Page 1 of When Stars Fall

Chapter One

Wyatt

Ten Years Ago

As soon as the Rolls-Royce pulls into the driveway, I’m out the door of the rambling brick bungalow we share in Bel Air. I haven’t seen her in weeks—since I was on location in Shanghai, and she flew home to visit her family.

Before Kyle can get to her door, I take Ellie’s hand to draw her out of the back seat. “How’d your visit go?” I cradle her cheeks in my hands, scanning every peak and valley of her face. Something is off. She’s hollowed out.

“Fine. Just tired.” A weak smile rises, and she closes her eyes briefly.

“Grab her bags, will you, Kyle?” I sweep her up in my arms and carry her through the foyer into the huge open-concept living space. She could walk inside herself, but after so long without her, I’ll seize any excuse to hold her close.

“Sure thing, sir,” Kyle says.

“Have you eaten? I can make you something.” She’s lost weight, and she doesn’t have a pound to spare. “Did some tabloid say something shitty about you again?”

“No, nothing like that.”

When we get to the couch, I set her down. “Talk to me.” I sit beside her and then shift to get a better vantage point. “Do you want a Perc to take the edge off?”

“I don’t want anything.” She twists her hands in her lap, a sure sign she’s nervous. If she starts playing with her hair, there’s definitely something wrong.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

She doesn’t say anything for a beat. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About us. Our relationship. About where we’re headed.”

There’s a ring sitting in my underwear drawer. I dragged Isaac with me to choose one a week before he died. I haven’t been able to face the diamond since, but I understand what I want.

She leaves the couch and goes over to where Kyle dropped her bags. From a side pocket, she takes out some pamphlets.

Maybe she discovered the ring and spent the week looking at wedding venues in Bermuda. She wouldn’t want the chaos an LA wedding would bring. Wherever she wants to get married is fine by me. There’s no need for her to be nervous. Not like I’ll be mad about any of it.

“What’s this?” I try to stifle my amusement.

She tries to pass me the pamphlets and flyers. My brain stalls, and it takes a moment for me to process the bold headlines claiming effective treatment for addictions. A chill streaks across my body. This has nothing to do with weddings and nothing to do with our future. I remove the bottle from my pocket and shake out a Vicodin, then throw it back. I’m not addressing what’s written in these things. She’s going to have to say it. I set the bottle on the coffee table between us.

After a deep breath, she says, “I think—I think if we want to have a future together, we should be doing that clean and sober.”

“This is bullshit.” I grab the pamphlets and toss them onto the table and they scatter everywhere. Some of them fall to the floor at her feet. My chest is tight with disbelief. She knows better than anyone what she’s asking.

She tucks her hair behind her ears.Shit, her hair. She doesn’t say anything.

An uncontrollable rage rises in me. “What the hell happened to you on that damned island? We’ve been together for three, almost four, years and you’veneverasked me to quit. You’ve never said my using was a problem. In fact, Ellie, you do it with me.”

“I haven’t touched anything since Isaac died.”

“You’re a liar. We’ve gone out lots of times.” Even as I say those words, I can’t remember the last time she accepted a pill or took a drink or did a line of coke. My younger sister, Anna, started calling Ellie a No-Fun Nellie. “Nah, I don’t believe you. I would’ve noticed.” She must be lying, otherwise my intake has been much higher than I realized.

She points at a pamphlet on the table. “My mother says this one is very good. The best.”

“You think I don’t know about rehab programs?” I scoff. “You think I don’t have friends who’ve tried it? Rehab doesn’t work. It won’t work. I’m not going.”

“We’re getting older. Maybe we should be considering a family.” She rubs her face. “Kids, possibly, someday . . . maybe.”

She can’t even make eye contact when she says that. She’s not serious. Wherever these notions are coming from, she needs to send them packing back to Bermuda. A week ago, she and I were just fine, and now she’s returned with a truckload of bullshit ideas.

“No, Ellie. No. You’re twenty-four, not forty-four. Don’t play the kids card. What the fuck do kids have to do with anything?”

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