When Stars Fall by Wendy Million
Chapter Eleven
Wyatt
Present Day
I’m at the front entrance of the hotel waiting for Ellie. Sweat trickles down my back. The humidity is brutal.
Earlier, I saw Haven. I took her a small tub of ice cream and stayed for a chat. She reminds me of Ellie, or maybe I want to see Ellie in her. My heart squeezed in my chest over and over again as Haven and I talked. They must spend a lot of time together. Nikki was the only one there, and I dusted off my most charming material. Ellie’s sister barely cracked a smile.
Just before I left, the doctor came around and confirmed Haven’s fever was gone, and the virus had likely run its course. Hearing the news was a load off my mind, and Nikki breathed an audible sigh of relief.
Ellie approaches the circular entrance of the hotel on her bike and when she stops in front of me, she takes off her helmet. Her posture is stiff, and her eyes are blazing. Something’s changed, and not in the good way I expected with Haven’s release from the hospital.
She throws her second helmet at me but doesn’t say a word. I examine her with the helmet in my hands. This is how I expected her to react when she found out about my suicide attempt.
“Well,” I say. “Are you going to tell me what I did, or should I guess?” That’d be a short game.
“I am unbelievably angry with you.” Her hands shake as they rest on the handlebars.
“You didn’t watch the whole interview the other night?” I climb on behind her.
She shifts forward so we aren’t touching. At least this reaction makes more sense. She roars out of the hotel lot, and we make it back to her house in record time. The gates are already open when we arrive. One of her security guards must listen for her coming. She drives into the garage, takes off her helmet, and drops it on a rack. She doesn’t wait for me.
I place my helmet beside hers and trail behind her with my hands in the pockets of my shorts. My approach to this conversation might set the tone for where we go from here, but I’m not sure what to say.
In the living room, she’s pacing, and there’s a wildness to the movement I’ve never seen from Ellie before. “When?” She stares at me with pained eyes. “I watched that interview a million times today, trying to put it together. When did you do it?”
“Right after you left. Within a week of you being gone.” No point in lying. Most of it is common knowledge if you call the right people. Now that it’s out, the tabloids have been trying to reach every person in my circle, if my social media notifications are to be believed.
“When you were admitted to the hospital for exhaustion? It wasn’t exhaustion? Your stay was because of attempted suicide?” She perches on the edge of the couch and then stands again. She vibrates with restless energy, like me when I’m itching.
“Come on, Ellie. We played those games before. How many people are actually admitted for exhaustion?” I give her a wry smile. “It’s rarely just that.”
In many ways, we’re discussing a different person. Sometimes I pretend I can’t remember why I took way too many pills. Better if I don’t think about my reasoning too hard. Even after years and a lot of therapy, I’m not sure if I overdosed on purpose or if I just let it happen. The result would have been the same. So I’ve worked to own that episode, privately until recently, and very publicly now.
“I just—I imagined you went on a bender, maybe weren’t sleeping.” She keeps pacing and takes a deep breath while running her hands through her hair. “Katrina Wexler. That woman who moved into our house within a month of us breaking up . . . She was some sort of suicide counselor?” Her voice brims with confusion.
“Yeah.” I spread my hands wide. “The media storm about us was all bullshit.”
“Those shirts,” she says in disbelief. “All the team stuff. Team Ellie, Team Katrina. People were sure you cheated on me.”
“What did you think?” I paid a lot of money to keep my suicide attempt quiet, and my lawyer had everyone and their uncle sign an ironclad NDA.
“That you were an asshole.” She collapses onto the couch, and agony coats her face. “But I never believed you cheated on me.” She shakes her head. “I would have . . . if I’d known, I . . .” She trails off, closing her eyes and swallowing. “Who found you?”
“Isaac’s mom stopped by to bring me soup.” That admission will make this much worse for Ellie. She loved Isaac’s mom. Tanvi treated us like her kids. “She understood how torn up I was about you leaving, and coming on the heels of Isaac’s death, she was worried about me. Had a right to be worried about me. I was . . .” Part of me thought I was beyond saving, not worth her time. Tanvi saw those feelings, even if she couldn’t convince me to do anything productive about them. “I was out of control.”
“Wyatt, you almost died.” When Ellie glances up, there are tears in her eyes. “And I didn’t know. I . . . If you’d died, I—I’m not sure I would have ever been okay again.” Her shoulders slump, and tears trickle down her cheeks. “But you know what makes me so angry?”
I squeeze the stress ball in my pocket. The couches are between us, a barrier, giving me room to flee. But I’m not going anywhere. She needs space to process this, not me. I’ve had years. She’s only had days and with this new bit, mere hours. “That almost dying didn’t make me quit?” I rest my hands on the back of the nearest couch.
“Yes!” She bursts out. “I don’t understand. Almost dying wasn’t enough?”
I shake my head. “Told myself what happened wasn’t because of the drugs. You were the problem. Get you out of my system, and I’d be fine. Back to normal.” I rub my neck and shrug. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that an addict can come up with all kinds of reasons for things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”
Ellie sits on the couch, stunned. “I need time to digest all of this, I think.” She glances at me. “It’s so unbelievable, but it makes so much sense.” She rests her head in her hands, her shoulders slumped. “Wyatt, if I’d known . . .”
“I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want anyone to know. Having you come back out of sympathy or obligation . . . or even anger wasn’t what I wanted.” I focus on the ceiling to keep my emotions in check. “It seemed easier to let people believe I was a lying cheat than to let them realize I was a desperate fool.”
She stands up and rounds the couch to stop in front of me, just out of reach. Tentatively, she slides closer and wraps her arms around my neck, drawing me into a hug. Squeezing her tight, I breathe her in. I wish I could close my eyes, take us back ten years, and tell her I’d do anything to keep her. That’s the truth. I want her, and once I’ve got her, I’ll do anything to keep her.
“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she whispers into my ear. “And I’m so sorry you felt so broken. I didn’t realize. I had no idea.”
She’s pressed against me, and our bodies fit together like a key in a lock. Perfection. We stand for a long time, neither of us moving. We soak each other up. How did I let years pass without experiencing this rightness in my soul? Such a fool to think there was anything, anything, better than being with her.
As she starts to pull away, I say, “Did you get my groceries?”
“You still want to cook for me?” Her chuckle is a little broken, and she wipes her eyes. “We can order in or . . . I don’t know.” The air thickens around us, but it’s not from grief or confusion this time. The urge to kiss her is a physical ache. If I didn’t think she’d slap me or kick me out, I’d risk it. My hands linger on her waist.
“I want to cook for you.” My voice is rough with desire.
“Wyatt.”
My name is a caress from her lips, soft, pliable. No one else makes my name sound quite as good as she does.
She rises on her toes, puts her hands on the sides of my face, and kisses my cheek. “You’ll never understand how glad I am,” she says, “that you made it out alive.”
Before I can coax her into a real kiss, she steps back and heads for the kitchen.
I follow her, and there’s a surprising lightness in me now that she knows my worst secret. To hear her admit she cares, that I matter to her, validates me coming here. Time might have dulled the connection between us, but with a little polish, it’ll shine again.
I lean on the kitchen island while she removes the ingredients from the fridge and various cupboards. She checks the list on her phone. The silence is companionable, despite everything we said to each other in the living room. The secrets are coming out. We’re starting fresh.
When she finishes, she turns to me with her arms out. “Ta-da!”
I raise my eyebrows at the stack of spices, cooking utensils, and food items in front of me.
“No idea how to cook any of it. Gathering the ingredients, pots and pans, cutting board, and measuring things is my contribution.”
“Who cooks for you normally?” I round the island and our shoulders brush as I survey everything. The recipe is one I’ve memorized. When we lived together, I cooked it regularly. One of our favorites.
“Anyone I want at the press of a button.” She wags her phone. “I can cook, as you’re aware. Just never elevated much past the basic heat, stir, serve.” She gives me an amused look. “I’ll have to go through my scripts to see if any hotshot chef wants me to play them, and then I can learn to cook like you.”
A few tendrils of her hair shift over her eyebrow, and I long to brush them away. There are so many things I long to do. “I learned a lot.”
“Geez. That’s an understatement. You attended Gordon Lampton Chef School for his biopic and became a professional. The transformation was incredible. Isaac and I used to search for the craziest recipes we could find to see how good you were.”
“I never let you down,” I say with a touch of pride.
She scans my face. Her good humor fades, and she looks away.
“Apron?” I search the kitchen. Maybe the food I cooked didn’t let her down, but I didn’t keep my promises either.
From a drawer nearby, she takes out random things until she comes to an apron. She holds it up. Emblazoned across it are the words I don’t know what I’m doing.
I burst out laughing and snatch it from her. “Who bought you this?”
She shrugs, and I put it on. Must have been an ex-boyfriend. There have been a couple from here who she took to the odd movie premiere or event. For the most part, she’s kept her life locked away, out of the spotlight.
Good job, Wyatt. Way to remind her of someone else.
I shift the ingredients around and organize the kitchen tools into a pile. She takes a seat at the island, watching me. Occasionally, I glance at her.
“Like old times.” I cut up the sweet potatoes.
“It’s weird having you here.” She stares at me with an expression I don’t recognize and then she focuses on tracing the pattern of the granite with her fingertip.
I don’t regret coming. Each minute I spend with her, I am that much more certain that I made the right choice to seek her out. Whoever else she’s been with, she’s been settling. A love like we experienced is a once-in-a-lifetime event.
I fly around the kitchen getting everything started. When I have a break in my duties, I splay my hands on the island and try to decipher the emotion behind her words. “Do you wish I hadn’t come?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I stand straighter. Not a clear answer. Time. I just need time. There’s not a doubt in my mind I can bring her around. Her quietness is unnerving, so I take out my phone. “Music?”
On the wall is a Bluetooth Connect button, and she hits it to pair it with my phone. I scroll through my playlists until I come to my favorite one. A little melancholy, but the songs fit how I’m feeling. Sad, but underneath that, hopeful. The door isn’t closed on us. Get a crowbar and pry it wide open.
As the music plays, I sing along and cook. She watches me with a mixture of amusement and sadness. Even ten years later, her moods shift around me, creating the climate in the room. One of the reasons our split wrecked me so much was because I didn’t see it coming. I thought I recognized her moods better than my own. I was wrong. I still don’t—not well enough.
I finish everything and plate our meals as the first bars to our song start playing. Alicia Keys saving my ass again.
“It’s fate.” I grin.
She laughs, a real laugh, and shakes her head. “It’s not fate when it’s on your playlist.”
“Life’s about timing. The timing here is impeccable. While the food rests, you can humor me.”
She eyes me. “And how would I do that?”
I hold out my hand. “It’s our song.”
“Wyatt.” She looks from my hand to my face. “That’s not a good idea.”
“There’s no one here to know but you and me. One dance.”
She hesitates for another breath and then takes my hand. I secure her in my arms. Her cheek is on my chest, and her ear is pressed to my heart. A sigh. She sighed.
“Who knew that night was the start of this?” We sway to the music and I run my hand along her spine.
“Not me.” There’s happiness in her voice. “I had no idea what was coming. The high highs and the low lows.”
“Do you ever wish you’d backed out that first night at the club? Decided I wasn’t worth it?”
“Never, Wyatt. Never.” The song comes to an end and she draws back, still not making eye contact.
“Ellie,” I say. “If that’s really true . . .” What I want to say is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m not sure she’ll stick around if I voice what I’m thinking.
We can have it again. Better this time.
She takes her plate and heads for the kitchen table out by the living room. I follow her with my own plate and take a seat across from her.
Ellie focuses on her salmon for a moment. “It is true. I don’t regret what we had in the past. A lot of those memories, I cherish them. We had so much fun. You, me, and Isaac. We did set the town on fire for a while. But that lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. The drugs. The alcohol. The parties. The endless need to feed the paparazzi.” She gestures around her. “Look at how I live. Could you live like this? On the island, away from the glitz and glamor? Could you turn away from the constant attention?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose because I haven’t gotten to the nitty-gritty of what we’d do if we tried again. I want her. There isn’t too much I won’t give up to get her.
“Oh, Wyatt,” she says with a sigh. “You haven’t even considered it?” She picks up her fork and stabs her food. The salmon doesn’t deserve that. “You’re here, asking me to turn my back on everything I’ve built the last ten years, and you haven’t even thought of how we’d work? None of the practicalities?”
“I want you, Ellie,” I say. “How our relationship functions isn’t a deal breaker. I’ll do anything to make us work. The guy sitting across from you isn’t the jackass who was high on drugs and dug in his heels. Told you to accept him as he was or leave.” Whenever I remember the day Ellie came home with those rehab pamphlets and started talking about the benefits of getting clean and sober, I want to punch some sense into myself. Caught off guard, I’d raged out of control.
God, that fight.I never believed she’d leave. How could she leave me? She loved me so much. God knows I loved her too much.
“And I’m not the same person,” she says.
“I’m not asking you to regress to who we were. I want us to build something new.” I take a mouthful of my food and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Tell me any of your other relationships have set your heart on fire the way ours did.”
“Not everything has to be big and bright to be real.”
“All the best things are.”
“That’s not true.” She points her fork at me. “That’s not true. Love always burns bright at first, but at some point, it doesn’t have the same intensity.”
The thought of her being in love with anyone else bothers me. I’m a hypocrite. After Ellie, I told a couple women I dated that I loved them. Never loved anyone with the power with which I loved her. None of the other relationships burned big enough, hot enough, bright enough to match our connection.
“We were together for three years. Are you telling me you didn’t love me as much at the end as you did at the beginning?” I know the answer. Even if she left me, even if I don’t understand why she changed so much so quickly, I know the answer.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Answer the question.”
She sits back and crosses her arms.
Why won’t she admit that what we had was special? I want to grab her, sweep away the plates, and show her love doesn’t have to burn out. Sometimes it just burns for years, even when there’s nothing to stoke the fire.
We’re not over, have never truly been over. The embers are still there, and this week, I’ll prove it.
