When Stars Fall by Wendy Million
Chapter Eight
Wyatt
Present Day
An hour after Ellie drops me off at the hotel, I’m in my room, pacing. I called my addiction coach, and we had a long chat about Ellie as a trigger for my addictions. Camila doesn’t think I should be here. Some bullshit about not being able to recapture the past.
Camila wasn’t there to see the way Ellie looked at me today. The connection between us isn’t dead, it’s just buried under years of neglect.
I take out my phone and search the location of the hospital. My suitcase is open on the bed, and I rifle through the items I brought. Baseball cap and sunglasses. Lamest disguise ever. Best I can do.
I tug the Yankees cap low on my forehead and grab my sunglasses. At four inches over six feet, I draw people’s attention due to my height, disguised or not. Normally, I don’t mind. If I’m spotted at the hospital, Ellie will murder me. At least I’ll be in the right place for resuscitation.
In the doorway of my hotel room, I second-guess my lack of a plan. Impulsiveness and my addiction go hand in hand. Some knee-jerk reactions I need to curb. Nikki will be there, even if she’s sick. When I was using, I’d needed someone to blame for Ellie’s abandonment. She spent a week at home with her family and decided my addictions weren’t acceptable anymore. That notion had to come from someone, because Ellie was fine with my behavior until then. Nikki and her mother bore the brunt of my anger, but I don’t know if that was justified. I’d hoped sobriety might bring clarity around how or why we broke up, but it hasn’t. We were good . . . and then we weren’t. Snap of the fingers. Blink of an eye. In my bed. Out of my life.
I take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. At the concierge desk, I join the line. The high, open ceilings lead out to the beach, and the paintings on the wall depict scenes from the island. Even the tiles on the ground are vibrant blues and greens. I’ve missed Bermuda with its bright buildings. LA has always been my home, but there’s something to be said for the tight-knit community that exists here. I take a deep, cleansing breath. Ten years was too long.
As soon as the concierge sees me, he motions me to the side. “Mr. Burgess, what can we help you with?”
“I need to get to the hospital.”
“Are you ill?” The concierge’s expression turns concerned, and he keeps his voice low.
“No.” I hesitate. “A friend is there.”
“Is it an emergency, sir? We can have a staff member drive you there themselves. Very discreet.”
“Yeah, that would be excellent.” A sigh of relief escapes me. The fewer people who are aware, the better. I squeeze my phone in my pocket. The itch is back, my constant companion, a restlessness that plagues me.
Christ, maybe my sponsor is right. Maybe Ellie is a trigger. At this point, life in general might be a trigger. If she was the reason I used, I’d have quit the bullshit the minute she packed up and moved out. I wouldn’t have been so into it when she met me. She put up with my nonsense during the three years we were together, every bit of it, and she never complained. In the end, she just left.
“Do you happen to have any stress balls?” My coping mechanisms to handle the itch are varied. When one doesn’t work, I try another, and another, and so on until the itch stops. Anything to keep me from reaching for a bottle of pills or contacting an old friend for one hit.
The concierge passes me one from behind his desk. The hotel name is emblazoned on it. “You get a lot of stressed people?” I ask, amused.
“Just me, sir.” He grins.
Calshae approaches with a set of keys dangling from her hand. “I hear you need a ride.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She nods at the concierge and leads me toward the exit. “My family bought this hotel a few years ago. I run it.”
The humid air hits me in the chest the minute we step out of the main building and coats me in a thin mist. Calshae takes me to a tiny car, and I stare at it before I open the door to wedge myself into the passenger seat like a human pretzel. Maybe I should have risked a cab. My knees are glued to my chest.
“Sorry. The hospital’s not too far.” She scans my cramped position. The car chugs to life, and I pray I’ll make it there in one piece before Ellie leaves.
While we drive, Calshae taps her fingers on the steering wheel. The tension in the car swells. Small talk. I need small talk before she starts asking questions I don’t want to answer. Engage first. Control the conversation. Basic strategy, but I’m not in the mood to charm Ellie’s friend, to convince her I should be here.
“Your family own many hotels on the island now?” I clutch onto the holy-shit handle each time she takes a corner. She’s mistaken this car for a Formula 1 masterpiece. Impressive this death trap can take a corner at full speed.
“A few.”
I shift in my seat and suppress a groan at how tight my body is. She’ll have to pry me out. Maybe I can take my mind off my stiffening muscles by inching into a conversation about Ellie. “You and Ellie are still good friends?”
She gives me a sideways glance. “Ellie’s good to everyone on the island with her time and money.”
Not a yes, and not a surprise given the tension between them last night. “You’re not really friends anymore? Why were you at her house last night?”
“I was worried about her, so I went to see her.”
“Worried about her?”
“I thought what you said on Jackson Billows’ show was brave.” She fiddles with the radio.
“Which part?” I ask. “The part where I declared my undying love for Ellie or the part where I admitted that I’d tried to commit suicide after she left me?” When she opened the door to me last night, I expected her to ask about or at least acknowledge that piece of the interview. Again today, I was sure she’d bring it up. Still nothing. Head in the sand approach? Maybe she doesn’t care. Too long ago.
“Both, Wyatt. Both.” Calshae’s expression is sympathetic when she glances at me. “Somewhere, someone watching will be grateful for your vulnerability, even if it doesn’t end up being Ellie.”
Telling the world instead of telling Ellie might not have been the best strategy. Camila says I need to work on my communication skills.
“We’re here. Where do you want to be dropped?”
“Oh.” I take in the massive white stucco structure. “Uh.” I hate when I don’t plan far enough ahead. Happens to me all the time. You’d think I’d learn.
“Would you like me to go in and find out what room?” she suggests.
“Yes!” I point my finger at her with a stupid amount of enthusiasm. “Ellie won’t be happy if people realize I’m here.”
“I’ll be right back.” She disappears into the hospital, and she isn’t gone long before she returns. “Side entrance. Room 237.” She starts the car, checks over her shoulder, and steers us onto the road. “You realize who you’re visiting, right?” A frown creases her brow.
“Yeah. I mean, I know who’s in the room. I’m going so I can talk to Ellie.”
When she draws parallel to the curb, she searches my face before passing me a slip of paper. “For the door. It’s coded. The girl on reception is a family friend and I told her what I needed.”
“Oh.” The small-town mentality across a whole island is unsettling sometimes. None of this would be happening if I was in LA. Well, maybe having a driver, but I would’ve had to throw around celebrity weight to get the rest. Even then, not a guarantee. “Thank you.” I open the door and ease out a leg. My muscles groan in response. When did I get old?
“Would you like me to wait?”
I focus on the entrance to the hospital. Ellie might chase me out with some sort of cutting instrument. “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll convince Ellie to give me a ride to the hotel.” Or maybe to her house. You never know.
“I’m sure you convince a lot of women to do a lot of things.”
“No comment.” I chuckle and climb out of the car.
“Let me give you my number in case you need that ride after all,” she says through the car window, and she holds out her hand for my phone before inputting her number. When she passes it back to me, her black eyes scan my face again. “Good luck in there.”
Once I’m in the side door, the nearest set of stairs is to the left, and I head for room 237. The door is ajar, and Nikki and Ellie are on either side of a hospital bed. I jerk away, unsure. She told me Nikki was in the hospital. If she isn’t sick, who is?
I’m here now, and I’m sure as hell not lurking in the hallway. Flowers. I scan the area for anywhere obvious to purchase something. Poor planning. Again. Except I now realize I have no idea who I’d be giving them to.
I rap my knuckles on the door and walk in without waiting for a response. Nikki turns toward me, and her gasp of surprise is audible. That’s the kind of reaction I wanted from Ellie last night. At least I’m capable of surprising someone.
“Wyatt.” She rounds the hospital bed with a pointed glare at Ellie. Both Nikki and Ellie are a combination of their parents’ physical traits. Nikki got their father’s darker, wavier hair coupled with their mother’s blue eyes. Whereas Ellie got the brown eyes and hair that, whether through highlights or the sun, is streaked with blond.
If Nikki is greeting me, then who is in the bed? The room is large but sterile and without personality in the way most hospital rooms are, and as I stride forward, more of the sleeping figure becomes visible. Ellie turns, and her complexion is pale, stunned.
In the bed is a young girl who is maybe eight. She’s flushed and unconscious. Ellie tries to block my view of her with her body. The child’s identity is obvious. Why is she hiding her?
“This your little girl, Nikki?” I approach the hospital bed.
“Wyatt.” Nikki’s focus zips from me to her daughter. “What are you doing here?”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Nikki’s daughter who was sick? I thought it was Nikki.” With her eyes closed, she resembles her grandmother. Evelyn as an eight-year-old. Strong gene pool.
“What are you doing here?” Nikki brushes shoulders with Ellie, helping her block my view of the bed.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask.
“Haven. Haven’s her name.” Ellie is flushed.
She doesn’t seem angry, which is surprising. The emotion stretching across her face isn’t one I can place. I thought I recognized all Ellie’s expressions, but this is new.
“It’s funny how much she looks like your mother.” Her sharp intake of breath draws my attention. “You don’t see it? First thing I noticed.”
“No, I . . .” Ellie stutters and trails off.
“How do you know about Haven?” Nikki cocks her head to the side.
She’s not happy to see me. If I’d had to bet on a family member liking me, it would have been Nikki. But then I spent years confident Nikki and Evelyn were the ones who’d convinced Ellie my lifestyle was no longer acceptable. I second-guessed myself, but her tense posture now makes me wonder if I was right.
Since I got sober, I’ve been using TMZ as my own personal version of Facebook to keep track of my ex-girlfriend and her family. Ellie is rarely spotted anywhere off Bermuda. My fixation is weird and unhealthy. Camila told me as much.
“Uh, I think I saw Haven in a few set photos or out with you and Ellie? Maybe? I’m not sure.” I toy with the brim of my hat to disguise my lie. “The website said she was yours, Nikki.” The pictures I saw were taken through a long, grainy lens, showing Haven coming in or out of a trailer holding hands with Nikki or Ellie. I couldn’t quite recall . . .
“Right.” Nikki shoots Ellie a glance loaded with a meaning I can’t grasp. “That makes sense.”
They’re both being so stilted and strange. Is Haven sicker than they thought? Or maybe they think I’m a stalker with my comments about Nikki’s daughter. Whatever it is, I’m not going to figure it out, so I focus on Ellie.
“Look, I’m sorry I came. You asked me not to. But if you’re only giving me one day, I don’t want to let it slip through my fingers.”
Haven stirs in the bed and opens her eyes. They are a brilliant blue, a shade or two lighter than her grandmother’s. Haven sees me, and her eyes go round. She looks to Ellie first and then to Nikki.
Ellie is mute and if it’s possible, she’s gotten paler. She fiddles with the sheet and takes Haven’s hand in hers.
Well, if no one else is going to speak, I’ll break the ice. “I’m Wyatt.”
“I know who you are.” Her eyes are glassy with fever, and her skin is as white as the sheets covering her slight frame.
Nikki looks as though she might throw up, and she says to Ellie, “Why don’t you and Wyatt go get a coffee, and I’ll stay with Haven?”
Ellie gives Haven’s hand a squeeze before reluctantly letting go. “I’ll return soon.” She smooths Haven’s hair and kisses her forehead, lingering for a beat.
“Is he coming back?” Haven stares at me.
“I don’t know.” Ellie holds up a thin blanket from the bottom of Haven’s bed, but Haven shakes her head. The air-conditioning has made it cool in the room.
“If you want me to, I will,” I say. She appears so tiny lying there in the bed, and something in my chest constricts. She’s hooked up to an IV, and there’s a machine that beeps periodically. Haven’s vulnerability tugs at my protective instincts. Tell me what to slay, kid, and I’ll do it.
She nods, and the worry vanishes.
“Okay, we’ll see what we can round up for you while we’re gone. Ice cream?” I ask. Her face lights up. “Is it okay, Nikki? If we can find some?”
“I’m not sure you should be in the room. Family only.” Nikki shifts in her chair and takes Haven’s hand.
“I’ll buy the ice cream,” Ellie says.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Ellie? Maybe we should check with her doctor to ask if ice cream is appropriate.”
“All right.” I purse my lips, trying to figure out how to defuse the tension. “No ice cream. How about a teddy bear or a balloon? There’ll be a gift shop somewhere.”
Nikki and Ellie are locked in a silent battle I don’t understand. Siblings. My younger sister and I have gotten into lots of battles of will. Anna’s stubbornness drives me nuts, but I don’t remember Nikki being quite so resistant to Ellie before. Maybe it’s the stress of the situation.
“A balloon,” Haven says from the bed. “I want him to come back. I want to talk.” She glances from Ellie to Nikki and lands on Ellie.
Ellie doesn’t say anything but leads me into the hall. Her behavior is odd. The tension between her and Nikki as we leave the room is unreal—worse than anything I’ve ever had with my sister, and that’s saying something.
Once we’re outside the door, I decide to tackle the situation head-on. “Are you okay, Ellie? Will Haven be okay?”
“She’s—” She breaks off, and her voice catches. “It’s a virus. Sometimes kids catch something that flares up and fades away. They’re keeping her overnight to make sure it’s not more serious. Her fever is very high, and her energy level is low.”
We start down the hallway together. Having her niece so ill has thrown her. It would do the same to me. I understand that kind of responsibility because my nephew, Jamal, lives with me. But I’m surprised she’s not worried about people seeing us together. We reach the end of the hallway and rather than taking us to the gift shop, Ellie stares out the large window with a view across narrow streets, palm trees, and brightly colored houses. It’s a view I would normally find relaxing and peaceful, but Ellie is brimming with anxiety and sadness.
I give her space, watching her grapple with Haven’s sickness. Then I approach her from behind, not touching her, but close enough she probably senses me, the same way I always sensed her. Seeing Nikki’s child in the hospital bed did strange things to my insides too.
“She looks so much like your mom, and so there’s this resemblance to you. A reminder of what my life could have been if I had made a different choice. Made me a little sad.”
“Wyatt,” Ellie says. “Please don’t. Don’t.” Her breath hitches on a sob.
I turn her in my arms and hold her close. The number of times Ellie cried when we were together can be counted on one hand.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” I rub her back in slow circles as she clutches me. I draw her closer, fitting us together. She rises on her toes and throws her arms around my neck, and I lean down to let her bury her face under my ear. I close my eyes while the scent of vanilla and flowers surrounds me. The emptiness that’s plagued me isn’t quite so vast with her pressed against me. We still match perfectly, like two puzzle pieces. “Ellie?” I don’t want to break whatever spell has let her lean on me for support. “Are you okay?”
She nods, easing away and wiping her cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just . . . the last couple of days—you, Haven, it’s a lot.”
“My reappearance came out of nowhere for you. But I’ve been trying to find my way back for years.”
She shakes her head and can’t quite look at me. “I find that hard to believe,” she says, bitterness tingeing her voice. “I read TMZ too.”
There’s no defense for anything she read or saw. She left such a massive void, and I tried to fill it with more drugs, relationships, even death. Nothing worked.
“Ellie.” I reach for her again.
She backs away and raises a hand to ward me off. “No, Wyatt. Just—no.” She turns on her heel and yanks open the door to the stairs. “Let’s get the damn balloon you promised Haven.”
