Page 77 of Falling Like Stars

“Yes, please. The realtor has several great offers, one that’s crazy-high over asking.”

“How much?”

“Nine-point-eight.”

“Fine. Tell them to take it. And Jackson…”

“Yes?”

I hesitate. Syd’s words echo in my ears. I don’t owe Eva anything. I bought the house; she took the stuff. If she can’t get work, that’s on her. And my doctor recently gave me a clean bill of health, which means I don’t have to deal with Eva ever again. Case closed. Now it's up to me to keep it that way.

Giving her anything is opening a door that needs to stay locked tight. For your own good.

Jackson clears his throat. “Zach…?”

“Nothing, never mind,” I say. “That’s it, thanks.”

“You got it.”

The driver is still waiting for me to tell him where to take me, but suddenly, I feel untethered. Adrift. I should go straight to the airport and get to St. Louis. Forget packing, just go. I open my mouth to relay that when my phone buzzes.

Rowan.

It’s been four days but feels like four months. I put the phone to my ear.

“Hey.”

“Zach?” Her voice is full of tears and breathy with panic.

I sit up straight, my heart crashing against my chest. “What’s wrong?”

I hear nothing but choked sounds, as if she’s holding back sobs.

“Rowan, what’s happening? Where are you?”

“I…I need you…”

Culver City is twenty minutes away from Beverly Wilshire on a good day. I tell the driver—Mitchell—it’s life or death. He makes it there in ten.

We circle the studio warehouse until I spot her. She’s curled up against a side wall behind a utility box, her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried, shoulders shaking. On the ground beside her are a few scattered papers.

“Help me,” I tell the driver and we both jump out of the sedan. I get to Rowan and see that the papers are sketches of 19th century period outfits. For Avignon, I guess, though she didn’t mention she was creating for them. Mitchell gathers the spilled papers while I crouch down beside her and wrap my arms around Rowan’s shaking shoulders.

“Hey,” I say gently. She’s in black leggings and a black T-shirt. The late afternoon sun spills over her blonde hair that is stuck to her cheeks until I brush it back. “Rowan, look at me.”

She raises her blood-shot eyes, and her face crumples to see me. “Zach…”

“I’m here, baby,” I say. “I’m right here. I got you.”

Fresh tears flood her eyes and spill down her cheeks. “Take me home. Please.”

I lift her off the ground and she wraps her arms around my neck, her face buried against my chest. I carry her to the car, and in between sobs, Rowan gives me an address in West Hollywood. Mitchell drives us to the little apartment complex and helps me get Rowan to her second story studio.

“Thanks, man,” I tell him as he hands me the sketches. “I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

“It’s no trouble, sir. I’ll wait if you need me.”

I nod, unsure. I don’t know what Rowan needs, but she won’t stop crying. The dam has burst; the entire drive over she clutched at my shirt while I held her tight. It felt like I was holding her together.

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