Page 55 of Falling Like Stars

“You deserve good things,” she says.

“Thank you, Jess,” I say, and hold her tight.

“You don’t believe me,” she says. “But someday you will.”

J.J. leaves a few hours later. The therapist’s number is waiting for me in my phone. I sit in a flood of gratitude that my best friend hasn’t given up on me, even when I was close to giving up on myself. But it’s nearly eight p.m.; the therapist’s office is surely closed, but I don’t have to wait until morning to start putting things right.

I pull my phone out and find a text thread. My thumbs hover as I shudder at the memory of Zach’s face when he saw me in that hotel hallway. Part of me had been mortified at what I must’ve looked like, and part of me had been shocked to realize that maybe Zach felt our kiss as strongly as I did. That it meant something to him. I start typing.

Hey. I don’t want to bother you and I completely understand if you never want to hear from me again, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry.

I hold my breath and hit send, half expecting an error message because Zach blocked me. But my heart jumps as the rolling dots of a response come in.

You don’t have to be sorry. I’m the ducking idiot. Wow Alaska. Feels like a lifetime ago right?

Odd response, but okay.

Yeah, it does, I type. But I still want to explain if you’re willing to hear me out.

Explain? You got some splaining to do?

I bite my lip. Are you okay?

Great. Never better. Taking some tiem off. This is followed by three martini glass emojis.

He’s drunk. That explains his texts, but worry gnaws at my gut. I don’t like it.

Where are you?

The chateaux Mormon.

Can I come and see you? Better to talk in person.

For a long time, there’s no response. Thirty seconds, though it feels like hours. Finally, Zach replies, and it sort of breaks my heart.

That would be really nice, Rowan. But I’m not in the best conditions.

I don’t mind. But it’ll take me about an hour to get there.

I got nowhere to be, he writes. I’ll let them know at the desk. Ask for Michael Sullivan.

I get the reference—the main character in Road to Perdition—and it doesn’t make me feel better. I rush to get on shoes and grab my bag and keys.

On my way.

It’s nearly ten p.m. by the time I arrive at the hotel. Chateau Marmont sits perched above Sunset Boulevard like a small castle befitting its name. Inside, it’s all Spanish-style, with white walls, exposed wooden beams, arches, and huge wrought iron candelabras hanging over the plush lobby furniture. At the front desk, tucked into an arched alcove, I tell the clerk who I’m there to see. Out of caution, I’m wearing black leggings and a black hoodie—the hood down, ready to pull up if necessary. But the lobby is empty and quiet.

The clerk calls a bellhop, who guides me outside along lighted paths to the bungalow where “Michael Sullivan” is staying. The little house is tucked in amid tall trees and greenery. It reminds me of my cabin. A hideaway.

I knock on the door. “It’s me.”

“Come on in.”

I duck inside the old bungalow, with its yellow walls and polished wood floors. It’s twice as big as my studio but not a luxurious space; I can practically smell the history and age of it, even before noticing the old fixtures and furniture. Zachary’s long form is sprawled on the couch in the living room, a bottle of Macallan on the oval glass-and-wood coffee table in front of him. Two lamps, one on each end, offer the room’s only light.

He’s in red plaid flannel pants and a white V-neck T-shirt and has one arm thrown over his eyes, one hand balancing a glass of the whiskey on his chest. I pull an orange mid-century chair up next to the couch.

“Hey,” I say softly, and there’s a pang in my chest now that I’m here. It’s as if my heart had forgotten how handsome Zach is in person, how it felt to be held and kissed by him, and now it remembers everything.

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