Page 58 of When Stars Fall

“Your girl, man. Short Stuff, you’re on fire.” Isaac points at me, and his grin is crooked, as though the muscles aren’t working. “I didn’t think they’d have tried anything with you.” He grabs the back of his neck and stops pacing for a moment. “Why did I let them? I was old enough to realize what they were doing was wrong. I knew it. I did. But I . . . every time it happened, I froze. I just—I couldn’t move.”

Wyatt’s expression is a mixture of frustration and confusion. He can’t put the pieces together. Isaac’s Phil Leeman happened a long time ago.

I move to stand in front of Isaac, and I take his face in my hands. “You were a kid. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” I say. “Even though you understood what they were doing was wrong, you werejust a kid.”

“I’ve never told anyone. Never.” Isaac’s eyes are locked with mine. “Who would I tell? I wanted to get into this business. I begged my parents to take me to auditions. They gave up their jobs to follow me around. But the fame wasn’t enough for what they took.” Anguish is written large across his expressive face. “This town. This business. It’s not meant for a kid.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say again.

“Isaac, someone . . .” Wyatt’s voice trails off, and he rubs my back. “Molested you?”

“Not even once?” Isaac seeks out Wyatt. “No one tried it even once?”

“I had no idea,” he says. “If I’d known . . .”

Scoffing, Isaac breaks free from me and paces again. “What would you have done? Huh? What, did I have some sign on me? Is there something about me that says people can do those things and I won’t say anything? I’ll just take it?” He points at himself and then pounds a fist into his chest.

My head swims from Isaac’s revelations. The right words are somewhere, and I need to find them.

“I’ve hated that I like men touching me. My desire was disgusting.Iwas disgusting. My dad would think I was disgusting.” Tears litter Isaac’s face.

“I don’t.” My brain isn’t functioning. “No, Isaac. It’s not you—”

“You’re my brother, man. I love you. You shoulda told me. I would have protected you.” Wyatt’s voice is raspy, like he’s on the verge of crying. “I woulda stopped it. Whatever I had to do. I would have done something.”

“How could I tell you that? Then you’d know.” Isaac stops pacing and stares at him. “Then you’d realize I was weak.”

Wyatt shakes his head, and I grab his hand to squeeze it. Whatever is going on with Isaac, his words are starting to slur. That’s not unusual, but he popped so many benzos and OxyContin while we were talking. I can’t calculate how much is too much.

“What happened to you wasn’t weakness,” Wyatt says. “You were a kid. They were adults, and they took advantage of you. Used their power and status against you. We werekids.”

“But it didn’t happen toyou,” Isaac says. “It happened to me. For years.” Shaking his head, Isaac uses both hands to wipe his cheeks. He sniffs. “Why am I telling you this? I’m so fucked up right now. I gotta go. I gotta get out of here.”

Wyatt tries to grab his arm, but Isaac shoves past us. We stampede down the stairs, with Wyatt calling Isaac’s name—pleading at first, and then pissed off. Isaac moves much faster than we can. Dread fills my stomach, and acid bubbles into my throat.

Once we’re outside the club, Wyatt grabs Isaac’s arm and drags him to a stop. A small crowd gathers around us, and unease builds in me again. We shouldn’t be doing this here. “Isaac,” I say. “Let’s go back inside. Drink some water. Get off this high.”

“I don’t feel well.” In the lights from the street, a sheen of sweat glistens, and his lips don’t really move when he says the words.

“What’d did you take in that room?” Wyatt scans Isaac, concern etched into his features.

On top of the pills we watched him inhale, he did coke with me and Wyatt, and he might have done something else in that room with Aman before we arrived. My heart contracts at the implication. “Let’s get some water and food,” I say.

Isaac chuckles and then it’s as though he’s a marionette whose strings have been cut. He collapses onto the ground in a puddle. The crowd gasps, and I rush to Isaac’s side. As soon as I reach him, the convulsions start, his body jerking and contorting in ways a person shouldn’t move.

There are so many people gathered around us, a sea of faces. Everyone is talking, or calling out to us, and there are people who are already crying. Why the fuck are they crying? They need to do something.

“Call 9-1-1!” Wyatt hollers into the crowd, grasping Isaac’s head, trying to keep it cradled in his lap.

I fumble in my pocket for my phone. My fingers are too fat and useless to type in the numbers, and I have to erase them and start again.

“Stay with me, man,” Wyatt says when Isaac’s eyes roll back in his head.

While I try to work my phone, I scan the crowd for anyone. “Is there a doctor here?” My mom would know what to do, how to help. We just need someone to help.

A man approaches from the side. His shirt is emblazoned with Club Cobra. “I have 9-1-1 on the phone. What’s the problem?”

“Overdose,” Wyatt says through clenched teeth. “Cocaine, heroin, prescription pills.” He’s so focused on Isaac, I’m surprised he even knows to answer.

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