Page 74 of Falling Like Stars

“Why?”

“Why?” He stares at me helplessly. “Why do you think? Jesus, Rowan, because I want us to be together. Because I—”

“Because you need to have someone,” I say quickly, riding the tide of guilt I just told him wasn’t there. It makes me say everything I don’t want to say. Everything hurtful and terrible to push him away from me. “That’s all this is. You want so badly to have someone that it doesn’t matter who. I could be anyone.”

He flinches as if I’d slapped him. The way Eva must’ve slapped him. My heart aches but I stare defiantly, unwilling to crack even a little or else I’ll shatter.

“Sure,” he says dully, nodding. “That must be it. My life is just make-believe.”

“Maybe it is.”

Because he can’t possibly care about me this much.

He looks at me as if reading my thoughts, his eyes harder and emptier than I’ve ever seen. His voice more cutting. “Would it help if I treated you like shit? You seem to understand that best.”

Now it’s my turn to reel. A terrible, heavy silence follows. Shame burns me from the inside out and I can’t stand to be in his presence one more minute, this good guy who probably cares about me. Maybe more than I can imagine. Maybe as much as I care about him, and I just ruined whatever we might’ve had. Zach’s goodness only magnifies how fucked up I am right back to me, and I can’t bear to look.

With shaking fingers, I dress quickly and grab my stuff. Zach says nothing the entire time, only stares at me with hard eyes that cannot contain the pain beneath.

At the door, I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and close it behind me.

Over the next few days, I’m at the warehouse in Culver City, one worker bee out of a hundred, our sewing machines humming. The costumes for the 1800s French peasants are as simple (cheap) as we can make them while still maintaining realism.

I keep my notebook beside me, sketching my own modifications and designs for the lead characters’ costumes mostly. The head costumer, Laurent Moreau, does good work, but nothing exciting. I add and embellish in between long stretches of sewing petticoats and aprons. Anything to keep my mind busy, though it keeps dragging me back to that almost-perfect weekend with Zachary. To the awful things I said to him. How I took his care for me and flung it back in his face.

Because I didn’t believe him, I think. I didn’t believe he could care about me, so I made it easy for him not to.

Four days after leaving the Chateau Marmont, I’m on a lunch break at the Avignon warehouse, sitting at an outdoor picnic table with my coworkers. My phone buzzes with a text. My stomach drops.

Hi darling. I’m really starting to get worried. You haven’t returned any of my texts. I hope you’re okay and the offer still stands to visit Josh this Saturday. Or any Saturday. Please let me know. I’d love to hear from you. xo

I leave Carol’s text unanswered, just like I’d left all the phone calls from Dr. Baldwin’s office unanswered over the last month.

“I’m no expert,” J.J. told me two nights ago after I confessed all that had happened, “but one therapy session isn’t enough, babe. Promise me you’ll try again. Going the first time was a big step, and you were brave for making it. But take another step, and another, and eventually you just might arrive somewhere good.”

Somewhere with Zachary…

I’d gotten off the phone with J.J. promising I’d try again but still hadn’t made that phone call to Dr. Baldwin. And now lunchbreak is over, and it’s back to the warehouse. I sit down at my machine and stare at the pile of cloth beside it. For the millionth time, I think of Zach and wonder if he’s thinking about me. But why would he? I hurt him and he’d already been hurt by Eva. Maybe in ways too ugly to think about. He didn’t deserve what I said. Maybe I don’t deserve to remain trapped in my pain either, but I feel immobile. Answering Carol’s text to at least let her know I’m okay is the right thing to do. Calling Dr. Baldwin’s office for another appointment is the right thing to do, too. I do neither.

“What am I doing?” I murmur to myself.

“An amazing job.”

I glance up to see the second assistant costume lead, Dottie James, standing over my station, beaming. The woman—around my age—is a riot of primary colors: dyed red hair, yellow dress, blue jewelry that is less jewelry and more like children’s toys. Today, she’s wearing earrings made from dice and a necklace of blue plastic gummy bears. She’s holding a sheaf of papers in her arms.

“You’re clearly one of our best,” she says. “Faster and more concise than anyone in this place. So. New assignment. We want you on the second unit, clothing the featured background actors.”

She hands me the sheaf of paper—sewing patterns and illustrations of men’s suits. Waist coats, top hats, trousers, vests…

Dottie pats my shoulder. “Don’t look so intimidated. You got this. Head on over to warehouse C to get your materials. Liza will give you a tutorial and show you the mannequins dressed in the finished product.”

I nod, Dottie gives me a final pat and leaves. I can’t move. I stare at the drawings, and my heart jackrabbits in my chest. I can hardly breathe, and suddenly every part of me feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. The waistcoats. The vests. The trousers…

The March Hare, I think, staring at the diagrams. They want me to sew the March Hare…

In my mind, Josh smiles at me. “I thought you said this was a couple’s costume. I didn’t know Alice and the March Hare were a thing…”

I stagger to my feet, because it’s coming. The black abyss. I refused to go to it, so it’s coming to me. Tears sting my eyes, and huge sobs, like ocean swells in a storm, well in me. If I don’t get out of here quick…

---