Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

I know, it’s okay. You’re okay.

  Sometimes at night, when I used to have the room to myself and when that need wouldn’t go away by focusing on something else, I would let myself remember, let myself touch myself and pretend it was him, pretend that that night had turned out differently.

  Sad and pathetic? Check.

  The typing dots return, then: Well, not every week.

  I smother my laugh against my covers.

  The phone buzzes in my hand again.

  Eric: I missed this.

  Maybe I’m not the only one feeling closer and bolder in the dark. Me too.

  His dots return and vanish. And then come back. Calista …

  Suddenly, I’m panicking, afraid of what’s coming next. Calista, I have a fiancée. Calista, I’m getting married. Calista, I’m so glad we’re friends.

  All of which would be completely justified. I just … can’t handle the slap down right now, as deserving of it as I might be for feeling this way about someone else’s significant other.

  Particularly when that significant other hurt me in the past.

  Except right now, all I seem to be able to remember is the good stuff. And the really, really good stuff.

  No, just … no.

  I type as fast as my thumbs will allow: Okay, good night! Hi to Katie. Talk to you in a few hours!

  My heart is pounding as I lay there and wait for his response.

  Eventually, it comes.

  Eric: Good night. See you tomorrow.

  The disappointment welling in me is only slightly abated by a grim sense of victory at having ended the conversation before it became necessary for him to remind me of these new boundaries between us. I know they’re there, and I know better than anyone how much it hurts when someone violates the rules you thought were understood.

  I click my phone to sleep and stuff it back under my pillow.

  But my mind continues to replay the conversation, examining it from every angle and searching for nuance.

  Damnit. I’m over this. Over him. I refuse to fall back into the sinkhole of misery that held me for months after the accident. Not just because of my arm, but because of that betrayal the night of the party.

  I was so stupid that night.

  With legs like jelly, my heart thundering like there was a finish line in my near future, and my panties damp and twisted, I walked upstairs and went straight for Eric’s room. I’d been to his bedroom before, not for anything salacious, just waiting for him to get ready, which always took forever. This time, though, everything felt different.

  It embarrasses me to think about it now, how easily I just went to his room and curled up on his bed—possibly smelling his pillows, pathetic is apparently a pattern for me—and waited for him.

  Waited for him while he was …

  I bury my head under my pillow, remembering, my face hot with shame.

  Fifteen minutes passed after I left him, then twenty, then a half an hour. The party was still raging on, and I didn’t hear any sirens or smell smoke. But I was starting to worry about Eric—how bad was the fire? Was he okay?—and maybe the first bit of doubt was beginning to set in.

  I could hear people just outside Eric’s room, and thinking, hoping, he was among them, having been caught in a conversation he couldn’t escape, I got up and went out to check.

  A cluster of three or four people hovered in the hall, looking at something in the guest room. Given the whispers and giggles from the watching crowd, I was guessing that someone had forgotten to close the door all the way.

  I rolled my eyes. Great.

  Not exactly an uncommon occurrence at parties like these, even in my limited experience.

  To this day, I’m not sure what drove me to step forward and peer through. Maybe it was a familiar sigh, a whispered name, I don’t know.

  But I do know that it took me several seconds longer than it should have to piece together what I was seeing in that dim room, so many arms and legs tangled together, bodies thrusting and gyrating with all of the theatrics you’d expect from porn, I assumed.

  And right as I was about to step back, vaguely embarrassed for them and myself, I recognized a profile in the shadowy and dim room. Eric. On that bed, with those girls. Angelica and her friend. The naked line of his body, muscles working as he pumped into the girl beneath him, the other writhing around both of them. His hair was rumpled and his face flushed while he bit his lip in concentration and effort.

  Because yeah, as if he somehow had a magical sense making him aware of my presence, he looked straight toward the door. Right to where I was standing, mouth open in mute horror.

  But he didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away or apologize. Didn’t even have the decency to glance away.

  Just stared right at me, as if he wanted this moment to be burned into my brain.

  Mission accomplished.

  I never expected that heartbreak would come with an actual, physical sensation of something rupturing, but that’s exactly what it felt like. My heart breaking free from its position in my chest, leaving me to slowly bleed out on the floor.

  In spite of the years that have passed since that night, my eyes well up with tears that spill over, dampening the sheets beneath me.

  What I told Eric today is true: I should have marched in there, shouting and hauling him out by his … ear. Or at the very least stood, refusing to run away and daring him to continue. Not because he owed me anything as a girlfriend, but as his friend. That was a shit move to pull on anyone, let alone someone you supposedly care about.

  But hurt like that, it crushes something inside you, kills it, making it impossible to breathe, to fight. You just want to get away and do everything you can to never feel that way again. I was used to my mother doing whatever she wanted, moving me around like a doll that didn’t matter. I was not, however, expecting that from Eric.

  I don’t really remember running down the stairs or even how I found Chase, but I can vividly recall tugging on his arm, my face wet with tears, and leaving fingernail marks in his skin in my desperation to leave.

  And then Eric chasing both of us down the driveway, barefoot, his shirt off, jeans barely buttoned. To stop me? To apologize? To keep me from getting in the car with Chase, who was more drunk than I realized?

  I honestly have no idea, even now. I’m not sure why any of it happened. Eric could have simply let me go, just like I asked him to in that closet. It would have hurt, but less than what actually happened. Instead, he seemed driven to prove that he was exactly as awful as he claimed to be.

  It remains a remarkably painful series of events, one that altered the whole course of my life—and Chase’s—in under fifteen minutes.

  My breath escapes in a shudder, muted by the pillow above me. The memory of that night is what I need to keep in mind.

  That and Dr. Katie.

  Though even that, the existence of Dr. Katie as Eric’s fiancée, and everything I’ve seen from Eric since he showed up on campus, tells me that he’s maybe not quite the same person he was before.

  But that doesn’t make him mine, either. And logically, I’m not sure I would want him to be, after all of that.

  I just have to convince the rest of me.

  * * *

  “Let’s try it again. Calista, are you ready?” Eric asks.

  I need to date again. Maybe that’s the issue. I’ve slept with two people in my whole life: Dylan Bradley, who is now happily married to his former co-star Scott, and Dean, a guy who was in rehab with me. (I’m honestly not sure of his last name. Yeah, it was not my best decision. But I was making lots of less-than-stellar choices in those days.)

  I wasn’t in love with either of them, which okay, fine. But that’s where my sexual experiences stop. If you don’t count the closet.

  No wonder my feelings for Eric are lingering. I haven’t put myself out there to meet someone new—I mean, who wouldn’t love to be introduced into the whirling mass of chaos that is my life?—so my focus is too limited.

>   Right now, all I can see is Eric because that’s all I’ve let myself see.

  Though today, God help me, he is very worth seeing. He’s in full-on director mode, seeming more comfortable and in control with every minute that passes. It’s as if a switch has flipped in him and he’s stopped waiting for someone to laugh and tell him he doesn’t belong. He’s committed, more than I’ve ever seen, and it is a good look on him.

  Of course it doesn’t hurt that he’s somehow sexier with rumpled hair, a day of stubble, and wearing his glasses instead of his contacts. His dark green Henley fits him snugly, too snugly for my ability to concentrate today. I know the muscles beneath that fabric. They’re the ones I used to feel when he pulled me close to ruffle my hair or to hug me. But I want—

  “Calista?” Eric asks again, raising his eyebrows.

  I jolt in my seat at the desk in “Evie’s” condo and nod, pretending I don’t feel the heat swooping in across my cheeks. Josie steps in with powder for a quick touch up and gives me a good-natured wink.

  Great, so it’s obvious to everyone, just like on Starlight.

  Enough. I need to focus on work.

  Wednesday’s final scene is the last in a series showing Evie’s new, superpower-free life. We’ve already shot short sequences showing confusion from friends and family who’ve relied on her to use her abilities to help them, whether it’s stopping a crime or putting in a good word with the mayor about a traffic ticket or opening a stubborn jar of salsa. They don’t know how to react to the new Evie, and it’s clear Evie is feeling lost without the powers that defined her, no matter how much she hated that particular aspect of being what she was. Like never being able to take a night off from “hero-ing.”

  But now she’s permanently “off,” and in a way, that’s just as frustrating.

  Now it’s Evie alone at home. She’s trying to not look at crime reports for her city, which she can do nothing about anymore, and is instead searching for colleges, majors, a life. And yet none of it feels like the right fit because her previous life is all she’s ever known.

  I relate probably more than I should. Looking at it now, I can see why this book meant so much to me when I was sixteen.

  Reflexively, I glance toward my mother, who is remarkably quiet today. She even thanked Eric this morning at the craft services table when he handed her a lid for her coffee.

  It’s giving me a deeply uneasy feeling. Or maybe that’s just guilt. I haven’t set up my account yet, but it’s first on my to-do list tonight as soon as I can get a few minutes of privacy. Even if I have to lock myself in the bathroom.

  With an effort, I drag my attention back to the scene.

  “Action!” Eric calls.

  We do the scene again, and this time, Eric is nodding at whatever he’s seeing. “I think we’re good.”

  This morning, he just jerked his chin in greeting, as if our text conversation had never happened. Which is for the best. And honestly, it felt like something out of dream anyway, a side step away from our current reality. Only my puffy eyes and stuffy nose indicated that it had definitely occurred in this version of the world.

  After a short break to set up, we cruise through the close-ups, and we’re done.

  “Okay, that’s a wrap for today,” Eric says. “Thanks, everybody. Have a great Thanksgiving tomorrow!”

  To his credit, he doesn’t grimace at the “T” word. I know how much he hates all the major “family” holidays.

  As people clap, sounding both excited and tired, it occurs to me then that we’re almost halfway done. We’re only shooting Monday through Friday next week. Then … I’m done.

  And I have no idea what’s going to happen next. Am I going back to Blake? Am I staying here?

  The uncertainty makes my stomach pitch violently. Even worse, though, is the idea that I don’t even know what I want to happen.

  “Calista!” My mom sweeps in, wrapping her arm around me and giving a squeeze. “You did such a great job today, baby.”

  I blink at her.

  She tips my chin toward her, squinting at my face, but then she lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever she sees.

  For the first time in my life.

  “Okay, let’s go,” she says. “You need to change. We’re already running late.”

  “Late for what?” I ask with a frown. “You didn’t say anything about going anywhere this morning.”

  She waves her hand impatiently, as if I’ve asked something irrelevant. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  She starts walking away and then turns back to press a fruit-and-nut bar in my hand. “So you don’t get crabby.”

  I gape at her. “This is … you want me to eat this?” Lori’s stance on bars of any and all varieties is well-known. You might as well just smash a king-sized Snickers in your face, Calista, she once said to me.

  “What?” She taps the wrapper with her fingernail. “It’s gluten-and dairy-free.” She reaches out and touches my face with a fond expression. “Come on, come on. Let’s go!”

  Who are you and what have you done with my mother?

  But despite her persistence, I linger for a moment, watching Eric, his head bent in consultation with one of the lighting guys.

  I want to say something to him. I just don’t know what.

  Eventually, I give in to my mom’s prodding and leave, trailing behind her. Talking to him is a bad idea anyway.

  Halfway down the hall, my phone buzzes.

  My heart picking up a beat or two, I pull it from the pocket of Evie’s robe.

  Eric: It’s done. Check your email.

  I slow to a stop and click over to my email.

  “Calista,” my mom urges.

  “Just a second,” I say.

  There’s one new message from Eric, no subject line. But inside is a string of numbers, a user name and password, and a link to an online bank.

  It takes a second for the meaning to soak in—he’s taken things into his own hands and set up an account for me, likely linking it to my paycheck.

  I turn abruptly and stalk back the way I came.

  “Calista Rae—”

  “In a minute!” I snap, and she gasps in response. “I forgot something,” I add.

  I push through the door, step around the equipment, and find Eric pretty much where I left him, only he’s alone now. He looks up when I stomp closer, as much as one can stomp in slippers, eyeing me warily.

  “I was going to do it,” I say, waving my phone at him.

  “I know that,” he says.

  “So why did you do it for me?” I demand.

  He stares at me. “I was trying to help.”

  I step closer to him. “I don’t need someone else making decisions for me, Eric,” I say, my voice low and through my teeth. “I’m trying to get away from that.”

  He takes a deep breath through his nose, and exhales loudly in frustration. “Calista, there’s a difference between controlling and helping. I know Lori doesn’t act like it, but there is.”

  I open my mouth to protest.

  “Everybody needs help sometimes,” he says, sounding tired. “And as for that,” he tips his head toward my phone and presumably the information in his email, “you can change anything you want. You have all the information you need. Close the account, move it, I don’t care. I just wanted to help. Okay?” He grimaces. “I know it doesn’t make up for everything, but it’s…” He shakes his head. “Forget it.”

  He walks away, leaving me standing there.

  I close my mouth, belatedly realizing it was still hanging open; now from shock, though, rather than anger.

  “Thank you,” I manage, though he’s too far away to hear me.

  My mind is caught up in replaying that interaction, so I’m not paying much attention as I exit the condo and my mom hustles me to the wardrobe area and shoves clothing at me. Different clothes than I wore this morning, as it turns out.

  And it’s only after we’ve been in the car for about thirty min
utes, with Wade at the wheel, that I recognize this route.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, sitting forward in the backseat.

  “It’s a surprise,” my mom says with a tinkling laugh.

  And it is and it isn’t, when we pull up to the gates at Foxstar Studios, my home away from home—or really just my home—for the three years of filming Starlight.

  A wave of homesickness washes over me, though none of what I loved or remember would be here or the same. Our trailers are gone, assigned to other actors. I won’t find Chase and Marcus shooting hoops between takes, with Eric mocking them while simultaneously texting some girl.

  Wade gives our names to the guard, and we’re issued passes. So, clearly, someone’s expecting us.

  “Why are we here?” I ask. It’s after nine at night, way too late for meetings or auditions—not that I’ve prepped for either one. I don’t know if I even want a meeting or an audition.

  “This is a special opportunity, Calista,” my mom says, twisting around in her seat to face me. Her excitement is pure, missing the anxiousness that often threads through her these days. This is more like the old days, and seeing her like this sparks a reflexive excitement in me.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Wait. Are we in talks for a Starlight reunion episode?” It’s the only reason I can think of for us to be here, and just the idea sends a rapid cascade of emotions through me: uncertainty, anxiety, anticipation. But the primary one is joy. I would love to see everyone again, awkward as it might be for some of us.

  “It’s not something that comes along every day,” Lori says, clapping her hands with glee. Then she stops and regards me. “This is important. You need to take it seriously.” Her forehead pinches in her version of a frown, which is to say it’s more of a faint line of dismay.

  I stare at her. “Of course I would take that seriously. What are you…” My words dry up as soon as Wade pulls into a parking space in front of an office, one of the smaller buildings. The little sign in front, caught in the glow of Wade’s headlights, is fairly discreet, considering.

  But right now, the bright white reflective letters are screaming at me: RSP PRODUCTIONS.

  18

  ERIC