The Stars Will Shine (20 page)

On Saturday, I once again push Aiden away.

Chapter Fourteen

Of all things I could be doing this Saturday evening, I’m at a ballpark about to watch tater tots knock around a baseball.

Oh, who am I kidding, my eyes aren’t going to be on anyone but Aiden.

Maybe I’m worse than those twelve-year-old girls, who currently have their faces pressed to the fence as they look longingly in Aiden’s direction. All three of them are clad in vibrant dresses to stand out in the crowd.

When I find a place in the first dinky metal stands I come across, I watch him, too. He’s dressed in black workout shorts and a white tee-shirt, and he wears a green baseball cap on his head, the same one all the kids on his team are wearing. His hair curls slightly out from under the edges of the cap, the bill of which shades his focused face as he stands at third base, doing some sort of weird-ass motion with his hands and face, aimed at the little boy about to bat.

The boy nods and takes his place in the batter’s box, subsequently propping his bat on his shoulder. When the pitcher winds up, the boy lifts his bat for the ready, swings it forward, and slams the ball far into the outfield, right between left and center field. He takes off at a full-out sprint, and so do the other two runners already on base, all three of their faces scrunched in determination. When the lead runner rounds third and makes it all the way home, cheers erupt from the parents in the stands around me, which verifies I chose the correct side to sit on.

By the last inning, the score is tied. Our team is up to bat with bases loaded and two outs, and I’m on the edge of my seat, holding my breath like every single parent around me, despite the fact that I don’t have a freaking kid playing.

“C’mon Tony!” I shout along with everybody else. “Eye on the ball, Tony! You got this!” Our crowd rises to its feet in anticipation, like this game is the MLB World Series championship or something.

Little Tony steps right up to the plate, as confident as ever, and knocks the ball hard into the ground, a bouncing grounder that the shortstop fails to stop. The ball rolls to the outfield, and our runner on third darts home. He slides in, even though he doesn’t need to, which sends up a giant dust plume from which he emerges, triumphant.

Our stands go wild as the umpire calls the game.

“Aiden!” call the girls from the shop, in unison, as they bounce on their feet at the fence. “Aiden!”

Aiden’s head turns toward their voices, and when he sees them, he gives a small smile and a wave, and they practically faint with bliss. Shaking my head, I laugh out loud at the exchange.

When Tony runs toward the dugout, Aiden intercepts him, throws him frontward over his shoulder, and proceeds to run around with him, whooping and hollering and giving the kid a noogie. The boy giggles and screams and wiggles his legs as Aiden flies him around the infield. As I watch them, my heart rises to float within me.

The stands clear, and as the parents gather their children in their arms for a game well played, I’m left all alone, watching Aiden from afar.

I leave the ballpark without saying anything to him, though I’m certain he saw me in the stands.

The wait in my bedroom for him to come is the longest of my life. The heavy metal music Dylan blasts over his speakers next door thrums in my veins at the same time the silence in my own room cuts through me.

At half past eight, Aiden knocks on my window. And the second I let him in, we’re at each other like we’ve been deprived for centuries, consumed by a thirst we’ve yet to satisfy. We don’t say anything, just trip over each other until my back is pressed up against the wall, trapped between the orange and Aiden’s shape. The song from Dylan’s speakers slams the wall from the other side and vibrates into my body, an aggressive tempo and rhythm that makes my blood rage, pumps ravenously through my arteries and capillaries to every part of me, and turns my skin to sweat. Aiden slides his hands down my sides and yanks off my shirt. He stares down at me, his sweaty forehead pressed to mine, and then his hands move upward toward my breasts.

“Thanks for coming to the game,” he says with a distracted smile.

When his thumbs slide beneath the wire of my black bra and glide across the skin beneath, I let my head fall backward against the wall with a moan. He kisses from my neck to the tops of my breasts as one hand reaches around my back and undoes my bra in one quick snap.

I watch him through hooded eyes and say breathlessly, “I don’t want to know why you’re so good at that.”

Aiden keeps kissing my chest even as he smiles against my skin. “I won’t tell you then.”

His lips skim down my torso to my bellybutton, until he’s on his knees, looking up at me like I’m his prayer. His fingers trail down my stomach then fumble with the button of my jeans.

Just as he undoes it and pulls down the zipper, he stands, scooping me up with him, and moves us toward the bed. I yelp when he tosses me onto my back, and shake my head at him when he laughs like he enjoyed doing it. Before I know it, he pulls me by my legs so that my butt sits at the edge of the mattress. In the next second, my jeans are off.

“Lay back,” he tells me as he drops to his knees before me, between my legs. His hair sticks up in the back where I ran my fingers through it, and he wears a half-smile, almost a little shyly, on his lips. “I want—I want to do something for you.”

I swallow at the intent in his eyes and at what I think he wants to do. He runs his fingers down my thigh, watches their tips trace my pale skin.

“Only if you want me to, though,” he says softly, searching my face for a response. His fingertips, up and down my legs, send waves of goosebumps over me, and I find it hard to form a solid thought.

I want him to do this. I think I do. But I’m nervous, too, because, believe it or not, out of all the guys I’ve slept with, not one of them ever did this for me. What if I take too long and he grows tired? Or worse, bored? And what if it’s just…weird? His mouth…down there? I look into his eyes, and the way he’s touching me so gently, so meaningfully, relaxes me. He smiles reassuringly at me when I give him the barest of nods, then turns his head and kisses up one of my legs, from knee to inner thigh. Sitting back, he surveys me, his mouth parted, his eyes hazy, then slides off my underwear and tosses them to the side with a small smile.

I cover my eyes and laugh, a flush creeping up my neck. I mean, he’s right there, looking at me. I twist to the side, but Aiden gently pushes me back. When I uncover my eyes to peek at him again, he’s no longer smiling; instead, he’s watching me like I’m the last beautiful thing on Earth—a solemn, all-encompassing look of longing that pushes something heavy into the pit of me. Because there’s more to his look than only desire. It’s something so guarded but that burns a million times brighter than that—because it comes from his depths, not his surface. Something that looks a lot like feelings he knows I can’t deal with.

I pull away from him with a sinking sensation and slide off the bed, reaching for my discarded bottoms. A minute later, he quietly comes up behind me and places a hand on my lower back. Turning to face him, I find it difficult to meet his eyes.

He reads my mind. “What I feel for you,” Aiden says, dipping his head, “don’t think about that.”

“I don’t want this—
us
—to be about feelings.”

“I know. And I get that.” Seemingly distressed, Aiden runs his fingers through his hair. “You just want the physical, and I can do that.” But I’m so skeptical, and for once in my life, I’m ashamed that I might hurt a guy.

“No dates,” I repeat. “No exclusiveness either.” Aiden drops his gaze to the ground, and he looks a little like I’ve slapped him. But he pulls himself together and meets my eyes again with a steeliness in his own.

“Fine,” he says.

I hook my bra together and tug my shirt back over my head. “I never lied to you about where this was going,” I remind him.

“I know, Delilah.” He turns away with poorly concealed frustration as I pull on my pants. “Believe me, I know.”

Dylan is still blasting music in the other room, but now it just feels like it’s sucking out my soul.

“I should probably get home,” Aiden says, still not looking at me. In the window’s glass, I catch the downcast eyes of his reflection.

“Okay,” I whisper.

“I haven’t been there a lot lately.”

When he says it, I realize how true it is, and I wonder why I never thought about it before. He spends so much time over here or out with Dylan that his parents must hardly ever see him.

Aiden gives me a departing nod and then he’s gone before I register it. He leaves the window open on his way out, so numbly, I go over to pull it closed. And as I do, I catch a last glimpse of him disappearing over the backyard wall in an act that looks as if he’s been swallowed by the night.

***

Dylan comes home wasted the next night. I hear him stumble into the house, followed by Aunt Miranda’s chastising shouts. I open my door just a crack so I can make out what she’s saying.

“…a terrible example for your sister!” she yells. Her fuming breaths are audible from up here, even over Dylan’s stomps up the stairs. “Where were you tonight!” she yells after him, apparently not finished. Still, I don’t think she has grounded him yet.

Dylan doesn’t answer her, but when he makes it to the top of the stairs and starts toward our rooms, I hear him mumble, “Getting my cock sucked.”

I close my eyes and shake my head, glad Aunt Miranda didn’t hear that.

She’s still yelling from downstairs. “Are you hanging out with Aiden again? I’m going to have to talk to his parents!” My heart sinks for Aiden’s sake because I know he has nothing to do with this.

This is all Dylan.

When Dylan comes around the corner and sees me peering out of my room, he scowls at me.

I open my door the rest of the way and meet him in front of his just as he falls sideways into the wall. I take hold of his arm to steady him a little.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” I ask.

Dylan only sneers as he closes his eyes. “What a fitting question for a hypocrite to ask.”

“You know, you’re a real dick when you’re drunk.”

“I’m a dick when I’m sober, too.”

I don’t know what convinces me to do it, but I help Dylan the rest of the way into his room and manage to get him into his bed. By the time I get his shoes off, he’s already passed out. Still, I go downstairs and fill a couple glasses with water for him, which I set on his nightstand. I shake him awake, and he mumbles incoherently.

“Drink some water,” I order softly.

He does so without argument then promptly passes out again. As I leave, I watch him from his doorway for a few seconds…His expression is entirely serene, so innocent when he’s asleep, completely contrasting the one he wears when he’s awake.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

He’s right, I have no right to ask that question, especially when I don’t know the answer in regard to myself.

***

There are only three days until we host our first in-shop concert, but there’s not a whole lot left to prepare for it. Trevyn and Amber are back from Yosemite, and I made sure, during my week of manning the store alone, to have this place spic and span by the time they returned. Also, prior to leaving, Trevyn placed an order for an improved sound system, the parts of which should arrive by tomorrow evening. Until then, all we can do is carry on with business as usual.

By far, our busiest days are the weekends. So, while a few customers passed through this morning, it’s been a rather lazy Monday as a whole. Amber and I sit behind the checkout counter and click through photos of their trip on her camera while Trevyn paces the aisles, eyeing the shelves up and down, with hands on his hips as if he’s scouring for any small thing out of place.

Suddenly, Amber breaks into a fit of giggles and nudges my arm, drawing my eyes away from Trevyn. She tilts the camera so I can see the display screen better. It’s a photo of Trevyn pretending to scale the side of a cliff, and he’s got the goofiest look of bogus determination on his face. It makes me laugh, but my eyes flit from the screen, more interested in Amber’s expression. She’s beaming at the photograph, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. When she bites down on her lip with a small shake of her head, it seems clear as day on her face—that even after an entire year apart from Trevyn, with no communication whatsoever, she is still completely in love with him.

A twinge in my stomach has me turning away from her. I don’t understand their love. It’s beautiful and terrible at the same time. On the surface, it looks effortless, but I wonder if every day they see each other they remember the day she left him. It has to be a reminder—doesn’t it?—not to hand your heart and soul to somebody…because, in a matter of seconds, in the flip of a moment, that person you love most in the world can leave you behind. I like Amber, but I know she broke Trevyn’s heart and then wandered back into his waiting arms as though she never did.

I guess I just find it hard to believe that he was able to forget and forgive so easily.