Starstruck

by S E Anderson

“Apparently, I've been talking a little too much about you.”

  “You're kidding me. You only met me a few days ago …”

  “I don't think you realize the effect you’ve had on me.” He smiled. “In any case, it was enough for my—our—boss to offer us this date.”

  My cheeks burned. “I guess, um, my interview went better than I thought.”

  Matt grinned. “Grisham was as enamored with you as I am,” he said. “Well, not in the same way; that would be weird. But he sees your potential, same way he saw mine.”

  I snorted, feeling the wine climb up my nostrils. “You're kidding, right? I didn't last a semester in college. I have nothing but retail experience, the last of which I was fired from. What kind of potential is there for him to find?”

  “Sally,” he said, his face growing serious, “he sees the same thing I do. He sees how much you care. He sees how determined you are. How brilliant you are. How strong you hold on. He sees a brilliant woman with a bright future. So what if life's been trying to shake you off the path you want? You’ve been forging your own. Grisham can see that.”

  “He seems like an amazing man,” I whispered. I was dumbfounded. No one had ever told me such things, and knowing that he hardly knew me, I wasn’t inclined to believe him. Though I wanted to. I desperately wanted to.

  “Oh, he is,” said Matt. “Only now we're talking about my boss on our date, so that's …”

  “Yeah, kind of weird,” I said. “But there’s one thing that’s been bugging me. Then we can change the subject, okay?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well,” I said, trying to make this sound as casual as I could, “Aren’t you just an intern?”

  “Yeah, I thought so too, but Grisham's taken me under his wing. I was only supposed to be working on PR for him, but he's mentoring me now. What started as a work-study program might just become my life. Between you and me, I think he wants me to run the plant someday.”

  “And do you like it? I mean, if you’re making it a career, you should like it, right? It sounds more like it's his idea than yours.”

  “Grisham has a way with people.” Matt laughed. “A way of getting them to see things his way, and I really do like working for him. You will too. Congrats again on the job, by the way, and, of course, on the impression you made on Grisham. You’re going to go far, I know it.”

  We clinked glasses. It was classy.

  “I don't think I could have done it without you.”

  “Believe me, Sally, it was all you,” he replied. “Oh, perfect timing.”

  The waiter placed the steaming plate in front of me, the smell of hot tomatoes and cheese wafting up my nostrils, setting my brain alight with excitement. It looked amazing, the chicken a picture of beauty. Instagramable. I couldn't wait and dove in immediately. The flavor soaked my tongue, and I felt myself floating to heaven.

  “You know, this might sound, well, weird,” Matt said awkwardly, “but I've had a crush on you for ages.”

  “You what?” I stammered, a string of homemade pasta hanging from between my lips.

  “You remember that creative writing class we had first semester?” he asked. “Well, I—”

  “I did too,” I said, quickly swallowing the pasta and giving him a wide smile. “I thought your novellas were great. I kept making weird excuses to sit close to you.”

  “So did I.” He laughed. He was doing a lot of laughing, I realized, but it was quite endearing. “When the semester ended, I tried signing up for the same electives as you, but I stopped seeing you around the campus. Which was, well, kind of heartbreaking.”

  “Sorry about that. I just … stopped … around finals.”

  “What went wrong?” Matt asked, waving his fork around. “Did something happen?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It became a little too much for me.”

  “Oh?” he said. “May I ask why? Or is that too personal?”

  I made the decision right then and there to tell him the truth, as much as it was killing me inside. I liked him, and I think he liked me. Better to get everything out in the open early on, right?

  “Well,” my voice dropped, but I caught it immediately. “My brother died, right when I was graduating high school. Let's just say I didn't deal with it very well and leave it at that.”

  Matt nodded slowly, a look of understanding in his fierce, blue eyes. Gosh, I was so glad he didn't push it. Talking about John always raised some dark thoughts.

  But the panic didn’t rise. Usually at this point, I would have to control my breathing and force myself to focus on my happy place. But right now, my body was calm. For some reason, I was completely fine.

  “I know how much it hurts. I know what it’s like to lose … family.” He extended his hand, and I took it across the table. “I really am very sorry.” A weight hung in the air between us. I wanted to ask him about his experience—how, why, and so much more—but the weight of those words made it impossible for me to speak.

  My eyes were drawn to the ceiling again, that great glass structure that looked like something out a greenhouse. I couldn't take my eyes off it. The large panels revealed the ferocity of the rain outside, making me feel as if I was in the heart of the storm without having to leave the comfort of the restaurant.

  But there was something weird going on, too. A figure interrupted the rain, its black back slamming hard against the glass. I squinted, trying to make it out. It was probably some kind of animal, maybe a wild cat, but it looked too big for that. I returned to my chicken and my date, pushing it out of mind.

  “What were you planning to do, before you dropped out?” he asked, between mouthfuls. “Any career plans?”

  “Gosh, why does everyone ask that?” I asked. “Sorry, I don’t mean that against you. It’s just, first, it’s what college do you want to go to, then what degree, then what job. Like you can expect an eighteen-year-old who’s not legally allowed to drink to be able to map out their entire life plan.”

  Matt nodded, attentive.

  “I had no idea what I wanted to do,” I said. “When John died, everyone told me to go to college, that I was just thinking those things because I was depressed, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do even before that. Even my therapist agrees that my brother dying had nothing to do with what happened to me. Everyone around me had dreams, goals … hell, they were passionate about things. But I didn’t know what I wanted from life. From my life. You know?”

  “I do,” he nodded. “I ended up where I am because a counselor told me I had an aptitude for it. But you know? All I like is a good story.”

  “A story?”

  “Everything has a story,” Matt replied. “Shows and movies and books, those are evident. You read them. You hear them. I love something that transports me, you know? You experience them. But food tells us a story, too; you can't limit a good story to which sense it appeals.”

  “So, what kind of story is your food telling you?”

  He smiled. “This chicken tells me about a man—or woman—in Italy, years ago, who decided to cook the poultry that specific way, that specific day. But it also tells me about yesterday, when this unassuming chicken became part of that legacy, becoming the image of what that person imagined before it was even born. To feed us, to make us happy, to give us conversation.”

  “Wow,” I nodded. “That's deep … for a chicken.”

  “Yeah, that's me.” He winked. “Deep chicken. I like good stories and hate the rain. I’m afraid of rodents and large birds, and I dream of being happy.”

  “Happy?”

  He shrugged. “It may not seem glamorous, but it's a good thing to aspire to. Set your goals for happiness because you won't find yourself making decisions that hurt you down the road.”

  “I guess that would depend on your definition of happy,” I pointed out. “If being happy means them being richer than everyone else, or—” I froze, hearing a loud thwomp above my head. I wasn’t the only one who heard it either; people around us wer
e staring upwards, some pointed at the glass ceiling, where two figures were desperately clinging to each other in the downpour.

  “Can you see …?” I asked, but Matt had fallen silent. As a matter of fact, the entire restaurant had. The pounding on the ceiling was the only noise in the entire room.

  The figures appeared to be fighting—if there were two of them, it was hard to tell—rolling and slamming into the glass, finding it hard to keep a grip with the rain pounding down. With a resounding crash, one of them slammed down so hard that cracks appeared in the glass beneath him.

  “Everyone move!” Matt was not the only one to scream the words of warning, bounding to his feet along with at least three other patrons. They flew to the tables directly below the growing crack to help people out of harm's way. The ceiling shuddered and collapsed. Glass and water rained through the hole. The deafening shatter made my ears ring. A lone, dark-robed man fell, crashing to the floor in the center of the room, his wail of terror cut short by his landing.

  I held my breath—in my mind, there was only one person it could be. No one dared move. They stood in frozen bewilderment, no one wanting to get wet. Eventually, a waiter got up to check for vital signs, and everyone began moving again, chatting in whispered tones. Matt gave me a worried glance before going forward to see if he could be of some assistance. I waited at the table, only feet away from the body. My stomach was in knots, so I took the last bit of chicken off my plate.

  Food, the ultimate comfort in my time of need.

  “Sally, I need your help.”

  I jumped. “Chicken?” I held the poultry on my fork in front of my face. “Is that you?”

  “Down here.” I dropped my gaze to see a hand poking from under the floor-length tablecloth waving at me. It was sopping wet, slightly red from what I could only assume was blood, even though the hand itself was fine.

  “Zander?” I gasped so hard I accidentally threw myself into a coughing fit.

  “Are you all right?” Zander grasped a piece of the tablecloth, pulling it up so he could see my face. He looked as if he had come out of the trenches. His hair was soaking wet, his clothes muddy and brown.

  “What are you doing down there? Were you—”

  “I'll explain in a sec,” he hissed. “I've got a lot of work to do. Please, I need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “Saving the planet.” He grimaced. “It involves cunning, deceit, and trickery. You in?”

  “I'm on a date.”

  “Was.” He shrugged. “Sorry, that was probably a mood killer.”

  “By that, you mean the man you tossed through the ceiling?”

  “The assassin tasked with killing the Killian prime minister.”

  “The man you threw through a ceiling.”

  “Yes, him.” Zander rolled his eyes. “So, are you in?”

  “Um …” I glanced at the man in the middle of the room. He was breathing, still alive, but he was in bad shape. People were trickling closer, gushing and worrying. Matt seemed completely wrapped up with helping them.

  “Sally, I need you,” Zander urged. “I don't have anyone else I can trust. Please?”

  “You trust me?”

  “One hundred percent.” Zander nodded. “Do you trust me?”

  I sighed. “Yes, but—it sounds dangerous.”

  “I'd never willingly put you in harm's way if I couldn’t keep you safe. Sally, your entire planet is in danger. I need your help. You're the only one I can count on. Please?”

  “You're kidding me,” I said, but he shook his head. “If you say so, fine.”

  “Find an excuse to slip out. I'll meet you in the women's bathroom.”

  “You—” But it was too late; the second the cloth dropped, he was gone. The space beneath the table was empty once more, leaving me to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing.

  I was a woman on a mission now. I strode to Matt's side. He stood a foot away from the man he had been helping, leaving the work to those more adept at handling this kind of situation. He seemed restless and obviously itching to do something, but he refrained.

  “Matt, my roommate, Zander, just texted me,” I said trying to make it sound as awkward as I could. “The storm has ruptured some pipes at my apartment. I have to go back, catch an Uber, and deal with it.”

  “Oh …” he replied, surprised to see me there. “Well, I was kind of hoping we could take the date somewhere else, seeing as someone crashed our dinner, like a movie or something?”

  “I'm not trying to make an excuse to slip out.” I smiled. “I was having a lovely time before … I really do have to go back and deal with my flooding apartment. Shall we call it a night and try again some other time?”

  “This is the oddest conversation to have while a man is lying unconscious on the floor.” He chuckled lightly. “But I would love that.”

  “I would too,” I said, and I meant it.

  “I'll call you?” he said, leaning down to give me a peck on the cheek. I felt my face warming, and in a moment of excitement, I kissed him back—a quick peck on the lips. His face turned a light shade of red to match my own.

  I seriously liked this guy. Too bad I had to lie to him.

  I didn't know why, specifically, but I wanted another date, and soon. If there was going to be another one. After all, Zander had said something about needing to save the planet. Maybe there wasn't going to be a planet to date on after tonight.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I Get Beamed Up to the Mother Ship

  I slipped into the women's bathroom where Zander stood, suddenly dry, wearing a bright green suit with purple lining.

  Holy crap, he looked like the Riddler! Like, 1960s Batman Riddler: all he was missing was the bowler hat.

  I stood in the doorway, unsure of how to react to this. It looked as if a lime had granted him until midnight to go to the ball and find Prince Charming.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” I said, slightly disgusted.

  “It's all about the effect,” he replied, holding out a dark black trash bag. “Put these on, and do it quickly. They'll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Who will?” I asked, stepping into a cubicle so I could get changed in peace. My trembling hands made it tough for me to open the bag. Inside, there were tight silver leggings and a black dress I didn’t recognize.

  “The Killian soldiers I ran into,” he explained, his voice carrying over the door, “right before I got that assassin out of the way. They insisted on talking to Blayde and me. Wouldn't see me without her.”

  I froze in the stall, halfway through tugging up the leggings.

  “I'm dressing up as her, aren't I?” Things were becoming clearer in my mind. He didn't need me. He needed a stand-in for his sister.

  “You catch on fast, good. I’ll do the talking, you just scowl at them. They won't know the difference.”

  “They don't know Blayde?”

  “Only by reputation,” said Zander. “Hey, I'm going to have to ask you to hurry up a little.”

  “Going as fast as I can here,” I said, tugging on the dress and stepping out of the bathroom. The leggings were too tight, but the dress fit ok, even if it was a little more low-cut than I was used to. Not something I would wear out.

  “Shoes?” he asked.

  “There were shoes?”

  “Oh, sorry.” He grabbed a box off the counter and tossed it to me. I threw off the cover and found a pair of black stilettos inside, more lace and strap than actual shoe. “I have a wig for you too.”

  “A wig?” I scoffed, still inspecting the torture instruments masquerading as shoes. They looked painful. I had never worn anything that high before. “When did you get the time to put all this together?”

  “Somewhere between running into the soldiers and taking out the assassin.” He shrugged. “You sure you're ready for this?”

  “My planet's on the line. I'll make myself ready.”

  Well, I was terrified. But I’d had half a glass
of wine at dinner, which was half a glass more than I was used to, and the looming fear that my planet was on a course toward imminent doom would give me something to say.

  I stuffed my clothes into my purse.

  “That's the spirit.” Zander grinned a wide, cheeky grin, and for a second I could have sworn the two of us were going to a costume party together and not heading off to protect the only planet I'd ever known.

  “So how does Blayde talk?” I asked, stumbling as I put on the shoes. I reached for the counter to keep my balance. “How does she act? What's she like?”

  “Blayde is …” he paused then handed me the wig, which looked oddly like a Halloween witch's wig with strands of black color poorly spray-painted on. While the rest of the outfit looked completely credible—not that I knew his sister—the hair was a definite fail. It looked awkward and wrong.

  “This looks like crap,” I said, not holding back.

  “It'll be enough,” he replied. “It's not like Killians have great vision. As for Blayde, she’s like a … like an incredibly hot star about to go supernova. I’d say, act as if everyone in the room is out to kill you, but you have a secret weapon that will destroy them and everything you've ever loved. Can you pull that off?”

  “She seems like a delight, your sister.”

  “Just try, okay?” he urged, checking his watch. “All right, they'll be here any moment now. Let me help you with that wig.”

  I handed him back the wig and pushed my hair into a bun for him to cover with the makeshift bald cap. So much for all that work and hours spent on the Pinterest boards.

  “I'm going to have to give you a translator,” he said, somewhat awkwardly. “I stole the one from that assassin. He'll wake up spouting gibberish, and you'll be fully equipped to handle an alien envoy. Here.” He showed me the tiny metal washer he held between his thumb and forefinger. “Don't move.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked, glaring at him. “What are you …?”

  “It goes right behind your ear,” he said. “Just be glad it wasn't the suppository.”

  I grimaced but turned my head for him all the same. I would have asked if it was going to hurt, but what was the point? In any case, it didn't. He pressed the metal against the bone, and the skin behind my ear grew warm. He let go and everything went back to normal, leaving a slight bump on the back of my skull, barely noticeable at all.