Page 30 of Fallen Stars

Should I take a breather from all this shit, even if only for a night? Absolutely. My mind needs the break as much as my soul.

Will I listen to my body and take the night off? Good question. I’d like to say I will. I know that I need to. But more often than not, curiosity or determination or being close to a resolution steer my answer.

Remotely connecting to my work computer, I pick up where I left off at the office. While I eat dinner, I sift through topics on a forum I discovered earlier today. Most of it is sick assholes looking for disturbing pictures or like-minded people to speak with. As of now, I have simply scanned the topic titles. Unless one piques my interest in reference to the assignment, I don’t open the thread.

I finish the last of the food, shove the plate aside, and shift my laptop front and center. Hunched over the keyboard, I study the screen closely as I scroll, scroll, scroll. Get lost in the dark subjects some of these fuckers talk about with too much ease and delight.

My phone buzzes on the counter and I startle in my seat. Straightening my spine, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.When I open them, I disconnect from my work computer, shut the lid on my laptop, and sit in silence for a beat.

“Take a break,” I chastise myself. “Even if it’s just an hour.”

I reach for my phone and wake the screen to see a text notification. Tapping it, I wither when I see who it’s from.

Abi

Parents are asking if we’re going to the Memorial Day Fest together

My phone digs into my palm as I stare down at the screen, my knuckles burning and tight.

This whole setup was concocted so our parents wouldstopinterfering in our lives. So they’d stop forcing us to attend dinners and events on their schedule. So we could live our own lives and let them believe we were fulfilling their twisted, unpleasant, undesirable fantasy.

Now they want us to put on a show for the entire town. Flaunt the eldest West son with the youngest Calhoun heir. Give the gossip mill new Seven falsehoods to whisper about.

Fuck.

Why the hell did I propose fake dating? Seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. A way to get my father off my back. For a couple weeks, it worked. The relentless thrust toward a wealthy, well-known and well-loved member of the Stone Bay community ceased. For a couple weeks, life felt normal.

But I suppose that was the calm before the storm. It was foolish of me to expect it to last, but I did. And now we’ve hit the other side of the storm.

After kissing Oliver two nights ago, I no longer want to play this game. Though I made this bed, I no longer want to lie in it. I want to rip the sheets off and burn them.

Not my scene, but I suppose we have to.

Fire singes my veins as I stare at the screen. Not a single cell in my body wants to do this—fake date, attend town festivals, smile for people I don’t give a shit about.

It’ll be fun! Food, drinks, music. Let’s make the best of it

She sounds more excited than she should be, especially since she has to attend with me and not Desmond.

I read her message again and pause on the wordmusic.

Immediately, my mind drifts to Oliver. To his band and the night they played later in the garage than usual because they’d just heard back from the town. Along with other musical talent, Hailey’s Fire had been asked to play during a few town festivals this year.

I sift through my memories for which festivals they’re scheduled to play. Is Memorial Day one of them? Will I be able to talk with him before then? I need to, especially if I’m required to make an appearance with my fake girlfriend.

I don’t bother replying to Abigail. The whole situation has me ready to puke up my dinner, no sense in adding fuel to the fire.

Instead, I open Instagram to check Hailey’s Fire’s page for their schedule. As the app loads, the story icon indicates the band is currently live streaming. I tap the circle and squint a moment as my eyes adjust to bright lights filling part of the screen.

As rock notes and Hailey’s raspy voice float through the speaker, I stare at the small stage on the screen. I glimpse past Hailey and Trip and zero in on the man behind the drum kit. Oliver. Per usual, I lose myself in fantasies as he hammers his sticks on the drums.

Years of watching and listening to Hailey’s Fire, I sing each of their songs to myself or in my head as they play. All artists have their own twist. Hailey’s Fire writes their songs with this interesting blend of rock and soul. You get the grit of rock ‘n’ roll with this deep, emotional undertone. When they play a new song, I focus with more attentive ears. It usually takes hearing it a few times before I pick up on the hidden meanings in the lyrics. But they are there. Loud and clear.

I have yet to ask Oliver who writes the songs or the significance behind certain ones.

For years, part of me has feared the answer. That the songs were one of his other bandmates’ creations. That he only chipped in with the musical concept for the songs and nothing more.

But every now and then, the smallest sliver of hope in my veins whispers to ask anyway. Because that small sliver swears those songs are written by Oliver about me or us.

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