Starlight Nights

by Stacey Kade

  “Eric.” As soon as I walk in, Rawley closes the folder on his desk with a showy gesture. “I wasn’t expecting you today, was I?” The smugness in his tone tells me he hasn’t heard about Calista missing her wardrobe fitting yet.

  I swallow the smartass reply that, thanks to years of practice, leaps to my tongue. I’m pretty sure you haven’t expected much of me, Dad, ever. “No.”

  “I was sorry to hear about you and Katherine,” he says, his gaze drawn momentarily to the square box under my arm.

  Oh, I bet you were. I grit my teeth and nod in a manner that I hope passes as gratitude. I’m not here to start a fight. I’m here to end one.

  “You should know better than to mess around with the talent you hired,” he adds. “It’s too public, too sloppy. Not to mention desperate.” He laughs.

  My hands tighten into fists. Calista is not just “the talent.” And it wasn’t like that. Isn’t like that. But I know better than to argue those points with him.

  “Have a seat.” He gestures to the chairs in front of his massive desk.

  “I’ll stand.”

  He sighs as though I’m being overly dramatic. He and Lori really are a pair. “Suit yourself. What can I do for you?”

  “D&G Incorporated,” I say, enunciating each syllable carefully. I expect him to look shocked or bluster about not knowing what I’m talking about.

  But he doesn’t.

  He rocks back in his chair, a smug smile playing on his mouth, and I feel sick. “Figured that out, did you?”

  “It’s yours?”

  Rawley makes a dismissive noise. “You’re smarter than that. I don’t need to steal from my competitors to make them falter.”

  “But you knew. You knew what the accountant was doing,” I say, trying to keep my temper under control.

  “I knew what he was doing when I fired him from RSP,” Rawley says, picking up a pen.

  “But you didn’t report him.” Nor did he warn his only son.

  “Sometimes it’s useful to have someone who owes you a favor.” He lifts a shoulder in a shrug.

  “A favor,” I repeat. I can feel my blood pressure rising, like the blood is boiling in my veins, giving off steam.

  “Listen to me, Eric.” He sits forward in his chair, the leather squeaking beneath his weight. “You were so bound and determined to shove what you were doing in my face, to spite me, I figured it might be useful for you to learn a tough lesson or two.”

  “So you told Sam to steal from me.”

  “Oh, no. I just … let nature take its course.” He waves his hand, pen still grasped between his fingers, like he’s casting a spell.

  I want to say it doesn’t surprise me, that I would have expected nothing less from Rawley, but I can’t. This is a new low, even for him.

  “Come on, son. You can’t be angry. You should have checked his references.” He points his pen at me.

  “You’re right,” I say.

  His eyebrows go up.

  “But you’re going to use that favor he owes you and get him to put all of that money back.”

  “Eric.”

  “Or I’m going to report you both. To the police, to the Producers Guild. To whoever will listen.”

  He scoffs. “They won’t believe—”

  “It doesn’t matter. The scandal of the accusation, especially from your own son, will be enough.” I smile tightly at him. “Think of all the time and money you wasted hiding my sins. Do you really want yours going public?”

  My father is looking at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “What do you want?” he asks after a moment. The consummate businessman and negotiator. He’s not going to whine about hurt feelings or injustice. He’d better not.

  “The money back where it belongs,” I say.

  “Done.”

  “And if Calista comes back, you’re going to keep the deal that you offered her, if she wants it.”

  His forehead furrows. “If Calista comes back … where—?”

  I ignore him. “You know one of the reasons Katie and I didn’t work out is because she wanted me to stop fighting with you. She was convinced that it didn’t have to be a war between us. She wanted me to smooth things over.”

  Rawley smirks. “She is a smart girl. Better than you deserve. Better than that Beckett girl and—”

  “Stop,” I say, my voice quiet, deadly. “She was right, just not the way she thought. It’s not a war, because it takes two sides to battle. And I’m done.”

  “We’ll see how long that—”

  “You don’t talk to me, you don’t come to my sets, you don’t bother the people who are working for me. Understood?”

  “Eric, I think you’re—”

  “Is that understood?”

  He makes an exasperated noise. “Fine, fine.”

  “If I hear about you interfering in my business, or with the people I care about, ever again, I’m going live with every nasty detail I can think of and maybe even some made-up ones that would make Joan Crawford and her wire hangers look like Mary fucking Poppins. You get me?”

  His face is flushed, ruddy with anger and surprise, but he gives a curt nod in acknowledgment.

  I pull the RSP hat from the box and drop it on his desk. “You don’t own my company, and you don’t own me.” I step back and turn for the door.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you to play dirty,” he says as I reach the threshold, and I can’t tell if it’s admiration or censure in his tone. Either way, it doesn’t matter.

  “Like you’re always saying, Dad, I am your son,” I say. Then I walk out.

  33

  CALISTA

  Beth was right. Walking all the way to the union cafeteria for food, through another foot and a half of new snow—thank you, lake effect—feels like more effort than a soggy grilled cheese and French fries are worth.

  But it’s Wednesday, and even with Beth’s ramen supply and her checking on me once a day, I’ve run out of food.

  So, Arctic adventure it is. At least my boots are still here, and Beth loaned me a coat.

  I’m slogging my way back to Ryland with a grease-stained paper bag in one hand and an application for a food-services job in the other. I don’t know what I’m going to do at the end of the semester, but it’s ridiculous to pretend that it’s going to sort itself out while I hide in my dorm room.

  What I really want is to have the last week back, to reset and go into it knowing what I wanted and …

  Within sight of the front door, I freeze. Someone is waiting outside, at the top of the steps. Dark curls tousled in the wind, shoulders hunched, in a familiar wool coat.

  Eric.

  I blink, trying to convince myself that this isn’t me simply seeing what I want to see. A vision brought to life by desperation and exhaustion.

  I approach cautiously, stopping at the bottom of the steps.

  When he sees me, he gives an awkward laugh, his breath puffing out in clouds. “It’s really fucking cold here. Worse than last time, even.”

  I don’t move.

  He pulls his hands from his pockets and holds them up halfway, a skinny box tucked under one arm. “I’m not here to try to control you, to make you come back.”

  I flinch.

  “I just … I heard about what you said to Lori. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He looks nervous, uncertain.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say; there are too many words lodged in my throat.

  “That was so brave,” he says, swallowing hard. “Braver than I was, in just trying to piss off my dad. And I … I’m sorry for everything that I said. That I wasn’t there to help you, to back you. I should have been. Not that you needed it.”

  “I saw Zinn,” he adds. “She’s okay.” His mouth twitches with a smile. “Cut off all of her hair to keep your mother from sending her on auditions. I gave her my number and told her to call me if she needs anything.”

  “Thank you,” I manage, forcing the words from a throat that fe
els painfully swollen with emotion.

  “And I wanted to bring you this.” He pulls the box out from under his arm. “It’s a laptop … to replace your old one. I thought it would help for school.”

  I stay where I am. So he sets it carefully on the landing, in the barely shoveled pathway, and backs up a step, as if I’m a wild animal that will only approach cautiously, fearing capture. And maybe that’s not far from the truth.

  “I put the trailer for Fly Girl on there, too,” he says quietly. “I’ve been working on what we shot. Not to talk you into coming back, but just so you can see how good you are. That you’re going to be fine, no matter what you do.” The depth of sincerity in his voice, backed with passion, makes tears spring to my eyes. No one has ever said that to me.

  “You are enough,” he says fiercely. “You need to know that, and I know I can’t convince you of—”

  “Why not?”

  He closes his mouth. Then asks carefully, “Why not what?”

  “Why aren’t you here to convince me? Why aren’t you here to talk me into coming home?” My voice breaks, and I wipe my face with the back of my hand. With you. Why don’t you want me with you?

  His expression softens then in understanding, and he shakes his head, his eyes visibly damp. “Because, fuck, Callie, I want you to be happy, wherever that is, whatever that looks like. With me or without—”

  I fly up the stairs and throw my arms around him, colliding with him so hard it knocks him back a step.

  But then his arms are tight around me, his cold nose pressed against my neck. I shiver both from the contact and from him, being here. With me. “Now who’s cold?” I murmur against him.

  “Still you,” he says. “But I admit my blood may be taking on a slight chill.”

  I raise myself up on my toes to fit against him even tighter. I’m not letting go. “I don’t know how this is going to work,” I whisper, my tears dripping off my chin onto the collar of his coat. “I’m a disaster. I don’t have any money. My mom is not going to give up easily.” I pause. “I do have almost one-eighth of a college degree.”

  Eric laughs, and the motion brings his lips against the sensitive skin behind my ear. I squirm closer to him, sliding my hands into his coat. “It’s okay,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “There are rumors that I’m kind of a disaster, too. In case you haven’t heard.”

  “So, how—”

  “I have absolutely no idea. But together, Callie. We’ll figure it out together, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I nod against his shoulder.

  He leans back slightly to smile at me and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Besides, two disasters are better than one.”

  He kisses me then, his mouth warm on mine, his tongue light and teasing against my upper lip.

  My hands curl tightly on his shirt. “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes,” I say breathlessly, when he pulls away. How quickly can I get us both inside and into my room? I need to feel his skin against mine, to know that we’re here and together.

  Eric shrugs easily, with that casual confidence that made me fall in love with him all those years ago in that audition room. “Then we’ll make a new one.”

  Sounds perfect to me.

  EPILOGUE

  CALISTA

  TWO YEARS LATER

  “I feel ridiculous,” Eric mutters, tugging at the open collar of his shirt.

  “Is it the formalwear that’s not really formalwear or the not-formalwear on the beach?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

  “Both?” he asks, making a face. “All of the above?” He rolls his shoulders in his tuxedo jacket, as if he’s trying to get comfortable with little success.

  “If it helps, you may feel ridiculous, but you look amazing,” I say softly.

  And he does. Beach wedding is a weird contradiction of terms and situation, but he’s got it nailed.

  His dark curls are loose, not slicked back, lifting and moving in the breeze off the ocean, and yeah, he’s wearing a tux, but the shirt is open at the neck—no tie or vest—just the black jacket and pants, which are rolled up at the ankle. Because he’s barefoot in the sand.

  Like me.

  His gaze darkens as he looks at me. “No, that’s you. Amazing.”

  I grin at him. The pale pink floaty number is not my normal style, but it matches perfectly with the bride’s bouquet. And, as it happens, the colors of the sunset streaking the Maui sky.

  He steps closer, sliding his hand around my waist. “I mean, it’s not that little gold shirt,” he murmurs in my ear, sending a delicious wave of goosebumps over my skin.

  It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about.

  I shove his shoulder lightly. “That was a dress,” I say.

  “If you say so.” He smirks. “I liked it either way. I owe it a lot.”

  I roll my eyes, but he has a point. If I hadn’t dressed to catch his attention at that party all those years ago, none of the events of that night would have happened. And to be fair, few of those things were good at the time, but the results now are hard to argue with. One of which we are here to witness today.

  I twist around, and Eric pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we watch Amanda and Chase at the edge of the water with a local justice of the peace.

  He, like Eric, is in a tux deformalized for the setting, and Amanda is wearing a simple white gown, her arms and shoulders bare, and her hair pulled up in dark-red ringlets. It’s like she’s declaring to the world that she has nothing to hide.

  The look on Chase’s face when she appeared at the edge of the beach made me cry.

  We are serving dual purposes of witnesses and best man and maid of honor for this ceremony, which is technically an elopement, before the “official” family and publicity-heavy event next month. Her sisters will be her maid of honor and bridesmaid for the church deal.

  But here, it’s just the four of us. And that sense of family I used to feel about the three of us—Chase, Eric and me, during our Starlight years—hasn’t changed, only expanded to include Amanda.

  “So I guess you’re going to need a new roommate, huh?” Eric asks, his mouth warm against my neck.

  Amanda and I, both of us getting used to living on our own for different reasons, were a logical match when I moved back to California to work and take classes. She was quiet at first, and my poor friend-making skills, demonstrated in all their awkward glory, didn’t help. But having Chase around a lot as a bridge helped. And watching her with Chase, God, the two of them light up the room and each other whenever they are together. She makes him so happy, I was predisposed to like her. And both of us know what it’s like to have a past that people are interested in when we are both more focused on the present.

  So despite our differences, the roommate thing just worked. Or it did until my roommate went and got married.

  I resist the urge to curl my arm up and around Eric’s neck, to tangle my fingers in his hair. “Maybe,” I say, doing my best to keep a straight face. “I mean, Zinn is dying to get out of the apartment with Mom and Wade.” My mother still goes through phases where she doesn’t speak to me, usually after she fails to sign someone else to the management agency she founded after I fired her for the last time. It’s small and stays afloat mainly, I think, due to cash infusions from Wade—who’s started, of all things, working as an Uber driver.

  Eric doesn’t react with a grumpy noise or a huff of mock exasperation at my having deliberately missed his point.

  Instead, he finds my hand, linking his fingers through mine. “What if we found somewhere big enough for all of us? Zinn, if she needs a place to get away, and you and me.” He sounds serious, with just the faintest hint of vulnerability in the question. Enough that I regret teasing him.

  The decision for Eric and I not to live together was mostly mine. I didn’t want the pressure of trying to figure out work, money and what exactly we were to each other to make our relationship collapse in on itse
lf before we even got started. And I was scared.

  “I think everything is calm enough now … if you want to,” he adds.

  He’s right. Eric has six successful web series to his name now—including Fly Girl, which we finished after I formally turned down Rawley’s offer and moved back at the end of the semester. Fly Girl won three Streamy awards, including Best Directing, and earned a Creative Arts Emmy nomination. Eric is in demand as a director and works regularly for a variety of television shows—except his father’s, which pisses Rawley off to no end. And Stage Seven—Eric renamed his production company after where we started and Starlight was filmed, breaking that final connection with his father’s name—is gearing up for its first feature film, another book I found and loved.

  Eric and I have acted together a few times on the web shows—people will always, it seems, love seeing Skye and Byron Danvers in some way—and I help on the producer side sometimes, too, between acting jobs. I enjoy acting again now that I’m doing it because I want to. I probably will always take on passion projects, roles I can’t pass up. But I’m just a few credits short of my accounting degree, and once I’m finished, I’ll be able to do more as a producer at Stage Seven, which I’m looking forward to. I like being behind the cameras more than in front of them these days. Hollywood needs beautiful people, but it needs people who know how to read a balance sheet almost as much.

  I still feel that pulse of fear at the idea of being dependent on someone I love, as I’m sure it probably still makes him nervous to commit to someone who could hurt him. With his abandonment issues and my fear of surrendering control again, we could circle each other endlessly.

  We are, in fact, two disasters, but we’re working on it. Taking it slow in the beginning only seemed smart, but that was then.

  This is now.

  “I think we’re up,” Eric says, stepping from behind me to start toward the water’s edge where Amanda and Chase are waving us forward.

  But I hear the stiffness in his tone, and I know what it took for him to make that offer and mean it. The accelerated thumping of my heart is still a little bit of fear—it probably always will be—but it’s also love and a crazy level of excitement. To wake up with him every morning. To see his face as the last one before I fall asleep.