Waiting for a Star to Fall

by Kerry Clare

  His reply came hours later when she was sitting alone in her packed-up room, books in boxes, her bed disassembled. All she was left with was a mattress on the floor, and she was lying on it, scrolling on her phone, when the text came. Was it possible that her phone buzzed differently when she received a text from him? She’d always thought so.

  Still at work, he’d written. Of course he was. But not for long. Any chance I could see you before you go? Upending everything, all the realities she’d convinced herself were no longer possible. She’d been just another girl, someone else for Marijke Holloway to take care of lest the office morale was disturbed.

  But no, this was him right now, the impossible fact of his presence. He drove over to her place, and from her window she watched him pull up to the curb where a parking spot was waiting like fate. He came up the walk, and she heard the doorbell ring—a sound so ordinary. But this had never happened before. Derek had only ever been to her place a couple of times, and now she opened the door and there he was, hanging back like he didn’t belong there, like he wasn’t sure how she would receive him.

  What if they were just two regular people who were meeting on a doorstep? Brooke could even trick herself into believing it was true.

  “Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?” He was sheepish, but then he often was. It allowed him to get away with things. She liked him so much better when he wasn’t trying to be better than he really was.

  She said “I guess,” because “Why did you wait so long?” would have made the wrong impression, but there was no doubt that he knew what she meant. “My room’s up here,” Brooke said, as he followed her up the stairs and down the hall, because he didn’t even know. He’d never belonged here, and had only ever left her at the door before.

  But it wasn’t her room anymore, bare, boxed-up, the walls blank except for the marks where the masking tape had been. He wouldn’t get to see how she’d lived here, or to learn what this room could have told him about who she had been all these years while she’d been living in his world but he’d never ventured into hers. There weren’t even curtains, although there never really had been. Years before, she’d tacked an orange sarong over the window that turned the whole room golden when the sun shone in, but now the window was naked, and the glare of the streetlight outside was cold and ugly.

  “So, I guess you’re really going,” Derek said, eyeing the boxes, giving her mattress a kick.

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  He said, “How are you?” in that heavy, serious way that meant he thought he already knew the answer.

  She said, “I’m okay.” She was okay. She’d been telling herself as much for weeks, that she was okay, and she would get through this, and the focus should be on moving forward, one foot in front of the other.

  Derek sat down in her desk chair and tried to spin it around, but stopped short because the chair didn’t spin. Everything she owned was basically broken. “It’s a shitty chair,” she said.

  He said, “No, it’s good.” There was nowhere else in the room to sit but on the mattress, and then he was looming huge above her. He said, “You’re really doing all right?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly been great,” Brooke told him.

  He pushed off from the wall and rolled closer to her. She stared at his shoes. “You’re pretty tough,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “You think?”

  He sank down onto the mattress beside her, and put his arm around her shoulders. “And I’ve done nothing to make things easier. I know that.” He pulled her close and kissed her hair, and she wondered if she’d conjured this, if it was possible to want something so badly that it arrived, but she was still too nervous to believe in it. If she dared to believe, would it just be snatched away?

  She said, “This is confusing.” She inched away from him. “I thought you needed distance. Marijke said.”

  He said, “But, I mean, that’s just Marijke. It’s business.”

  “She fired me.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s it like, then?”

  He said, “Wasn’t it all a bit much? And we had to dial it back from there.”

  “You and Marijke, you mean.”

  “It’s the best thing for everyone.”

  “But I didn’t even get to decide. And you didn’t call, and now here you are. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that, where this is going.”

  “Could we just focus on right now?” he asked. “One thing at a time.” He kissed her. And at first it felt familiar, achingly so, because it was, but it was also different than it had always been between them, when she’d been all too happy to have his kisses sweep her away. Because it is a fact that you should never kiss anyone who treats you badly. But what if this one kiss, she wondered, might be the one that brought him back to her? The kiss as conduit, and she’d always loved kissing Derek. She knew how to do that, but, as it always did between them, one thing led to another. For all his insistence on focusing on right now, he sure knew how to speed things along.

  “Listen, I’m not sure about this,” she told him. “And I’m bleeding. Still.” Just a bit, but she wasn’t comfortable.

  He said, “I don’t care about that. I want you.” He said, “I’ve missed you.” It had been just over two weeks since the procedure, which meant sex would be okay and unlikely to cause infection—she’d filed away that data at the clinic, not supposing it would apply to her. At least this time she’d be unlikely to get pregnant. Ha. But she also had a sanitary pad in her pants that was as big as a sailing ship.

  And what would Carly say?

  “See, I don’t think so,” Brooke said. She couldn’t think of a single way in which this could end well, but then hadn’t she known what would be the logical outcome when she agreed to have him come over? It was such a bad idea. But Derek had always been expert with the powers of persuasion, rhetorically and physically. His hands, the way he touched her body, which had felt so used up and wasted since all this had started. It had been dulled, she’d thought it was never going to want anything ever again, let alone be wanted.

  “You’re sure you’re not into it?” he murmured into her neck. “Cuz, I don’t think you’re sure.” And they knew each other so well, their bodies and their minds, and it was so easy just to follow him, to let everything else fall away, including her resistance. Carly was going to kill her, but maybe Brooke could have this one thing? These moments of comfort were all he had to give her, fragments, shards, but surely she needn’t be deprived of everything.

  “Come on,” he said. “There you go,” approvingly, as she let it all happen.

  But it wasn’t what she’d hoped it would be. There they were, but on a mattress on the floor with a bright light shining through the window that lit up everything. And she wished there was a way to turn out that light so she didn’t have to see, to feel it all, because she was bleeding, sore and raw, and he didn’t even seem to notice. And then it became a thing that had to be endured, because there comes a point when you’ve gone too far and there’s no turning back.

  She had to mop them up with towels afterwards, unpacking them from boxes, and Derek pretended not to notice the trouble, like the mess was nothing at all. Lying back with his arms around her, a single pillow between them to share, and all the discomfort seemed worth it when he finally said, “Tell me everything.” So she did, about how nervous she’d been and scared, but the procedure had been underwhelming, anticlimactic. She couldn’t believe that was all, this was it. She’d have to go to a clinic in a few weeks to have everything checked out, but basically they’d just sent her on her way.

  “And you feel okay?”

  “Except for the bleeding.” And how she was weirdly emotional about the strangest things, and so many of her thoughts had been tied up with him. She’d thought he was angry at her. He’d left her all
alone.

  “It was clumsy,” he said. “But I didn’t know what else to do, and I got it wrong. And I’m sorry you had to go through it by yourself. I needed space to process it. It wasn’t a situation I ever thought I’d find myself in.” He held her closer. “I didn’t know what to do.” The bed was narrow, and the floor right there. Such a bright light, and she traced her hands along his body, the way she knew him inch by inch.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said. She’d thought they would never be here again.

  “You’ve been on my mind,” he said. “You were always on my mind.” The title of the least romantic song Brooke had ever heard, a song she’d listen to with her fingers crossed that whoever it was being sung to wasn’t buying it at all, because how much less can you give anyone than that. But Derek didn’t know that song, background music if he’d heard it ever.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to go, and for us to leave it like that.” She’d known he wouldn’t. But this was not the same as him saying he didn’t want her to go, so she said nothing.

  Except for, “What is going to happen next?” Between them. Because this couldn’t be the end either.

  He said, “You’ll go home. And there’s a job there, and your family, and you’ll wait for the pieces to settle. And it will be quiet, and a bit boring, but maybe that’s what you need right now.”

  “How do you know what I need right now?” She leaned up on her elbows, and rested her chin on her hand.

  “It’s been a hard time,” he said.

  “Maybe I need you.”

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “I mean longer-term.”

  He said, “See, this is what I mean. You need something stable, and I can’t right now. You know I can’t.”

  “But you could.” Pleading. She tried not to plead, but she’d been cool for so long, and here they were now, both of them, still smeared with her blood. They’d made something between them, but it was gone, and she wasn’t ready to admit it yet. She couldn’t. “Even though you can’t. I know you can’t.”

  He pulled her close, and she inhaled him, willing herself to remember what it was to be here. He said, “I’ve loved you, though. All along, I’ve loved you. I couldn’t let you simply disappear.”

  But he did. And she understood, because that was what she always did. It was a lot to ask, a night on the floor on a mattress. He kissed her goodbye at the door, even though her roommate James was coming down the stairs and saw it all, which was complicated. He greeted James with “Hey” before James ducked into the kitchen.

  And then it was as though it might never have happened, any of it. Except the next morning in the light of the day, which exposes details the blinding streetlights don’t betray, once she’d stripped the sheets and realized the blood had stained the mattress, and no matter how much she scrubbed it remained. That mark, on the bed she would still sleep on, and it would still be there. Every time she changed the sheets, which was never often enough, but still, she kept trying to decipher what it all was supposed to mean.

  Sunday Afternoon

  Brooke had never been sorry for her abortion. She’d been sorry she’d ever become pregnant in the first place, of course, for the way it disrupted everything and how she’d been so drained of energy she’d feared never again making it through an entire day without collapsing. For a few weeks, she’d forgotten what it was not to be exhausted. What if this is me now? she thought, as she dragged her body through the hours when she really knew what was happening but still didn’t want to admit it to herself. Tracing the downward spiral—is this how a person loses control of her narrative? Would it be possible to just go to sleep and wake up in a thousand years?

  She couldn’t envision any other possibility, but thankfully there was one, this procedure that would render her no longer pregnant, her life back on track. Unfathomable mercy, abortion. It felt like a way out of this, without humiliation; necessary punishment for a woman stupid enough to make such a mistake, to have fallen. To be smirched. This was before she knew what was going to happen with Derek, of course, who’d deliver his own humiliating punishment along with Marijke, because Brooke had become a liability. Although what Derek had delivered wasn’t really about her, Brooke knew. He’d been saving himself, trying to avoid a moment just like this one.

  She wouldn’t make the papers for a second day, she knew. They wouldn’t be able to find another photograph, and if they did, it would just show her probably wearing glasses, hair that was more mousy than blonde. Brooke liked the way she looked, but she’d always been an unlikely candidate for a sex scandal, and she would probably help Derek’s case more than harm it—sure he’s dating younger women, but if they look like a cross between your little sister and a librarian, how bad could it be? This part of the story was always going to be a stretch, and they were lucky they were able to create an actual headline out of it. With Derek and her bowling, which was so much more wholesome than whatever he’d been getting up to out by the garbage cans.

  Of course, there were other possibilities. She’d realized all along that Derek was as terrified as she was of people finding out about her pregnancy, the abortion. When he’d seen that photo yesterday, the two of them “in happier times,” as they say, Brooke knew he was convinced the rest would all come out. Or else he was afraid he’d left her so unhinged that she’d want revenge, to run his holy name through the mud. And certainly she had good reason to, at least according to Carly, who was also a liability.

  “But why is he making it your burden that he’s a hypocrite?” Carly had asked. She’d agreed to accompany Brooke to the clinic without missing a beat, but she still insisted on having her say. “He doesn’t deserve you,” Carly said. “Have I told you that?”

  “You’ve told me,” Brooke said—but what if Carly started telling everyone?

  Though Carly wouldn’t. Not just because she was far away in Guatemala—Brooke knew her friend would never betray her like that.

  * * *

  —

  When Brooke went online, she saw that she’d been right; no one was talking about her anyway. Instead it was all opinion pieces and a tapestry of comments flowing after them—what a loss this was for progressives, they said. The party’s real chance for a feminist leader was squandered, ironically, by allegations that he was a sex-pest. And the usual pontificating about you never can trust a male feminist anyway, because don’t they always turn out to be the worst? How Derek had failed in his pledge to be all things to all people, which only proved it was time for the party to get back to ideological purity. Rumor was that Gordon Howland would be vying for the leadership at the forthcoming convention, hastily called. He hadn’t been elected in fifteen years, but was coming out of retirement to remind everyone what the party’s real values really were, to harken back to a time when men were men, and also gentlemen.

  “Strong leadership is what we need now,” people were saying, and also that the problem was too many folks today were all caught up in identity politics, which was another way of taking one’s eye off the prize.

  Brooke finally checked her messages after another day of avoiding them. The day before, her poor phone had vibrated right across the kitchen counter at her parents’ place and fallen on the floor before she finally turned it off. When she turned it back on again, all the alerts were still waiting, from texts and emails, social media. Friends wanting to know if she was okay, people who weren’t her friends asking the same question though she knew they didn’t mean it. Other reporters who’d somehow tracked her down and wanted “just to talk.” She had nothing to say in response to these messages, because it was over and Derek had dumped her, and she didn’t want to have to break that story. There were limits to the humiliation one person was expected to suffer—or at least she hoped there were.

  Outside her room, she could hear the television—a wall of sound, “Be
My Baby” by the Ronettes—and she welcomed the distraction from the emotional demands of her phone. Lauren was still in her pajamas, curled up on the couch; the opening credits were showing for something.

  “Dirty Dancing,” she told her, as Brooke settled down on the couch’s other end. “You like old movies.”

  “But I’ve never seen it,” Brooke said. There was a terrible sequel set in Havana, and she saw that one at a party once. She did indeed like old movies, but this one had passed her by.

  “It was my mom’s favorite,” said Lauren. “She watched it every time it rained, and I used to watch it with her, even though I only understood parts of it back then.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Probably a good thing, too.”

  And Brooke started watching with her, a curly-haired girl in the car with her parents, an older sister. She’s on vacation and not even unhappy about being stuck with her family, and her dad’s that guy from Law & Order reruns. And it must be genetic, because the girl’s got a thirst for justice, and social stratification at the resort they’re staying at makes her feel uneasy. She insists on helping the bellboy carry the bags inside, and she’s drawn to the resort staff, who are always dancing. Throughout her whole life Brooke had been hearing other people proclaim “I carried a watermelon,” but she never understood what it was referencing. When the girl, who’s called Baby, meets Johnny Castle, who’s older and wiser than she is, they dance together, even though she’s gawky and awkward. And then it turns out she’s got something to teach him after all.

  All this is a pretty predictable plot, but the part Brooke never saw coming: when Johnny’s dance partner is crying in the kitchen because a waiter got her pregnant (the guy who tells Baby, “Some people count, and some people don’t”), and they’ve got an appointment for her to have an abortion, but first they need to come up with the money.