Page 45 of Falling Like Stars

“Zach?” My assistant, Andrew, who is supposed to be in Anchorage, has suddenly materialized out of thin air. He looks apologetic and slightly panicked himself. “I’m sorry but I couldn’t reach you by phone. This is urgent.”

“Christ. One minute,” I tell Rowan and move to stand with Andrew. “What is it?”

“It’s Eva,” he says in a low voice. “She’s here.”

“She’s here?” I blurt, the words ringing out in the cold morning air and then swallowed by the vastness. I spare a glance at Rowan who is hunched against the wall, hugging herself. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

“She’s in Anchorage.”

“You saw her?”

He nods. “She called me to her hotel. Says she has to talk to you. It’s vitally important. She’s very upset.”

“I’ll bet she is,” I mutter. “She’ll come here if I don’t…” Rage and something close to actual hatred rises in me. “Fuck. Fuck!”

I go back to Rowan, humiliation burning my cheeks along with the wrath. “I can’t fucking believe I have to say this but—”

“Eva’s here,” Rowan says, swallowing hard and looking like she’s trying to hold it together. “I heard.”

“I have to get to Anchorage and send her back. If I don’t, she’ll come here and fuck up the entire production.”

“I get it,” Rowan says. “It’s okay. You should go. That’s probably…” Her jaw stiffens. “That’s probably best anyway.”

Dammit, she’s pissed. Hurt. She’d let her walls down for me and now I’m going to walk away. To my ex. Rowan has every right to hate me. I sort of hate me, too.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell her. “This situation is so fucked, but—”

“It’s fine.” She glances at Andrew who is at a discrete distance but still waiting for me. “I’m cold. Going in.”

She starts walking past me then stops, her gaze on the ground. “I’m sorry, Zach. I’m so sorry.”

“What, why? None of this is your fault. Let’s talk later, okay? When I get back…?”

I hear the pathetic desperation in my voice, trying to put all the pieces back together because I broke something good here. Rowan gives me a pained look I can’t fully read, then trudges through the snow, away.

The hotel in Anchorage is a five-star establishment, because of course it is. Eva wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less. My rage has been simmering the entire drive—rage at her for flying to Alaska over a stupid tabloid. Rage at myself for not doing or saying whatever it is I need to do or say for this to be over.

“She came here incognito,” Andrew tells me. “She says she doesn’t want to make a scene.”

“Yet,” I snap bitterly, as I’m hustled in a side door by hotel staff that have all been made to sign NDAs provided by a local lawyer whom Andrew has already smartly corralled to contain this mess.

At Eva’s hotel room door—her suite, I amend—I breathe deep and even, so I don’t explode at the first sight of her. I rap on the oak panels.

“Come in,” comes a soft, tearful reply.

Eva is sitting on a couch, looking small against the vistas of the city and the distant mountains revealed by the panoramic windows. She’s dressed in a black Burberry jacket and matching athletic pants with the signature plaid along the seams. Her hair is in a messy bun, no makeup, eyes red from crying.

My heart, still holding every minute of our years together, wants to soften to her, but I’ve seen this show before and I know how it ends: with her throwing something at me or hitting me and then telling me it’s my fault for making her so crazy. I move to stand in front of her, arms crossed.

“Would you like to sit?” Eva gestures at the overstuffed couch opposite hers.

“I would not.”

She recoils at my harsh tone. A nice touch.

“I know,” she says. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“That’s the fucking truth.”

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