Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  At the moment it just feels dark. I can barely see the fork in my hand, and the chicken parm on my plate—Katie’s specialty and an apology for our fight last night—is a dark, amorphous blob.

  Weirdly, that’s what I feel like at the moment, too. I’m just here, shapeless and dim. A faded shadow.

  I should be angry. I am angry. Intentionally or not, Katie sicced my father on me. I spent the rest of the day feeling like I was playing a role when the cameras weren’t rolling. “Director.” Someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who was in control.

  No one asked me anything directly about my dad and what he’d said, but I could feel it like a riptide pulling beneath the surface. Invisible from the outside but utterly deadly if it catches you.

  But this is Katie. She believed in me when no one else—okay, almost no one else—did, and she pushed me to do something with myself. Granted, she doesn’t like what I chose, but still. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t. Being angry at her feels wrong. Jesus, she saved me from myself. I owe her. Don’t I?

  I don’t know.

  Shit. In the past, when things got this complicated, I didn’t exactly stick around for the conversation. I just stopped texting.

  “Maybe it’s just because Bitsy’s not here tonight. It’s weird how dogs fill up the silence,” she says, an odd catch in her voice. Clearly, she’s picking up on the tension as well.

  But then she clears her throat and takes a swallow of sparkling water. “How did everything go today?” she asks. “Day two of directing.” She offers me a smile and a thumbs up around her fork.

  It seems a little forced, but she doesn’t sound like she’s baiting me. Does she really not know?

  I eye her carefully, though it’s hard to pick out nuances of her expression in the dimness. “It was fine. We’ve got another day there tomorrow,” I say. “Thursday we’re off for Thanksgiving. And then we’ll pick back up on Friday. Over the weekend, I’m going to cut together a trailer with our editor.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, I put a turkey on hold at the store,” she says. “We just have to pick it up tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” I hate turkey.

  “And I know, I know you don’t like sweet potatoes.” She holds her hands up as if to stop my protest. “Or pretty much any traditional Thanksgiving food. But I have my grandma’s recipes for everything. And I promise you, once you try these, you’ll totally change your mind.”

  She seems absolutely certain of herself, and something about that just flips a switch in me. The anger that was lying dormant beneath my indecision flares to life.

  I don’t like Thanksgiving because my father used to insist on a huge formal meal, and I would have to sit there for hours with whatever executives or actors or agents he’d invited over. No spilling, no fidgeting. It was not about family or tradition. It was another opportunity for him to show off and for people to be grateful for it.

  Katie knows that. I’ve told her that story every year at Thanksgiving, and she still doesn’t believe me.

  I put my fork down. “What if I don’t?”

  She laughs a little. “What?”

  “What if I don’t change my mind?”

  “About Thanksgiving?” she asks, regarding me with a frown. “I don’t understand what—”

  “My dad showed up today.”

  She freezes, her fork in mid-air.

  “Offered me a list of directors who could do the job. In front of my entire crew.”

  She meets my gaze defiantly. “He called me. I didn’t call him, Eric.”

  “But you told him.”

  “I didn’t know it was a secret!” She takes a breath. “He’s your father, he’s family—”

  “No,” I say. “We’re related because we have to be, but we’re not family.”

  “Eric.”

  “The man has taken every opportunity to make me feel small, unwanted and a total fuck up. Starting with when he told me I only existed because my mom wanted more money in the divorce settlement.”

  She sucks in a breath. “That’s awful.”

  “I was fourteen,” I say tightly. “And he was pissed because I said something dumb on the set of one of his shows and people started talking. It got back to him.”

  “I didn’t know,” she says.

  She didn’t want to know.

  “And then how about the time a few years ago, when he started dating my friend Angelica even though he was old enough to be her father—her grandfather, even? That was not about her, it was about me and taking something away from me.” I shake my head. “We have a messed up and twisted relationship, and I need you to stop trying to fix it. Stop trying to fix me.”

  Those last words surprise even me.

  “I didn’t think I was,” she says, pulling her napkin from her lap and carefully folding the edges together. “I was just trying to help you.”

  “But it’s my life,” I say. “My career. My admittedly screwed-up relationship with my father. Mine.”

  “Ours,” she says softly. “Our life. I thought we were in this together.”

  I make a frustrated noise. “Yeah, okay. But the thing is, I don’t feel like you’re trying to help me as much as change me into someone else.” I should probably take her hand, but I don’t. I’m struggling to find the right words. Finally I land on: “I’m never going to be a real estate agent, Katie.”

  She sniffles, tears running a glittering streak down to her chin.

  “And I can’t do this if you think I’m not good enough as the person I am, right now. I already have enough of that in my life.”

  “But if you could just let go of these ideas that are holding you back—that you have to be at war with your dad, that you have to follow in his footsteps to be a success—you have so much potential,” she says wistfully. “For a good life, a happy life.”

  Like I’m one of the strays she treats that, with an intense flea bath and a lot of house-training lessons, will one day make a good pet.

  I know that’s not exactly what she means, but that’s what it feels like.

  I stand up and put my napkin on the table. “I can’t do this right now.”

  “What?” Alarmed, Katie stands up with me.

  I start toward the door and she follows me. “I don’t understand,” she says. “What are you saying?”

  “I need some time to think.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Us. Everything.” I grab my jacket off the chair and shrug into it.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” she asks as I pull open the door. “It’s like you’re a different person this week. A couple of fights and suddenly you’re…” She trails off.

  Even though I know better, I have to ask. “I’m what?” My hand stills on the doorknob.

  “You’re different,” she says, her voice going flat. “Ever since you went to go pick up Calista Beckett.”

  I turn to face her, a denial ready on my tongue. But then I realize she’s right, just not in the way she means. Seeing Callie reminded me of who I was, the good and the bad. Calista believes in me without reservation, even though she’s the last person who should, and somehow that makes it easier to believe in myself. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “You didn’t tell her we were engaged,” Katie says.

  I stare at her. “Are you serious? She knows. Of course she—”

  “Because she asked,” Katie points out. “You didn’t say anything when you went to pick her up.”

  I grit my teeth. I cannot believe we’re arguing about this, of all things. What difference does it make? “No, you’re right. I didn’t mention it within the first ten seconds of talking to her for the first time in three years. Sorry, I was a little busy with other things.”

  But a tiny voice in the back of my head whispers that if I really wanted Calista to know, if I was as sure about my choices as I was supposed to be, then I would have told her about Katie and I getting married without her asking. It would have just come up
. It might have even helped convince her that I’d turned my life around and wasn’t such a complete screw up anymore.

  Except maybe, on some level, I didn’t want Calista to know? Maybe I liked those twenty-four hours of just the two of us enough not to want to throw a wrench in the works?

  I can’t think about that right now.

  “Are you sleeping with her?” Katie asks.

  “What?” I ask, genuinely shocked.

  “You heard me,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  The question shouldn’t slice at me, but it does. Because it contains her true opinion of me. I’ve done shitty stuff like that in the past, obviously, but not anymore. And she knows that. Or she should.

  “I’m not,” I say with a tight smile. “But I’m guessing you’re not going to believe that.” Her expectations are still set at the level of Eric Stone, Complete Fuck Up.

  “I knew you were still in love with her,” she says. “The second I saw you two together. And she is completely head over heels for you.” A soft sniffle tells me she’s crying again.

  Shit.

  “Katie, it’s not like that. We just have history together. So she gets it. Gets me.” I shift uncomfortably. “Everyone thinks that it’s more than that, but it’s not—”

  Her laughter is choked by her tears. “Everyone thinks that because it’s true, you just don’t see it.”

  Frustration rises in me. “I think I would know, being one of the two people involved.”

  I would, wouldn’t I? Suddenly, I’m not sure, and it feels like falling down a particularly long and dark tunnel. No sense of up or down, just the wind whooshing past.

  My feelings for Calista have never exactly been easy or particularly clear: affection mixed with guilt, doubt and a healthy dose of self-loathing.

  But real love, the healthy, non-self-destructive kind, is not supposed to be that. Right?

  It makes me feel a little panicky inside to consider otherwise. With Katie, it’s always been very clear and very straightforward—this is good for me, she is good for me. Being with her was the right choice.

  Although that no longer seems to be the case. Katie has always been ready to help, to make me “better.” But she doesn’t know me, the real me. So I’m beginning to think that no amount of changing on my part or guiding on hers is going to get us to a point where we’re both happy.

  I rake my hand through my hair, making it stand up everywhere. “Katie, I don’t know what else to say. I just need to—”

  She holds up her hand, cutting me off. “No. You go ahead. You ‘think’ as much as you need to. You guys just ‘think’ your brains out.” She shoves my shoulder, pushing me out the door.

  “Katie, it’s not—”

  “Eric, it may surprise you to hear this, but as little as you seem to think I know you, I do actually know a couple things pretty clearly.” And with that, she slams the door in my face.

  Yeah. That was pretty clear.

  17

  CALISTA

  My phone buzzes, rattling my pillow and waking me. It’s dark, too dark, and my bones ache with lack of sleep. It feels like I just went to bed.

  In my few months of college, I got in the habit of sleeping with my phone under my pillow so I’d hear the alarm. But this is just a single buzz and then silence. Who is texting me in the middle of the night?

  I frown, glancing over at Zinn in the other bed to make sure it didn’t wake her. But her breathing is steady and even.

  I slide my phone out from under my pillow, turning toward the wall and sheltering the screen against the curve of my body to keep it from lighting up the room.

  2:33 A.M.

  Crap. Getting up in two hours to meet with Tim is going to hurt. I stifle a groan.

  But the text below the time is startling enough that it sends a not-unwelcome rush of adrenaline through me.

  Eric: You awake?

  I swipe to respond and then hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a second.

  Why is Eric texting me this late/early? More importantly, where is Katie while he’s doing it? The quiver in my stomach isn’t quite as close to indignant disgust as it should be, and I feel a little guilty about that.

  Finally, I type: Yeah, what’s up? Is everything okay?

  Eric: Talked with accountant. Just need routing and account numbers of new account to make the change you asked about.

  I lay back, pressing the phone against my chest, gratitude rushing warm over me. He did it. He’s helping me. It’s not like I doubted it exactly, but after everything that happened today, I wasn’t sure if he would remember.

  Me: You talked to your accountant at 2 in the morning?

  Eric: Amazing what happens when you keep calling. Eventually they’ll pick up.

  I grimace, imagining exactly what the accountant thinks about this method.

  Eric: You have new account set up?

  Shame burns my face anew. After dinner last night, I’d attempted it. Found an online bank, one I’d heard of, and clicked on the link to start a new account. But there are issues when someone else has been in charge of you your whole life.

  I tried but … I type and then delete. Sounds too much like an excuse. It was harder than I thought …

  I delete that too.

  Finally, I just tell the whole pathetic truth:

  Me: Started application. But I don’t have a driver’s license, and I’m not sure of my social. And if I ask, Lori will flip.

  That’s me, so completely dependent on my mom that I’m trapped. I do know how to drive, Wade made sure of that. But when it came time for me to take the road test, I was always busy working. And Lori took me everywhere anyway …

  God, how did I think of myself as any kind of adult human without any means of getting myself anywhere or having access to my own information?

  The typing dots appear, moving for far too long. Then they stop and vanish.

  I take a deep breath.

  But then the dots return, quickly replaced by a message.

  Eric: I have your social. Lori put it in paperwork. Hang on.

  A second later, my phone buzzes with a string of numbers that looks vaguely familiar.

  Eric: Good to go? If not, I can set up for you tomorrow.

  A wave of affection for him makes my throat tight.

  No, I’ve got it with this. Thank you!!! And without thinking, I tap the heart emoji.

  Only after it whooshes away from me, too late to recall, do I realize that that symbol could be grossly misinterpreted, not just by Eric but by Katie, too, if she’s watching over his shoulder.

  Sorry, I add quickly and send.

  Eric: For what?

  I shake my head. If he’s not going to comment on it, then I guess I won’t either.

  But I find myself reluctant to end the conversation. Why are you up?

  Eric: Couldn’t sleep.

  I type, I hope it’s not bc of your dad. I told you he’s full of shit.

  It takes him a few seconds to respond, just long enough for me to wonder if I’ve overstepped my bounds again. Really, it should be Katie who’s reassuring him, not me. Though if she’s the one who thought it was a good idea for Rawley to show up, maybe not.

  Eric: Thank you.

  Then a second later …

  Eric: The Love Boat is on. MeTV.

  Catching myself before I groan aloud, I roll my eyes instead. Eric’s secret obsession with old television shows, particularly ones that have not aged well, has been going on for years. The Love Boat is, incredibly, a favorite, along with something called Fantasy Island.

  Me: TLB again? Still?

  Eric: What? It’s soothing.

  Me: It’s repetitive. People get on the boat, drama ensues, people get off the boat.

  Eric: Says the girl who saved the world how many times in a season?

  Maybe it’s the late night or the surge of giddiness I’m feeling at having taken those first steps to do what I need to do, but in this mo
ment, it feels like all the years and the distance between us never happened. It reminds me so much of those early days on Starlight, the stupid conversations about nothing that we would have to pass the time between shots. Eric would lecture me about The Brady Bunch or 90210, and when he bored of that, we’d argue over absolutely pointless categories of discussion. Best road-trip food—not that I’d ever taken a road trip or been allowed to eat any of the things I named. Best thing you’ve ever stolen from a hotel—my answer, the extra soap, was deemed pathetic by the judge, Eric, who had apparently actually unscrewed a painting from the wall, shipped it back to L.A., and then hung it in the pool house at his dad’s place. Not because he liked it, but because it was horrifyingly bad. Friendliest letter in the alphabet—Q, obviously, but only the capital one. Because of the tail. When I confessed this to Eric, he just shook his head.

  Me: No comment.

  Me: And you just like TLB because it’s Aaron Spelling’s instead of your dad’s.

  Back in the day, Rawley was always chasing after the legendary Mr. Spelling, trying to one-up him, and when that failed, getting his revenge by rebooting thinly veiled versions of Spelling’s classics.

  Eric: Not my fault that Rawley’s cheap knock-off never made it past the pilot stage. How many people want to watch crew members hook up with new passengers every week?

  Eric: Dirty Dancing on a boat. Fucker, please.

  I snort, hearing his sarcastic voice in my head, and clap a hand over my mouth.

  Me: Oh, come on. Of all people, you can’t get behind the story of an older guy awakening a younger girl’s sexuality week after week?

  It slips away before I recognize exactly what I’ve said.

  Nice, Calista. I wince. I didn’t mean it that way; I wasn’t specifically talking about us.

  Though it’s certainly not an inaccurate description of our time on Starlight. And that night at the party, in the closet, before it all went to hell.

  If I touch you, are you wet? Oh, help me. The way he talked to me, put his mouth on me, like he knew exactly what I needed … I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away, just as I have every time since that night. But this time, they don’t go so easily.