory stares at me, his hand tight and growing tighter on mine.

  I suck in a pretend-pained breath, and he drops my fingers like they’ve burned him.

  “Did that … did I hurt you?” he asks, his eyes wide with astonishment. And my contrary brain retrieves a memory of Eric saying that same thing to me. When he very much had not hurt me.

  Stop. I force my head back to the moment in play and my job.

  “Nothing broken,” I say, but I flex my hand quickly with a grimace.

  “But I could have.” He sounds horrified at the idea.

  “Yeah,” I admit softly. “I guess.”

  “Evie?” Alexa, Evie’s older sister—played by the adorable Leelee Shoop, who was a day player on Starlight—calls from the other room. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah, just give me a second,” I say, turning my attention toward the door—or where the door will be when it’s back on its hinges.

  Eric-as-Cory is at the window almost instantly, one leg slung over the sill. “I’ll … come by and see you later,” he says hastily.

  “But…” I keep my gaze focused on his position, ignoring the movement as Eric drops to the floor behind the bed before the camera pans to show the empty window.

  After a second, his head pops up. “Okay, let’s cut.” He pushes himself up off the floor. “Did we get it?”

  There’s a rush of excited whispering as people shuffle around, and I sit up and raise my hand against the lights to see what’s going on.

  “Looks good, Son,” shouts a very familiar voice from somewhere behind the camera. It takes me only a second to place it. It’s much heartier today, with false enthusiasm rather than scalding disappointment.

  Oh, shit. Rawley.

  I look to Eric immediately. He appears to be frozen in place next to the bed, his face a careful mask of indifference.

  “Eric?” I ask.

  “Ten minutes. Let’s take a break and get set up for close-ups,” Eric says as he moves around the bed and charges out into the hallway.

  “Wait,” I call after him. “Eric, maybe you shouldn’t—” Then, an all-too-familiar—and fake—tinkling laugh trickles in from the hall, sending a shiver down my spine.

  My mom is out there.

  Of course she is, if Rawley is nearby.

  A booming—and equally artificial-sounding—laugh joins my mother’s giggling.

  Rawley Stone has always looked at my mother with the faintest hint of lip-curling distaste. If the two of them are talking and laughing together …

  “That can’t be good,” I mutter.

  Shoving the covers back, I scramble to follow Eric’s path, threading through cameras and cords and crew, to the hallway and down to the empty living room. It’s not dressed for filming because we’re not using it.

  I stop at the threshold. My mother and Eric’s father are standing near the big picture window, standing too close together for this to be a small talk between awkward strangers. Instead my mother is beaming up at him, like he’s the guy with the Miss Universe crown to hand out, and as I watch, she laughs again and taps his arm.

  “What are you doing here, Dad?” Eric asks.

  “Good to see you, too, son,” Rawley says.

  “No, it’s not.” Eric’s hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

  “Eric,” my mom says in a scolding voice. Then she turns back to Rawley. “I,
for one, am always happy to see you.”

  I wince.

  Rawley steps away from my mom to face off with Eric. It’s hard not to see the similarities between father and son, though it’s reflected more in tense shoulders and arrogant expressions than in actual physical characteristics.

  “Now don’t get all tetchy,” Rawley begins.

  “Tetchy? Really?” Eric asks, his eyebrows raised. “That’s old even for you.”

  Rawley gives him a sour look. “I simply called Katherine to confirm some details for the big day and she mentioned your director issues.”

  Eric rocks back slightly at the news. “Katie?”

  Oh, no.

  For anyone to bring Eric’s father down on him for any reason is a level of betrayal that goes beyond a reasonable expectation of forgiveness. In Eric’s world anyway. How could Katie not know that?

  “Everything’s fine,” Eric says, raising his voice just enough that the pretending-not-to-be-eavesdropping crew will definitely hear it.

  Rawley lets the ensuing silence hold for a beat too long, which somehow simultaneously conveys his doubt and makes Eric sound like he’s overcompensating. “I’m sure,” he says, eventually. “But just in case.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit coat to produce a folded slip of paper.

  “What’s that?” Eric asks, making no move to take it.

  “Names for possible directors,” Rawley says, as if Eric’s just asked him what shoes are for. “I know Vincent can be difficult. So I made a few calls on your behalf and these candidates are—”

  “No,” Eric says.

  “Eric, don’t be stubborn.” Rawley shakes the paper at him. “If you’re going to turn down my offer of employment and insist on doing this yourself—”

  Something clatters to the floor loudly in the room behind us, reminding me and everyone else that this is not even close to a private conversation. And the people listening have jobs and money at stake.

  Oh, crap. Now, suddenly, it’s very clear why Rawley is here and didn’t just send that list by email or text if he was so worried. He’s trying to sow discontent and/or doubt in this project under Eric’s leadership.

  His own son. He wants to win that badly. Or wants Eric to lose. Either way.

  Rage on Eric’s behalf bubbles up under my rib cage, and I can’t stuff it back down.

  “We’re all set here,” I say, moving to stand next to Eric. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  Rawley barely glances in my direction, but my mother is glaring at me. “Calista,” she says through a tight smile.

  “Leave now,” Eric says through his teeth to his father, and there’s more than a vague threat implicit in his tone.

  And for a second, I think it’s actually going to happen. Eric’s going to have to drag his father bodily out of here.

  Which is not going to be good for any of us or morale.

  I look to my mother, who just lifts her shoulder in a minute shrug.

  In other words, no help coming from that direction. Fantastic. Thanks, Lori. Way to thank the guy who gave you a loan so you could pay your bills this month.

  Eventually Rawley lifts his hands, the slip of paper between his fingers. “There’s no need to overreact,” he says mildly. “Just trying to help.”

  I want to shove him right out the window.

  The depth of my fury surprises me. I’ve never liked Eric’s father, but this is a whole new level of murderous intention.

  Then again, it might have to do with the stiffness of Eric’s posture and the battered weariness radiating off of him, like this is a battle he’s fought before and he’s just so tired of fighting.

  I know that feeling.

  Letting the paper flutter out of his hand to the floor, Rawley turns and walks away, shutting the door very precisely and carefully on his way out.

  “You were incredibly rude, Calista,” my mother says tersely as soon as the door is closed.

  I ignore her, and she sweeps away, probably to drag Josie in for a touch-up. Again.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Eric.

  “She called him,” he mutters. “I can’t believe Katie called him.” He scrubs his hand over his face.

  I stay quiet. I want to reach out to him, curl my fingers around his arm in reassurance. But he’s not mine to touch, not mine to reassure.

  “Katie doesn’t want me to direct,” he says with that quick flash of a smile. “Actually, she doesn’t want me to do any of this. If she had her preference, I’d quit everything and move to Michigan with her.”

  My face must show my shock.

  He shrugs. “She thinks it’s too much for me. Better that I get a fresh start somewhere else.”

  “Why?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

  “She thinks it’s not healthy to stay. That eventually, I’ll fall back into bad habits, make the same stupid mistakes, and I don’t know … wreck things, I guess.”

  It occurs to me that Eric and I have the same problem: Just because someone loves you—or claims to—doesn’t always mean they understand you.

  “Bullshit,” I say.

  “I don’t know. I’m not exactly the responsible type. Look what I did to you.” His gaze bounces toward my shoulder and then away.

  It takes my breath away to hear him reference that night so directly. “You didn’t do anything. I made all those choices myself.”

  “Yeah, but if I hadn’t been an asshole—”

  “How about if I had more guts to call you on it?” I ask. “Instead I ran off like a sulking baby.” I pause. “Okay, not a baby as they don’t usually run. A sulking toddler, maybe.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up.

  “But my point is the same. We can play this game all day. We’ve both made shitty decisions. No one made me get in that car with Chase, and no one forced me to buy heroin when the pills stopped working.”

  Eric flinches. “Calista, I—”

  Then I speak before I lose my courage. “I think my mom’s pushing so hard to sell me on jobs right now because she’s burned through all of her money. And what was left of mine. They’re going to lose the house.”

  “What?” He sounds shocked.

  “I know. It’s bad.” I wince in expectation.

  But when I dare to look up at him, Eric is regarding me steadily, without the judgment or the “I-told-you-so” frustration I expected.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  Relief rushes over me. “No. I’m pissed,” I admit. “I need to set up a separate account. Something she doesn’t have access to,” I say, careful to keep my voice down. “But I don’t have a car. I don’t even have access to whatever you need to switch it from the other account.” Shame rises high in me, flooding my face with color. I’m an adult—and an accounting major, for God’s sake—and I have no idea what bank my mother is using to supposedly keep my money. I don’t even have the freedom to move around without judgment or questions. This is not the life I want.

  “I’ll help you,” Eric says immediately. “We can figure it out.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Of course.”

  Silence falls between us, but he still looks troubled. The urge to hug him—something I once would not have thought twice about doing—is overwhelming.

  And in a moment of weakness, I give in.

  I close the distance between us, lifting my arms to wrap around his neck. Rising to my tiptoes, I feel the rasp of his stubble against my face and then the tickle of his curls. It’s an instant link to the past.

  His breath is warm against the space where my neck meets my shoulder, and my heart trips in an uneven rhythm.

  And yet he’s not hugging me back.

  My face burns. I start to let go, but then his arms close around me, so tight that my ribs ache but in a good way. I missed this. Missed him.

  I want to tell him that he’s making the right choice. His father is a jerk, and Katie is, at best, misguided. (Or possibly a heartless, clueless bitch, but
that might just be my opinion.) And I want to stay right here forever, the sounds of the crew fading into the distance, leaving nothing but the two of us in our own little world. The solid pressure of his chest against mine, the familiar scent of his skin against my nose. L’Occitane. His mother buys him the same gift basket of shower gel and shampoo every year for Christmas.

  But I make myself let go and step away. “Back to work?” I ask.

  Eric gives a barely noticeable jerk of his chin. “Yeah.” But then he touches my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Thanks, Callie.”

  As I leave, a quick glance over my shoulder shows me Eric standing where I left him, his hands shoved into his pockets, staring out the window at nothing. My heart breaks for him. Yes, he’s messed up in the past. But if I can see that he’s legitimately trying to do things differently, I don’t know why others can’t.

  Or maybe that’s the issue. When I was in rehab, one of the things they teach you is to expect that your relationships with everyone in your life will be altered because of your choice to get clean, your addiction, or both.

  When you change, people are uncomfortable with it. It’s not even just that they’re worried you’ll revert to who you were before. It’s more that you no longer fit in the tidy mental box they’ve assigned to you.

  In my case, when I became an addict, when I was arrested, when I was sent to rehab, all of that messed with my box assignment for other people. But when I got clean, it was the same thing.

  We’re always clawing our way out of someone else’s definition of us.

  It’s no different for Eric than it is for me.

  Damaged. Weak. Can’t be trusted. Scared.

  Spoiled. Impulsive. Reckless. Selfish.

  Plenty of awful boxes to be in.

  But I’m wondering now if the larger challenge is escaping the box we’ve given ourselves. Or believing that we deserve to.

  16

  ERIC

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Katie says, expertly twirling noodles on her fork.

  The kitchen in her apartment is dimmed. Candles flicker on the table and the counter behind us, providing romantic lighting. Theoretically.