One Starry Knight: A Scifi Alien Love Story (The Starry Knight Saga Book 1)

by Carrie Lynn Thomas

  He taps his fingers against the menu and flips the plastic pages. “I don’t know…um…I guess maybe water for now.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice squeaking like a chipmunk.

  “Say, do you get a break?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we talk then?”

  I open my mouth to answer but am interrupted by the sound of Adam’s name coming from a familiar voice. Brianna’s voice.

  My heart hurls through me, and I back up several steps. Adam’s opening his mouth, holding out his hand, but Brianna’s behind us. I turn, running through the restaurant until I cross into the sanctuary of the kitchen. As the doors swing behind me, I grasp the cold metal counters, clinging to them as if they are the only thing holding me up. I suck in air, my skin hot and fiery and my lungs exploding.

  “Sage, are you okay?”

  Breathe. In…out. I slowly turn around to face Liz. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Liz. I’m fine.”

  “You wrote ‘water’ on your order pad. Afraid you’d forget?” She picks up my order pad from where I had dropped it on the counter and points to the black shaky scrawl across the top sheet.

  Water.

  I shake my head. “Uh, that. Um, can you bring water to table one? I’m not feeling so hot at the moment.”

  “Do you need to go home?”

  “No, I’m fine, or I will be. Please.”

  “Sure,” she says. She watches me, her eyes curious and probing as she fills up a glass with ice and water before disappearing back into the restaurant.

  “Don’t worry. I got table one,” she says when she returns minutes later. She pats my arm and smiles as if she knows everything and then she walks back through the doors to the front. I follow her to the door, cracking it far enough to sneak a peek at Adam’s table.

  Brianna leans across the booth and her hand cups Adam’s arm. Her streaky hair swings across her face into his as she leans in and whispers something in his ear. She leans back, revealing Adam’s face—his smiling face. He says something, his dimples flaring with each word and her tinkling laugh carries across the restaurant. I am sick. This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening. I can’t watch it happen. I press my hands against my face and blink.

  A lunchtime crowd pours in, and Liz looks towards the door, her eyes narrowing. She needs help—my help. I don’t have time to freak out. I slip back into the kitchen and rub my hands against my head as if I could physically push Adam and Brianna from my mind. Get it together. One of the cooks calls out an order for table four, my table. I grab my order pad from the counter, stopping at the sink to wash my hands and press a few drops of cool water to my cheeks. Piling a tray with the plates of food, I return to the restaurant floor keeping my eyes focused on anything but the booth in the corner. This is how the next few hours go, table to table to kitchen to table again, never looking in the direction of table one. But I feel them. Laughing, smiling, talking. Always on the periphery.

  A few hours later, as the lunch crowd thins, I steal a glance in their direction. Only Adam’s eyes meet mine. He’s alone. I look away and escape into the kitchen again. Deep, slow breaths. I splash more cool water across my skin, careful not to wash off the makeup hiding my bruise, and return to work, resolving not to look in his direction again.

  About an hour later, the short, skinny busboy lets me know Adam is gone. “This was left at table one for you,” he says, handing me a folded napkin with my name carefully scrawled in black pen.

  “Thanks,” I take the napkin from him. I glance across the restaurant towards Adam’s booth. Empty. The busboy watches me as if he’s waiting for me to read it, but I turn away from him and tuck the note in my pocket.

  The afternoon passes and the rumblings of a dinner crowd appear before I am able to slip into the bathroom to read Adam’s note. With my back pressed against the locked door, I unfold the napkin carefully, running my fingers along the creases, stroking each indentation the pen had left on the flimsy paper.

  Meet me tonight. 8 p.m. Please.

  Chapter Twelve

  They are fighting again. The noises leak along with the kitchen light into the yard. I stand in the shadows, creeping closer to the house.

  “What the hell is this?” Mark’s words shake through an open window. The air smells smoky and tastes burnt. “You call this dinner?”

  “I’m sorry,” My mom’s response is more tears than words.

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? Look at this mess.”

  I glance to the gap in the woods where the path to the beach begins. Adam will be there soon. I could go now. Be there, waiting for him. I twist the napkin in my pocket feeling the pen marks. Feeling his words. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll just go. By the time I return, Mark will be gone and my mom will be passed out, and I won’t have to listen to the wailing apologies she’s sputtering.

  “I’m so sorry. Let me try again. Let me—”

  I step backwards, nearly tripping over a patch of uneven ground.

  “No,” Mark booms.

  Another step back. And another.

  “Please—” My mom’s whine lasts for nearly a minute. I’m about to turn, run into the woods when a loud crash explodes from the house, and my mom’s scream impales the air. Letting go of the napkin, of Adam, of his note, of the waiting beach, I’m like a cannonball through the front door.

  I stop breathlessly inches from Mark, who towers across the doorway between the living room and kitchen. He’s a red mass of flesh and hair stuffed into a stained white t-shirt and dirty jeans. His eyes widen when he sees me, a crazy grin spreading across his face.

  “I hope you brought something home for dinner." He snarls and cracks his knuckles. I push by him towards the sobs, stopping at the sight of the kitchen. Every cupboard door open, drawers dumped across the floor, food boxes scattered across the counters, dishes toppled over in the sink, sticky puddles of who-knows-what on the table and floor. A cloud of smoke seeps from a charred pot on the stove.

  I nearly miss my mom in the mess, who curls in the corner between the sink and the stove, her hands covering her face. I crouch down and pull her hands away. Her face is red with tears and bruises.

  "I was trying to make dinner," she says through the sobs. "His favorite. I was trying to make dinner and now—I’m no good at this stuff, Sage. I’m just no good."

  "Shhh," I say brushing hair back from her face. "It's okay." She falls into my arms like a toddler, shaking with her cries.

  “No it's not okay,” Mark growls from behind me. “This woman is useless, worthless, a piece of no good shit." My mom’s hands tighten around my arms, and her tears soak my sleeve.

  "Mark, it's okay. I'll get dinner." I gently push my mom back until she rests against a cupboard and rise to face him. "I got this.”

  "Hmph," he says. "I got work to do. Clean this up." His hard eyes linger on mine for another minute, and then he slams his hand against the doorjamb and stomps out. The door slams behind him.

  Rubbing a hand across my forehead, I circle the kitchen and assess the damage. Adam’s note burns in my pocket. I’m not going to make it in time. Will he wait for me?

  My mom’s crying invades my thoughts, so I return to her side, urging her to her feet and to bed. She moves slowly, her steps wobbly and unsure, but once I have her under the blankets, she closes her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not a better mom.”

  “No, you’re fine.” I tuck the blanket beneath her chin.

  “If only your dad…” Her voice trails off. A few silent moments pass and her even breathing grows into a quiet snore. Peaceful sleep hides the red eyes, raw from crying, and for a moment I imagine she’s the mom she used to be. The one who made M&M cookies on my first day of school and lasagna every Friday night. The one who kissed my dad every chance she got.

  “If only…” I whisper. But my dad’s death had broken something in her that I don’t think will ever heal.
The red glowing numbers on the clock next to her bed catch my eye. 8:01. Adam’s waiting for me.

  Absent of Mark and my mom, the kitchen seems even messier. I sigh and groan at the empty room. I want to be there on the beach with Adam. I want him to be answering my questions about Brianna. To explain what happened last night. But if I leave it like this it will only make Mark angrier. He’ll scream through the house and drag my mom out of bed and who knows what I’ll find when I return. So I fill up the sink with hot water and soap, and start scrubbing dishes and scraping pans. The long hand on the kitchen clock slowly edges past the one and the two and the three. I wipe counters and dry plates and wash spoons. The clock hand continues its downward descent, closing in on the six. To keep Mark complacent, I fry up some beef and warm taco shells and shred lettuce. The clock turns and turns and turns.

  It’s after nine when I check in on my mom. She still sleeps, a faint smile on her lips. I grab my coat and stop at the garage with a plate of tacos for Mark. His eyes shift from me to the food to me again. He grunts, grabs the plate and slams the door. You’re welcome.

  A breeze picks up as I turn towards the woods, blowing my hair from my face. I pull the hood up from my coat and shiver. I should’ve changed out of my work uniform. I must smell like grease and dish soap, and I know there’s a ketchup stain on the sleeve. But there’s not time, and I’m not sure I care.

  I need to get to the beach.

  Adam, please still be there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Adam?” I call into the night. I cross the shiny rocks, which are black in the dark. “Adam?”

  No response. The moonlight glides across the water and bounces off trees, making shadows across our beach. Empty shadows. Empty beach.

  He didn’t wait.

  I sink to the sand, bending my knees and resting my arms across them. A chilly breeze from the lake penetrates through the layers of my winter coat. I shiver.

  Why didn’t I leave earlier? Why didn’t I leave my mom to deal with Mark? She’s the one who picks these losers—she should deal with it. Why? Why? Why?

  I don’t want to go home without answers from Adam. I want him telling me last night wasn’t real. That him and Brianna aren’t real. That everything is normal, as it should be. But I’m too—.

  “Hey,” Adam’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He stands over me, and I blink to make sure I’m not imagining him. When I open my eyes for about the third time to his twinkling eyes and the grin teasing the corner of my mouth, I finally jump to my feet.

  “It is you.” My eyes circle the beach. I cross my arms across my chest to quell the shaking in me. “Were you here the whole time?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I left a while ago. But something told me to come back.” His lips lift into a smile, dimples creasing along his cheeks.

  I shift my weight between my feet and pull the napkin from my pocket. My trembling fingers hold it out between us. “I got your note.”

  “I hoped you would,” he says, smiling. “And I hoped you would come, although I’m a little surprised you did.”

  “You are?” There’s a hopeful inflection to my voice, and I bite down on my lip. Did I sound too eager?

  “Yeah,” he says with the hint of a laugh. His eyes brighten, drawing me in like I’m a ship at sea and he is the lighthouse, igniting a fire inside of me.

  “So. What-what did you want?”

  “Can we talk?” The light on his face fades, and his gaze breaks from mine. He frowns, licks his lips, and sighs. My heart sinks. I want to reach for him, to cup his chin and bring his face to mine, to trace the smile back on his lips. He sits on the sand and pats the spot next to him.

  “Okay.” I drop to my knees. He leans back on his hands, his fingers inches from my leg. My skin warms as if he was touching it, and suddenly it’s all I can think about. His fingers. My leg. So close.

  “I’m sorry,” he begins.

  “Sorry?” I repeat the word. For what? For sitting too close?

  “For not telling you about Brianna.” Oh no, he’s going to tell me it’s more than kissing and that they’re dating. He’s going to tell me—and I can’t—I can’t listen. My face burns, my eyes sting. I look down at the ground, the dirt, the loose shoelace on my right sneaker. Anywhere he can’t see the skin reddening across my cheeks or the tears creeping beneath my eyelids.

  “It’s okay,” I lie. I run my finger through the sand, making circles and squares and Xs. Lots of Xs.

  “No,” he’s saying. “You’re my best friend. I should have told you. It didn’t seem important, and I didn’t realize who she was until today.”

  “Forget about it,” I say, words spilling from my mouth like somebody dropped a jar of marbles. “You don’t have to tell me everything. And you’re free to kiss whomever you like. It’s not like we’re-we’re—”

  I can’t say the words. I can’t. I close my eyes, and I can see them. Beneath the mistletoe. At the diner. Her hand on his shoulder and the dimple in his cheek. They’re everywhere. Smiling and kissing. Kissing and smiling. For a moment the image of them here, on our beach, flickers through my head. A sharp pain explodes in my chest, and I scoot back from him until I no longer feel the heat against my leg.

  Adam reaches for my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine and squeezing. I look up and our eyes meet and my heart flaps in my chest like a live fish pulled from the water.

  “I need to tell you something.” He lowers his voice but not enough for me to miss the tremor. I bite my tongue. Here it comes.

  “No,” he says. His face crinkles and his eyes narrow. “I know what you’re thinking and this has nothing to do with Brianna.”

  “That’s not—” But I close my mouth. His eyes flash and his lips turn up until the dimples appear, and I know it’s useless. He’s right. He knows me well. And suddenly we are Adam and Sage again, inseparable friends, living out another summer on our beach. There’s a lightness between us, and I’m cocooned in the warm familiarity of our friendship. But the moment passes, and his face dims again, and my heart squeezes tight.

  “Forget about Brianna. She’s nothing—nothing at all. There’s way more important things, Sage. I mean, don’t you want to ask about last night?” he says. He rocks on his heels, his gaze drifting between me and the water.

  “Of course.”

  “Why aren’t you? Why aren’t you asking why I’m here? What happened?”

  “I-I-I don’t know.”

  “Well, ask me.”

  “What?”

  “Ask me, Sage. Ask me. Please. Just ask the questions.” His words gain momentum and steel and he leaps to his feet. “Ask me, please.”

  “Okay, okay.” I say looking up at him. He paces, his wild eyes darting between me and the lake. “Adam, what happened last night? And what’s going on with you now?”

  He runs fingers through his hair and shakes his head. He steps forward and then back, his gaze scanning the beach, the trees, the lake. His face is pink and I can’t tell if it’s the cold or if he’s angry.

  I’m about to apologize when he turns to me, his face softening. He holds out his hand and I slide my fingers into his, and he pulls me to my feet.

  We face each other, my eyes level with his heart. I could reach out, touch his chest, and feel for the beating beneath his skin. He turns from me and paces again, his shoes making zigzag prints across the sand.

  “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” he begins. “A long, long time. Since the day we met. I’ve never wanted to tell anybody as much as I’ve wanted to tell you. Not Lucas. Not my friends in California. Nobody.” He moves with each word, shaking hands, darting eyes. There’s a storm passing through him and it scares me. He scares me. I’ve never seen him like this. Full of so much fear and doubt. He’s trembling, and I begin to tremble with him.

  “Adam,” I whisper hoarsely. He stares, his eyes like a television changing channels. Light and dark and gray. “Adam? Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

/>   He stops. The clouds leave his eyes, and he turns to me, reaching out his hands, taking mine in his.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just...”

  “Just what?”

  “I’m afraid of what I’m about to say. I’m afraid you’re not going to believe me. Or more…I’m afraid you are. And mostly I’m afraid I’m going to lose you.”

  “Lose me?” I ask. His fears caught me off guard. I was the one afraid of losing him.

  “Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “I don’t want to lose you. Lose us. Sage, this secret…this secret I have. I want you to know that it doesn’t change anything I feel about you. Or have ever felt about you. It doesn’t change me. It doesn’t change us.”

  “Just tell me.” I step closer and squeeze his hand. “Whatever it is, tell me.”

  His face darkens, and he breathes deeply. He lets go of my hands, placing them on my shoulders and he turns me, guiding me closer to the lake. We stop, steps from the water and his fingers curl around my shoulder blades. The lake licks the shore, and my heart rumbles. I smell the fishy water, the wet sand, the fabric softener from his sleeve.

  His arm reaches in front of me pointing to the black sky sparkling with stars. “Do you see that star?” I nod and he moves his finger. “And that one?”

  Again I nod.

  “What about that one?”

  “Yes,” I say, annoyance creeping into my voice. I step out of his grip and turn around. “What is the point of this?”

  “Humor me.” He lifts the corner of his mouth. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he pulls me back to him. I face the lake again and he is behind me, his warm breath tickling my neck. I shiver at the electricity dancing over my skin.

  Adam lifts his arm again and moves his finger, but I’m not following.

  “Do you see it?” he asks. I blink, struggling to focus on the thousands of pinpricks in the sky when all I want to do is melt into him and lose myself in his warmth. “That bright one? The North Star?..Do you see it?”