Page 48 of Falling Like Stars

“Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway,” I mutter to myself. Zach keeps running to Eva every time she calls. He’s trapped in his past, too.

Against all better judgement—or let’s be real, to punish myself—I open the app formerly known as Twitter. I don’t have to look far: Whoever’s behind The Scandal Sheet has posted their article and it’s a trending topic. Front and center is the photo of me staring up at Zach with puppy eyes. I don’t click on the article but instead go straight to the pits of hell: the comments. They don’t disappoint.

ZBGirl23

If I’d known Zachary Butler was into us Normals, I would’ve shaved my legs and put on a dress.

MrsDaiseeeButler

He gave up Eva Dean for her???

overthemoon

Find someone who looks at you the way this rando looks at Zach Butler.

Gina

But…but…she’s so mid.

Zachbutler4eva2001

Whore.

I exit out of the app and close my eyes. The panic is creeping back in, and it’ll suffocate me if I stay in this room. I grab my jacket and leave the hotel. The only restaurant in town is the one where Zach and I had our first date, but I bypass the tables and go straight to the bar.

“Whiskey neat, please,” I tell the bartender.

Night has already fallen, cold and black, but it’s not even six. The place is nearly empty. Only one other person is at the bar, three seats down. Mountain Man. The guy who seems to live in the hotel room between Zach’s room and mine. He’s dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt that strains to contain both his arm muscles and his belly. His dark beard is long and unkept, and his hair, longish from under a grubby green and white baseball cap.

He gives me an appraising glance as he lifts a beer bottle to his lips. I quickly look away, but it’s too late.

“I’ve seen you around,” he says. “You’re with the movie?”

I take a small sip of my whiskey. It tastes like gasoline and burns out any residual feeling of Zach’s sweet, clean taste.

“Yeah,” I say. “Crew.”

“You’re too pretty for crew. I’d a thought you were a starlet.”

“You thought wrong,” I say. I’m a mid rando from the land of the Normals. I glance at the guy. And a whore.

Mountain Man picks up his beer and moves down two stools to sit next to me.

“I’m Riggs,” he says, and offers his hand.

As if on automatic, a program that was laid down years ago that I can’t override, I put my small hand in his large one. “Rowan.”

He grins and takes a pull from his beer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Nice to meet you, Rowan.”

Riggs and I spend the requisite hour talking about absolutely nothing of consequence before I agree to go back to the hotel. To his room. Because that old trauma program is running, and I can’t override it. I can only feed it.

He flips on a light, and I see the configuration is the same as my room, but Mountain Man most certainly lives here. Aside from his detritus—dirty clothes, beer bottles, food containers—there is a pile of rusted pipes in the corner. Once upon a time, Zachary and I speculated about the source of the loud noises coming out of Riggs’ room. Mystery solved.

“I do maintenance for this place,” he says as I step inside and close the door behind us. He nods to the pile, weaving unsteadily on his feet. “Had a colder winter than usual. Lots of frozen pipes.”

This is how I die. Mountain Man, in the hotel, with the lead pipe.

“I need the bathroom…” I manage.

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