Page 12 of When Stars Fall

My sister wasn’t impressed when I called her back to tell her I was spending the day with Wyatt. She reminded me of what was at stake. I argued that giving in a little now would mean I could manage him better later.

I lied.

He doesn’t work that way and capitulating won’t help me. Today’s dilemma is why I’ve kept the emotional door shut and locked with any form of security available. Once he lodges in my heart, rooting him out is impossible. Leaving him crushed me. At a certain point, I wasn’t sure I’d bounce back, be whole again.

But I survived. I’m capable of enduring enormous heartbreak and not crumbling. There’s no need to learn that lesson again, and definitely not from him.

The security intercom buzzes, and my heart rate skyrockets. With my hand on my chest, I close my eyes to center myself. “Yeah, Jerome?”

“Mr. Wyatt Burgess is here?”

Right. I forgot to tell him. If he sawThe Jackson Billows Showlast night or checked any form of social media, Wyatt’s appearance might not be a surprise. He’s a tornado ripping through my life, but no one else has been sucked into the vortex yet.

“He can come through.” Wyatt anywhere in Bermuda during broad daylight is a disaster waiting to happen. There are only sixty thousand people on the island, and we’re all six degrees of separation away from each other. One person’s aunt is another person’s cousin. I’ve never worried about anyone selling us out because very few people have come looking, and Bermuda values loyalty over betrayal. They protect their own, and in return, my family is exceedingly generous with our time and money.

#Wyllie is trending. People have tagged me and Wyatt in stories, videos, GIFs, and memes. Anything with a touch of relevance has our old nickname. I can’t check social media for more than a second. Too much, too soon. My burner phone has only vital contacts, and it’s stemming the torrent.

I peek out the blinds as Wyatt rounds the hedges. My breath hitches in that old, familiar way. When he used to stride in my direction, eyes trained on me as though he could devour me, I wondered how I got so lucky.

Before I can talk myself out of letting him in, I open the door. My expression should be neutral, but my heart is running wild. I’m a good enough actor to fool him, right? He takes me in from head to foot, and a grin spreads, lassoing the out-of-control beast in my chest.

“You look amazing,” he says.

“Thanks.”

My fingers tingle. To have him this close and not touch him goes against every instinct in my body. We were always very affectionate, very connected. He had a lot of faults, but demonstrating his love to me and everyone else was never one of them.

Sitting across from him in the living room last night was a huge test of my willpower. When he came close enough for me to smell his cologne, I breathed him in. How can this connection be the same? Memories rushed through my barricades. Instead of fending them off, part of me welcomed them, wanted to drown in them.

I grab the two motorbike helmets off the kitchen island and pass him one. He eyes me. “You’re still driving a bike?” he asks.

We fought about a few things, but we were both risk takers, thrill seekers. After I left LA, Ihadto change—but I have no idea what he’s like now.

“You’re not?” I open a side entrance to the garage and hit the button that lifts the door to reveal the private laneway.

Wyatt caresses the helmet. “No, not really. Got too dangerous with the number of paparazzi I had hunting me.” He follows me into the garage.

“Ah, the life of a famous person. Must be exciting for you.” A low blow since Wyatt’s rides were one of his only outlets from his fame.

I catch myself staring at him but he’s still focused on the helmet. When he glances up, he shrugs. “Turns out there were a few things in life you were right about.”

I purse my lips. Externally, I won’t give an inch. Internally, there’s a riot brewing. “Who could have predicted?”

We’re standing beside my favorite Honda motorcycle. Not the best or most expensive, but it attracts the least attention and is powerful enough to maneuver us up hills.

I lower my helmet and climb on. “You coming?”

“Which bike?” He takes in my collection.

“You don’t have a license.” I flip up my visor.

He raises his eyebrows in question, as though laws were meant to be broken.

“Yes, that matters,” I say. “If we’re caught—can you imagine? As it is, there are limited places we can go where people won’t be uploading my life to social media without my consent.”

“If we get pulled over, I’ll snap a few photos or sign a few things. Problem solved.” Wyatt searches my face. “We’ve done it before.”

“Life was different.” Part of me wants to soften. The massive weight I’ve carried on my shoulders for years has lifted at his proximity. A weight I’ve carried so long, I didn’t realize the heaviness was a burden.

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