When Stars Burn Out

by Carrie Aarons

  He was Jewish, tall, dark and handsome, he had a good job in the restaurant sector. Zach was charming and attentive, just the kind of guy I needed. He opened doors, made dinner, sent me flowers to the office.

  So, when he popped the question a year into us dating, I’d said yes. Even though I hadn’t felt it with my full heart, my head knew that this was good for me. That he’d make a good husband, that I didn’t have to be madly in love to be content.

  Only … when my mother had come over two weeks later armed with wedding magazines, veil samples and the number for the best bakery in town … I knew it would never work. My walls were still up, I still couldn’t feel a thing. And I wasn’t as horrible of a person as Paxton Shaw, I would never bind someone to me forever who I couldn’t love equally. I knew what a horrible fate that was.

  So why had I gone to dinner with Paxton last night? I knew what kind of person he was, and yet I was still under his spell, all these years later.

  We were nothing more than a flash in the pan. A few hot hours of mind-bending sex and some pillow talk. He made me shake like no one else could, or ever had. But that’s the thing about the guy who makes you feel the best kind of high possible; he’s never the committing type. You don’t fall in love with the boy who makes you feel like your throat is the new Sahara Desert, or the one who has you sneaking out at all hours of the night. No, you settle down with the calm, respectable, man. The one who knows a thing or two about priorities and building a life. That’s who you promise yourself to in the long run.

  But I’d had stable, and I’d thrown it away. Apparently, no matter how hard I denied it, my heart wanted insanity.

  It’s why I was sitting in this goddamn box, high up in the Cheetahs stadium, pretending I wasn’t trying to sneak a glance at him down on the field.

  “Try the coconut shrimp, they’re delicious.” Gina comes over with a plate stacked high with finger foods.

  “You’re a bottomless pit. If I ate that, I’d have to go to like, ten cycling classes.” Farrah rolls her eyes and sips the glass of Chardonnay in her hand.

  Farrah was a workout fiend. While I enjoyed a good run here and there, she spent every single morning in the most intense workout classes the city offered. And then there was Gina, who was ninety pounds soaking wet and could scarf down whatever she wanted.

  I was somewhere in the middle.

  I’m still not sure why I agreed to come to this game, although it would have been rude to refuse tickets that the Cheetahs general manager had sent personally after all of the good press we brought to the team from Ryan Gunter’s wish.

  And I wanted to prove to myself that having my ex-fling, because he never let me call him boyfriend, in my city was not going to limit where I could go inside of it.

  The Cheetahs were winning fourteen to three in the third quarter, and I had spent the game alternating from sipping glasses of the delicious Cabernet they had at the free bar and trying to seem disinterested on what was happening down on the field.

  But it was difficult. Watching Paxton on the field was something akin to a work of art. Although … he wasn’t as graceful in his movements as he once was. How funny, it had been years since I’d seen him on the football field, and yet I still noticed that something was off. Don’t get me wrong, he was still very talented … but some of that dazzle that he used to bring was burnt out.

  “I’m surprised he is even playing this year. He’s so old, and after tearing his MCL, everyone said he wouldn’t come back.” Gina is so blunt as she sits down next to me with a new plate.

  “He tore his MCL?” Like I said, I’d avoided following his career whatsoever.

  Farrah tilts her head to the side. “It was only like, the biggest story in sports last season.”

  I shrug, trying to feign ignorance. “You guys know I’m not big into sports. I think the last time I turned on ESPN, it was to watch Tim Tebow run shirtless through training camp.”

  “God, he was so sexy. Pretty dense, but so sexy.” Farrah sighs.

  “You’re a football snob. Branch out, discover the world of Bryce Harper’s nude photos for the Body Issue.” Gina scoffs at our raven-haired coworker.

  “Hey, nudity is nudity, and I’m A-OK with all of it.” Farrah clinks her glass to mine, even though I’m not a part of this ridiculous discussion.

  “But anyways, yeah, tore it right in two. He had to be carted off the field, crying. Only other time the fans have seen him that emotional is when he scored that touchdown the day after his parents died in that accident. It was horrible, but he played his best game the next day.” Gina shakes her head, sadness in her eyes.

  “What?” Shock paralyzes me. “His parents died?”

  Farrah nods. “Oh, it was awful, I remember the photos from the funeral on ESPN. They died on their sailboat in an unexpected storm near their home. They died on a Saturday, and there was so much speculation whether Paxton would play the next day … especially since the game had playoff implications. But he did. Ended up scoring three touchdowns. After the game, he refused media interviews but was seen kneeling, crying, in the end zone when everyone went into the locker room.

  Goose bumps break out all over my skin. How had I not known that his parents had died? Sure, he’d never let me meet them, but I’d seen pictures, heard him talk about them on occasion. Hell, we were involved for two years, I knew about his family. Immediately, I felt like a horrible person.

  I swallow the lump of bile in my throat and try to remain neutral. “How long ago was that?”

  Gina considers it, putting a finger to her chin. “About five years? Yeah, must have been, because I watched the game with some jackass fraternity brother who ended up asking if we could have a threesome that night.”

  Farrah chuckles. “Ah, such a prude. You should have taken him up on it. Three is better than two.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Sex Addict.” Gina rolls her eyes. “But yeah, he’s never really been the same since. People say he’s a better athlete, but he’s like a machine. No more passion in him.”

  For the rest of the game, I ruminate over what Gina has said. I’ve spent the past eight years changing, but maybe so has Paxton. I never considered that events happened in his life to make him a different person, like he’d said when he asked me to dinner.

  Someone in the Cheetahs front office asks if we want to go down on the field for the end of the game, and the girls squeal their excited yeses. I follow, still in a trance about Paxton’s parents. I should have sent flowers or something. Sent a card at least. Perhaps I could let him know now how sorry I was.

  The game ends with a victorious win for the home team, and we watch as the players high five and slap asses. I spot Paxton across the field, pulling off his helmet and revealing his sweaty, golden hair. How is it possible that even after more than two hours of fighting tooth and nail for a win, he looks edible?

  But now I consider him in a different light. I know what it’s like to lose one of the closest people to you, how your world turns on its axis and you’re never quite the same. What must it have been like to lose two people, especially the ones who brought you into this world?

  I’m about to walk over, show him some kind of friendliness after I was so cold to him.

  Except, when I’m about three feet away, a reporter walks up to him with a tape recorder and notebook. Blonde, big chested, in a tight red dress that looks so out of place in this venue. She’s batting her lashes and throwing her hair over her shoulder.

  And Paxton is smiling back at her, their body language flirty.

  They say that an amputee can still feel phantom pain, even after their limb is gone.

  That’s what it’s like watching Paxton talk to this reporter, her hand on his arm. It sends me flashing back to one of the most miserable times in my life. When despair and dejection were my two best friends.

  Twelve

  Demi

  Nine Years Ago

  Another Saturday night, another party at some shitty house wit
h shitty keg beer.

  My friends are having a blast, meeting new guys or playing drinking games. They’re letting loose, like normal girls in their junior year. After a week full of stressful classes and exams, I should be doing the same.

  But I can’t.

  Because I’ve been watching Paxton grind on a busty redhead for the last hour and a half.

  I down another shot of vodka that someone pours and leaves on the counter, making it my fifth. My bones are Jell-O, my heart is smashed to a thousand pieces, and I feel like I might throw up from dejection any second.

  We had been sleeping together for over a year now, late night calls and sneaking around was our specialty. Not that I wanted it to be, but any time I broached the conversation of becoming more, Pax had the best counters to snake out of the conversation.

  He’d charm his way out with talk that tricked me, manipulating his way around the subject without giving a straight answer. Or he would kiss me, using his talents to shut me up and get me off. Or he would explain about his future and football, and I’d be dumb enough to fall for that answer again.

  When Pax sees me on campus, he either waves or smiles, but never comes up to walk with me or have a conversation. Usually, he’s always flanked by a buddy or two, ever the social butterfly. That person who is with him will always smirk, as if they know who I am.

  I get the distinct feeling his friends talk about me behind my back, that they know I’m the poor desperate girl that Pax keeps in a drawer and takes out when he feels like playing with her.

  Shame burns at the base of my neck, and tears well up in the corners of my eyes. Why does he do this to me? Deep down, I know how he truly is, even if no one else sees it. In those moments when we lie next to each other after sex, our heads on the pillows, talking about nonsense … that is who Paxton Shaw truly is.

  But the question I should really be asking myself is, why do I stay? Why do I allow myself to be emotionally abused like this?

  Especially when he’s across the room, using his lips to explore that girl’s collarbone. I’ve heard rumors of him going home, mostly from Chelsea who wants me to ditch him so she can cut off his penis. Or at least that’s what she always tells me. I had never believed her, being too blind for my own good when it came to him.

  But now … I wanted to throw things. Smash plates. Play Boyz II Men on repeat while eating ice cream and watching chick flicks starring Gerard Butler.

  Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are marching me across the room.

  “Jackass!” I get up in their space, screaming at Pax.

  A few drunk students around us giggle at the girl being overdramatic at a party. The redhead Pax has been mauling glances up, her eyes glassy and confused.

  “Excuse me?” Her tone is rude and aggressive.

  Pax is the only one staring at me like I’m an injured deer. “Demi, go home. You’re drunk. Go find Chelsea.”

  He’s talking to me like I’m a five-year-old, like he doesn’t know me at all. Like he pities me.

  “Fuck you, Pax.” My words are slurred and angry.

  “Is this your girlfriend?” Redhead backs away from him.

  “No,” Pax says at the same time I laugh my head off.

  “Whatever this is, I’m not getting involved in drama.” She puts her hand up to him and then melts away into the crowd.

  “Fucking Christ, Demi!” He throws his hands up, fury painted all over his face.

  I cower, embarrassed about what I just did but also feeling desperate and small. Pax grabs my elbow and leads me outside, into the darkest part of the yard where no one can hear us. To others, we look like a couple in the midst of a fight. But I know that he’s about to shatter my heart into a million more pieces.

  Why am I a glutton for punishment?

  “What the hell was that? I thought we agreed, we have a good time when we’re together, and we have fun separately when we’re out.”

  I poke him in the chest, all of the wrongs he’s committed against me making me go out of my mind. “No, you agreed to that! You just want to have your cake and eat other’s cake too, you piece of shit!”

  Pax runs his hands through his shaggy blond hair. “Demi … you aren’t my girlfriend. We fuck sometimes. Shit, I knew this might happen. I knew you’d probably catch feelings.”

  He says this matter of factly, like I’m some sort of emotional female and he isn’t at fault for any of this. I can practically hear the ventricles of my heart cracking under his fist, tears falling freely from my eyes.

  “You are an asshole. You lead me on, build me up and act like we’re … like we could be something. Do you feel anything for me? I want a straight answer this time.”

  I’m shaking, so mad and so hurt that I can’t see straight.

  Pax looks at me, more pity in his eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you, Demi—”

  The alcohol gets the best of me, I pull my hand back, and smack him across the face. The sound reverberates under the trees, out of the sight of anyone else. Even when we fight, no one is present to see it. Our entire relationship takes place in the shadows.

  We stare at each other, and I can’t believe I had the gall to do that.

  I run, in the opposite direction, hating the person who would beg for a boy’s attention and get so worked up that I’d resort to physical violence.

  Two days later, when he texts me to apologize, I end up in his bed at one a.m.

  Thirteen

  Paxton

  I knew she was up there, watching me down on that field.

  It fueled me, knowing that somewhere within the Cheetahs stadium, Demi was cheering for me. Hopefully.

  Actually, she was probably rooting for me to get tackled by a three-hundred-pound linebacker. But that was beside the point. I hadn’t felt the need to impress anyone in a very long time, and it almost made me feel like the cocky teen I once was. The one who jogged out under those Friday night lights for his hometown to see.

  Except when I finally caught up with her employees in the family slash friend’s suite after the game, where the players met the people who’d come to the game for them, she wasn’t there.

  “Farrah, right?” I pointed at the girl I thought was her number two at Wish Upon a Star.

  The girl, who looked a little bit like a goth version of Olivia Munn, did a double take when I approached her. “Um … yeah.”

  “Hi. Paxton.” I wave. “I think we met at your office?”

  The girl standing next to her, a petite blond who looked a lot younger than either of us, gaped at me. “You did. I mean, you met her. You met both of us. We both work there.”

  “Down, Sparky.” Farrah rolls her eyes. “This is Gina.”

  I wave at Gina, too. “Did Demi come with you?”

  A look of … something passes between them. “Yeah, she did. Why?”

  “Do you know where she is?” I’m being weird, I know it. But I don’t have to explain myself.

  “She left a few minutes ago. Had to get home to feed her dog.” Farrah looks at me with questions in her eyes.

  “Thanks for coming.” I smile, and quickly turn around.

  Taking the player exit to the parking lot, I beat half of the traffic to get outside. I know what lot VIP pass holders get to park in, and I had to reach it before Demi could leave. This was neutral ground technically, I couldn’t just drive to her house or her office. She’d feel bombarded, and she didn’t want to talk to me as it was.

  “Demi!” I shout, seeing her across the parking lot.

  She’s dressed down in jeans and a simple shirt, but she still has heels on and my cock is stirring like a caged tiger as I near her. Jesus, I guess it slipped my mind all these years just how fucking beautiful she is. All long legs and poise, I want to break that professional façade all the way down.

  What the fuck was wrong with twenty-something me? I hadn’t known what I’d had right in front of me.

  Almond-colored hair whipped through the air as she turned her h
ead, and I knew from the look on her face that she knew my voice. And from the look on said face, she wasn’t pleased to find me walking toward her.

  “Paxton.” It wasn’t a friendly greeting, but it wasn’t a slap and I counted my blessings.

  “Did you enjoy the game?” I’m standing too close when I reach her, but she can’t escape because the car is behind her back.

  “I did, thank you. I have to go.” She wants nothing to do with me.

  “Would you like to grab some dinner with me?” I’m shameless, but it’s hard not to be around her now.

  Demi tilts her head to the side, her eyes giving nothing away. “No, thank you. I have a prior engagement.”

  I catch the car door as she tries to open it and get in. “What, letting your dog out?”

  She scowls. “Who told you that?”

  I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter, but Fido can wait. Come have dinner with me?”

  “Because it went so well the last time,” she mutters, and then her eyes go wide, like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  I like when Demi goes off script. All of the times I’ve been around her in the last couple of weeks, she seems untouchable, icy. It dawns on me that I may be the cause of some of that, and guilt is a cold bastard.

  “I admit, it didn’t go well, but I owe you. I’ve been an asshole, I know that. And it will give us a chance to talk about …” I point between us. “Us.”

  Demi rolls her eyes and tries to get in the car again. A thought must permeate her brain, because she whips back around, and fury rolls off of her.

  “Why do you assume I want to pursue anything between us? I have lived my life for eight whole years without ever seeing your face. And I’ve lived very happily, thank you. Why would I need even an ounce of friendship from you, let alone a romantic relationship?” She throws her hands up. “We don’t have to do this. We live in the same city, but it’s a big one. We don’t need to ever see each other.”