Page 5 of When Stars Fall

My phone on the coffee table jumps to life. Nikki’s name flashes across the screen. I send her to voice mail. My attention sticks to the screen. When my phone buzzes again, I don’t check who it is. I send them to voice mail. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it.

Shit. This can’t be happening.

The crowd is alive with wolf whistles, catcalls, and screaming. An album of old photos of me and Wyatt flips across the screen.

The memories. Oh, my heart. The memories.

“Ellie Cooper.” Wyatt draws out my name like he’s licking an ice-cream cone, and his attention is glued to the last photo of us.

Ten years since I’ve heard my name leave his lips. The genuine animation in him, the love on his face when he stares at the picture, softens me, even as rage builds deep in my gut. He loved me so hard once.

“Have you and Ellie been in touch?” Jackson asks.

I will tear Jackson apart for agreeing to be part of this ridiculous spectacle. He’ll never have me on his show again. He’s dead to me. I’m half tempted to call my manager right now, but that would mean missing where this is going. Wyatt must realize the storm he’s setting off. People still label us #couplegoals. The stories I could tell them . . .

“I’m hoping to be reacquainted with her soon.” Wyatt laughs. “Anyone know how I can get in touch with her?” His hopeful bewilderment plays to the crowd. His brazenness is achingly familiar. He wasn’t the only one who loved hard.

“Wyllie was huge when you two were together. I think people even wore T-shirts picking sides when you split. But in the ten years since, neither of you have spoken publicly about what happened.”

“Ellie’s a classy woman.” He holds up a finger. “The best woman. I mean . . .” His expression softens. “That face.” He points to another, more recent photo that’s appeared behind Jackson. “Brains, beauty, the biggest heart. Our breakup was my fault—completely my fault. I couldn’t give up the drugs.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to get off them.”

“And where are you at now?”

Wyatt or his people approved these questions. Unbelievable. We’ve never spoken about each other. You ask, you’re blacklisted from interviewing me. I assumed Wyatt had the same rule since he’s never talked about me either. Our relationship is a void stuffed with public opinion and speculation.

A constant stream of buzzing comes from my phone as calls, texts, and social media notifications flood in. If I ever see Wyatt again, it’ll be too soon. I’m ghosting the jackass harder than I’ve been the last ten years. It might not be possible to intensify our distance any more, considering we haven’t shared a room since I left our house, but he’s not getting anywhere near me now.

“I’ve been drug-free for two years now. I’d never tell anyone sobriety is easy, but I’m ready to put the past behind me.”

Sure, Wyatt. All talk.He might be sober atthismoment, but sober for two years? Impossible. His morning routine consisted of popping Vicodin, oxycodone, Percocet, or Adderall and drinking a coffee, often chased with a few shots of Jim Beam or a couple of beers. Lean smoothies of codeine, hard candy, and soda were a favorite snack.

Wyatt, even when he looked sober, was never without something in his system. His supply was endless and his taste eclectic.

His addictions weren’t to be questioned or analyzed, just accepted. One taste. A little buzz to take the edge off. A sharpness that needed to be constantly dulled. For him to be on national television talking about his habits, he must be high.

“I’m sure people battling their demons find a lot of hope in your words.” Jackson turns to the audience. “What would it be now? Ten years ago that Isaac Sharma died from an overdose while you and Ellie were with him?”

He’s letting Jackson bring up Isaac’s death? Talk about a shot to the heart.

“Yeah.” Wyatt stares at his hands. “Almost eleven.”

There’s a deep sadness in Wyatt’s voice. Whatever else is going on in this interview, the rawness of his loss remains the same.

“We all expected Isaac’s death to be enough motivation for you to get sober.”

“It should have been.” Wyatt tips his head.

Sometimes I hate myself for watching these interviews. Hearing him talk about Isaac and about me will cause me to spiral into uncertainty for weeks. His movie must be turning into quite a lemon in postproduction if the studio convinced him to get on Jackson’s show and talk about the more salacious bits of his life.

“Remind me again where you and Ellie met?” Jackson stares at Wyatt. He knows. Everyone knows. We had the biggest movie in the world the year it came out.

“On the set ofLove Letters from Spain,” Wyatt says. “There was something about Ellie. Right from the start.” His eyes bore into the camera, coming through the screen, threatening to burrow into my soul. “I was a fool to let her go, but I’m not a fool anymore.”

In a panic, I turn off the TV and stare at the blank screen. Then I flick it back on.

The crowd quiets, and Jackson laughs. “You’re going to reignite #Wyllie fans.”

He didnotdo that. Another great rush of humming comes from my phone, but I refuse to acknowledge the notifications. People can think what they want. I answer to no one. Besides, I’ll have levitated off Bermuda and be landing in New York to commit Jackson’s murder soon.

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