Page 26 of When Stars Fall

“Isaac’s mom stopped by to bring me soup.” That admission will make this much worse for Ellie. She loved Isaac’s mom. Tanvi treated us like her kids. “She understood how torn up I was about you leaving, and coming on the heels of Isaac’s death, she was worried about me. Had a right to be worried about me. I was . . .” Part of me thought I was beyond saving, not worth her time. Tanvi saw those feelings, even if she couldn’t convince me to do anything productive about them. “I was out of control.”

“Wyatt, you almost died.” When Ellie glances up, there are tears in her eyes. “And I didn’t know. I . . . If you’d died, I—I’m not sure I would have ever been okay again.” Her shoulders slump, and tears trickle down her cheeks. “But you know what makes me so angry?”

I squeeze the stress ball in my pocket. The couches are between us, a barrier, giving me room to flee. But I’m not going anywhere. She needs space to process this, not me. I’ve had years. She’s only had days and with this new bit, mere hours. “That almost dying didn’t make me quit?” I rest my hands on the back of the nearest couch.

“Yes!” She bursts out. “I don’t understand. Almost dying wasn’t enough?”

I shake my head. “Told myself what happened wasn’t because of the drugs. You were the problem. Get you out of my system, and I’d be fine. Back to normal.” I rub my neck and shrug. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that an addict can come up with all kinds of reasons for things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”

Ellie sits on the couch, stunned. “I need time to digest all of this, I think.” She glances at me. “It’s so unbelievable, but it makes so much sense.” She rests her head in her hands, her shoulders slumped. “Wyatt, if I’d known . . .”

“I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want anyone to know. Having you come back out of sympathy or obligation . . . or even anger wasn’t what I wanted.” I focus on the ceiling to keep my emotions in check. “It seemed easier to let people believe I was a lying cheat than to let them realize I was a desperate fool.”

She stands up and rounds the couch to stop in front of me, just out of reach. Tentatively, she slides closer and wraps her arms around my neck, drawing me into a hug. Squeezing her tight, I breathe her in. I wish I could close my eyes, take us back ten years, and tell her I’d do anything to keep her. That’s the truth. I want her, and once I’ve got her, I’ll do anything to keep her.

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she whispers into my ear. “And I’m so sorry you felt so broken. I didn’t realize. I had no idea.”

She’s pressed against me, and our bodies fit together like a key in a lock. Perfection. We stand for a long time, neither of us moving. We soak each other up. How did I let years pass without experiencing this rightness in my soul? Such a fool to think there was anything,anything, better than being with her.

As she starts to pull away, I say, “Did you get my groceries?”

“You still want to cook for me?” Her chuckle is a little broken, and she wipes her eyes. “We can order in or . . . I don’t know.” The air thickens around us, but it’s not from grief or confusion this time. The urge to kiss her is a physical ache. If I didn’t think she’d slap me or kick me out, I’d risk it. My hands linger on her waist.

“I want to cook for you.” My voice is rough with desire.

“Wyatt.”

My name is a caress from her lips, soft, pliable. No one else makes my name sound quite as good as she does.

She rises on her toes, puts her hands on the sides of my face, and kisses my cheek. “You’ll never understand how glad I am,” she says, “that you made it out alive.”

Before I can coax her into a real kiss, she steps back and heads for the kitchen.

I follow her, and there’s a surprising lightness in me now that she knows my worst secret. To hear her admit she cares, that I matter to her, validates me coming here. Time might have dulled the connection between us, but with a little polish, it’ll shine again.

I lean on the kitchen island while she removes the ingredients from the fridge and various cupboards. She checks the list on her phone. The silence is companionable, despite everything we said to each other in the living room. The secrets are coming out. We’re starting fresh.

When she finishes, she turns to me with her arms out. “Ta-da!”

I raise my eyebrows at the stack of spices, cooking utensils, and food items in front of me.

“No idea how to cook any of it. Gathering the ingredients, pots and pans, cutting board, and measuring things is my contribution.”

“Who cooks for you normally?” I round the island and our shoulders brush as I survey everything. The recipe is one I’ve memorized. When we lived together, I cooked it regularly. One of our favorites.

“Anyone I want at the press of a button.” She wags her phone. “Icancook, as you’re aware. Just never elevated much past the basic heat, stir, serve.” She gives me an amused look. “I’ll have to go through my scripts to see if any hotshot chef wants me to play them, and then I can learn to cook like you.”

A few tendrils of her hair shift over her eyebrow, and I long to brush them away. There are so many things I long to do. “I learned a lot.”

“Geez. That’s an understatement. You attended Gordon Lampton Chef School for his biopic and became a professional. The transformation was incredible. Isaac and I used to search for the craziest recipes we could find to see how good you were.”

“I never let you down,” I say with a touch of pride.

She scans my face. Her good humor fades, and she looks away.

“Apron?” I search the kitchen. Maybe the food I cooked didn’t let her down, but I didn’t keep my promises either.

From a drawer nearby, she takes out random things until she comes to an apron. She holds it up. Emblazoned across it are the wordsI don’t know what I’m doing.

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