How a Star Falls (2 page)

The wild strands of her hair swept over her shoulders as she nodded and then rose to her feet.

He followed. “Look, whatever your reason for being out here, you really shouldn’t stay.” He rubbed his arms, missing his sweater and hoping she would agree with him. “There’s got to be some place I can drop you off.”

For the first time that night, her confident demeanor slipped. She glanced up the grassy clearing, which led back to the paved portion of the path. Her dress appeared to quiver in the breeze, and he caught her biting her lip. Out of uncertainty, or nerves?

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. When she still didn’t respond, he blurted, “Do you need a place to stay?” He breathed in deeply, afraid she would say yes and worried she would say no. There was no way he could abandon her at this point, even though he cringed to think of his roommate’s reaction.

She started walking, and he stood still for a moment, then rushed to catch up to her. “My apartment’s in McKinleyville, about fifteen minutes away. We have a couch—one of those type that pulls out into a bed, you know?” That bed had gotten a lot of use the past few months with all the people Scott invited over...
Ugh.
Hopefully, with tomorrow being a work day, his roommate just might come home peacefully, alone. If at all. Would that be too much to hope for?

They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Derrick began to wonder if she even realized that he was still waiting for her answer. It wasn’t until they headed down the road toward the main parking lot that she responded. She paused and gazed at the town of Trinidad across the way, its lights coming on like a dark fir tree on Christmas Eve. He usually wasn’t out quite so late, and something about the scene made him feel almost...warm...like good things
could
happen in this place.

“I’d... I’d like that.” Her voice was filled with tentative trust and steady femininity. Her hands fisted in the folds of her skirt, then relaxed as she glanced at him. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a problem?”

Yeah, it probably would be. But his own voice contradicted him. “No problem.”

Somehow, despite the absence of his sweater, the wind didn’t seem quite so cold as he led her to the parking lot.

“Well, here we are.” Derrick punctuated the statement with the click of his seat belt and the slam of the driver’s-side door. Most of the apartment windows had their blinds down and shut tight, but a warm glow emanated from a few. He glanced up at the window of his and Scott’s place on the second floor. How would Brielle view the apartment? When was the last time they did the dishes...or vacuumed...or washed their laundry? He cringed. At least Scott’s car wasn’t here, although whether that boded well or ill remained to be seen. No use worrying now.

He glanced at Brielle and found her struggling with all the silk or whatever it was surrounding her. He grinned as he rounded the hood and the open door, then leaned against the side of the car, arms folded.

She spent a few more seconds pushing the pouf of her skirt this way and that, trying to find her feet, apparently. When she met his gaze, she gave a little shrug, smiling sheepishly. “I seem to be having some trouble.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” He didn’t move, didn’t blink, until she stuck out her tongue. Then he burst out laughing. “Fine, fine. Need some help?”

She crossed her arms as he pushed off the car and held out his hand to her. A baby started crying and someone else’s car door slammed, but she didn’t make him wait too long. Satisfaction swept through his fingers when she placed her soft hand in his.

He pulled her up—slowly enough for her to wedge her crazy dress through the opening. When she finally stood firmly on the pavement, she glanced up at him. Her nearness felt...comfortable. Like she fit with him, in his care.

He reached around her to close the passenger door. “This way.” Her presence shadowed him as softly as starlight as he led the way down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into his apartment.

With a flick of the light switch, his crappy little space lit up like the sun rising over a dump. Yeah, he had forgotten to take out the trash last night...and vacuum up the crumbs by the couch...and refrigerate the leftover Top Ramen.
Oh gosh—really?

He rushed over to the stove and stared down into the pot of congealed noodles, practically glowing orange like some sort of radioactive spill. Opening cabinets until he found some Tupperware, he then grabbed a container and lifted the pot.

“Are you really going to save that?”

Brielle had swept closer while he had frantically run around the kitchen. She glanced around his shoulder, a look of pure disgust wrinkling her forehead and causing her lips to purse. It was cute.

The pot grew heavy in his hand, and he glanced back at the nastiness stuck to the bottom. Why
was
he bothering to salvage it? Flustered, he carried the pot to the trash, grabbing a big spoon on the way so he could pry out as much as possible. The rancid meat smell pouring out of the trash can as he lifted the lid—combined with the perfume-y scent of the trash liner—made him want to gag.
Welcome to our apartment.

After he emptied the pot of most of the noodles, he took it to the sink and caught sight of Brielle on the other side of the kitchen island. She ran her hand over the top of the sofa. By the way she gazed in awe—or horror—at everything, she was doing a very good job of looking like she’d never seen an apartment before. Of course, no girl ought to see an apartment like this.

She wandered over to the stereo, and he rounded the island to join her. “It plays music,” he joked, sure that she would roll her eyes at him.

“Oh?” was all she said.

He couldn’t see her face as she stared at the machine; couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. Not that she could be one-hundred percent serious, though—he was sure of that.

She turned, tucking some hair behind her ear as she clutched the edge of the table and leaned back against it. “Will you play a song for me?”

Why not?
He crouched down in front of the CD stand and started crossing off titles in his mind as he went. Too dark. Too loud. Too obnoxious. Too emotional. Too embarrassing.

His gaze snagged on an Owl City CD—another gift from one of his sisters. Perfect. This one was from last Christmas, as his family hadn’t taken the hint that he might be interested in some new styles. Suddenly, though, he was glad for it—for something upbeat and innocent and fun.

He plucked the case out of its slot and flipped it over to read the song list. Right there near the top, the words “Shooting Star” flashed at him. He grinned as he opened the case and pushed the CD into the stereo, choosing the second track.

A soft electronic melody filled the room, beckoning them to let go of their cares—the gravity of the world. Derrick met Brielle’s gaze and grinned.

Her answering smile lit the dingy room. In an instant, she raced around the couch into the open space before the TV and performed an exuberant twirl, the cloud of her skirt floating around her. He blinked, and then she was reaching toward the ceiling, jumping and bobbing in time to the beat. Acting as if some huge wedding party had crashed his apartment.

And she laughed—gloriously, infectiously. She held her hand out in his direction. The music twined around his heart and tugged. He caught her fingers in his and spun her away and back, then joined her in jumping and belting out the chorus.

Nothing had ever felt more ridiculous or more...happy. Like a high-school dance the way it ought to be. No cares about what others thought. Nothing but the pure joy and freedom of the moment.

Brielle shimmied closer to the floor as the voice got lower, then bounced back up as the chorus returned. She raised her arms and spun around and around. All he could do was shake his head and keep on grinning like an idiot.

And then a voice cut through the last words of the song. “Where’s the wedding—or did I miss it?”

Brielle jumped, this time out of startlement instead of spontaneity. The music faded as Derrick clasped a comforting hand around her elbow and turned to glare at his roommate. His face heated with the embarrassment of being caught acting like a kid, as well as the anger of losing a moment of indulgence not often to be had without alcohol or pot.

Scott closed the front door and leaned back against it. He still gripped the key as he folded his arms across his chest and peered at them through his dark blond bangs—the ones that girls seemed to find “cute” and “charming.” Derrick mostly found them “weird” and “wacky.” What was the point of deliberately cutting off proper vision?

Yep. Weird.

“So...what’s up?” Scott didn’t move as he asked the question, almost like he planned an interrogation before they’d be free to leave.

Brielle glanced between them, her face as red as Derrick imagined his own to be.

“Just having some fun.” It was a lame excuse, but Derrick didn’t know what else to say, and he certainly had no idea how to introduce—

“Who’s your friend?”

The million-dollar question. How was he supposed to answer that when he himself had no idea who “Brielle” was?

The CD had powered on through the next song, so Derrick let go of Brielle and occupied himself with stopping the music. He finally threw an introduction over his shoulder. “This is Brielle, a friend from Trinidad.”

When he had ejected the CD, he glanced back to find Brielle offering Scott a timid smile as she held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Scott returned the handshake, but his gaze dipped below her face.

Derrick tossed the CD case on the couch and came to stand beside Brielle, giving Scott another glare. Scott had been the same way with all the girls that Derrick had ever brought home with him: his two sisters, and Shayla.

He still held to the belief that things might have worked out between him and Shayla if Scott had minded his own business.

“Nice dress,” Scott said. His grin was most likely intended to be sexy, but the guy was just plain creepy. Why couldn’t girls understand that?

To Derrick’s surprise, Brielle didn’t acknowledge Scott’s comment. Instead, in a ghostly blur, she spun around and headed for the kitchen. “I could fix you guys something.” Her voice rang pleasant enough, but something pleading resonated.

He caught her eye and smiled, nearly tempted to laugh. A comment about stars never feeling awkward entered his mind, but one glance back toward his roommate held his tongue. He couldn’t hide a chuckle, though, when Brielle opened the fridge and then the cupboards, one by one—her expression falling more and more into a mixture of pity and despair.

Eventually, she leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. “Never mind.”

“What, you don’t like Top Ramen? Or leftover Chinese food? Or Spam?”

She shuddered dramatically. “That’s just sick.”

Derrick entered the kitchen—meaning he stepped from the carpet to the worn linoleum—and nudged her gently to the side, reaching for a can of Spam in the cupboard above her head. “I’m going to prove to you that this stuff’s good.”

Scott came to stand on the other side of Brielle, nodding his head. “Spam does have its place. Almost like bacon, if you cook it right.”

Derrick rolled his eyes. Food seemed to be one of the very few topics they agreed on and spoke amicably about. Now if only Scott actually pitched in when it came to cooking—or cleaning, or buying more of the groceries—then they might have a shot at being friends, instead of simply being guys who had known each other in high school and now needed help with affording the rent.

A long shot, but still.

He grabbed a big pan from one of the lower cabinets, along with some cooking spray. “Step aside. The chef needs some room.”

“Speaking of rooms—mine’s calling.” And with that, Scott left.

Derrick took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting his shoulders drop as he heard Scott’s door close. Scott worked at the hardware store off of Central. From what Derrick could tell, he was a good worker. But whatever positive energy got him out of bed and through the day turned sour when he returned. He didn’t want to contribute to anything. Yet he felt entitled to eat whatever Derrick picked up, invite people over without notifying Derrick, and annoy all of Derrick’s friends—what few he had—with his unwanted comments, attention, or rude behavior.

Basically, the guy was full of himself.

“So, how did you come to like Spam?”

The light words brought his attention back to Brielle. She kept leaning against the counter, curiosity brightening her gaze.

The meat began to sizzle slightly as he replied, “My family. My dad always liked it, and he told my mom about frying it. It sort of became a Saturday-night dinner tradition.” The reminder pinched his chest. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably, trying not to think about how long he had gone without a family dinner.

“It’s Thursday, not Saturday. We don’t have to eat it.” Her voice had taken on a whiny tone—he knew it well from his sisters—but a glance at her face proved she was teasing. Mostly.

“Come on. This is a treat to be having it on a week night.”

She laughed, and his face warmed from more than standing over the stove.

“Should I set the table?”

With what? Derrick wondered. She already knew they had no decent food in the apartment. Surely she had to realize there was no way they had something as fancy as placemats.

He saw her stand to attention out of the corner of his eye. “Let me guess...” she ventured. “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”

He nodded his head and grinned as he stabbed the Spam with a fork and flipped the pieces over, causing them to pop and sizzle even more. The smell of cooked meat swirled around them and sent an arrow of pleasure straight through his heart. Stomachs being the way to a man’s heart and all that jazz...
so true
.

A wisp of movement told him that Brielle hadn’t given up. She tore off some paper towels and folded them into pretty little rectangles. Then she took them to the table and returned to rummage through the kitchen drawers.

“Forks are there,” he pointed out with his own fork. “Ketchup’s in the fridge.”

“Ketchup.” She stopped in her trek back to the living room and stared at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. And mustard, if you want any.”

He looked up only to catch sight of her back as she resumed her walk around the kitchen island to the living room.

When she glanced over the island at him, her brows scrunched low over her eyes.

He shrugged and proceeded to plate up the food. As he stared down at the plates, a frisson of embarrassment slipped through him. Seriously? What was he thinking, serving a girl Spam—and only Spam, at that? The thought of taking her to his parents flickered in his mind, then quickly died.
That
embarrassment would be ten times greater.

Grabbing the plates—after checking to be sure the burners really were off—he joined her at the table. He slid a plate in front of her and sat. Then, surprising himself with his boldness, he placed his hand over hers and bowed his head, shutting his eyes tight so he couldn’t see her expression.

“Dear Lord, thank you for this food that You’ve provided. And thank you for sending Brielle my way. Amen.”

He dropped her hand and sliced up his Spam with a ferocity to rival the waves crashing on shore. After he dunked his first bite in ketchup and began chewing, he finally braved a glance across the table.