Page 3 of With Stars in Her Eyes
I had played through worse pain.
As I searched around for Demetrius to give him a heads-upabout what was happening with my body just in case, a smartly attired woman stopped me. “Courtney Starling?”
“Oh. Uh—yes. That’s me.” How long had it been since someone in this part of my life used my given name? “Ithoughtyou were ‘Kestrel’?” Derisiveness from her implied air quotes hung in the air as she eyed my electric cello.
“Yep. Both are me.” I smiled weakly. Even Demetrius rarely called me Courtney these days. It wasKestrelwhen he asked me to join him in the main spotlight onstage. It wasKestrelto my new agent. Kestrel in meetings with the label.
“Lovely. Someone gave this to the back-of-house manager to give to you. Guess they knew a guy who knew a guy somewhere? Don’t know. But they said you’d know who it was from and that you would want to know they were here to watch? Very sweet, I’m sure.” She dropped what looked like a note into my open palm and was gone before I could thank her. On closer inspection, I saw it was a bar napkin with a ship logo and a few scribbled lines of blue ballpoint pen beneath.
A rhythmic whooshing sound that might have been my heartbeat drowned out all other noise.
“No…”I crumpled the napkin, grateful I had stuffed it into my bag just before Demetrius appeared beside me.
We walked together out onto the stage. Ten years of playing as an adjunct instrumentalist with Demetrius’s band meant I usually barely had to think at all while doing pre-performance rituals. I hadn’t had nerves like this since I was onstage as a kid singing solos in front of sold-out crowds under yet another name. I rubbed another spot on the right side of my forehead that was stinging and took the deep breaths I’d used when I was a child performer plagued by stage fright. Maybethatwas why I was nervous. Maybe it felt like history was repeating itself, and my body remembered.
I would not let old fears sabotage me.
The lights went down. “You ready to be a star, darling?” Demetrius asked.
My attempt at a cocky snort was strangled by my thick throat. “I guess I’m ready to start shooting for them though.” I winked—or rather, I hadtriedto wink. My eyes still weren’t working right.
Despite this, my legs were steady beneath me as I held my bow and positioned my cello. Everything would be fine.
I wouldnotmess up my second chance.
A Small City in Kansas
NEARLY THREE MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER 1Thea
While male whimpers echoed off the seascape murals, I stabbed my pocketknife into a stubborn section of packing tape. An antiseptic tang hung in the air of Squid Tattoo Shop, mixing with the tangerine scent of the cleaner I had used earlier to scrub the shelves.
A scream—anactualscream like the ones in horror movies—rang out, so startling I nearly cut off my thumb. “Dang it.” The pocketknife clattered onto the counter.
As I grabbed it, I caught my reflection next to the jewelry display. The image was strange somehow. I pulled off my sunflower-colored beanie and scrutinized what was wrong with the mirrored version of me. The long wavy brown hair needed a trim and still refused to sit nicely over my awkwardly growing-out undercut, but overall, those things still looked normal. My makeup was smudged at the corner of my right eye from the hours spent cleaning and my olive skin looked more sallow than usual, but neither was the problem. My vintage denim button-up wasn’ttoodusty. My necklaces weren’t too tangled.
After another second of careful observation, I noted the persistent downward angle of my reflection’s mouth. Somehow the frown made my brown eyes duller than usual.
“Oh my god.”
Some people complained about resting bitch face, but ever since I was a sprout, I’d had the opposite problem. I had restingstop and tell me your life story even though I only said a polite good morning at the gas pumpface.
Marshall had been the first one to point it out. He had spent years of our friendship extricating me from conversation afterconversation with strangers whenever we went out after his college football games. I wasn’t even being hit on.
I was drawn into hyperpersonal monologues about medical problems or endless extended family genealogies. Since Marshall mainly thought in football terms, he developed a signal to run a “TNF” play—Too Nice Faceplay. If I did the signal, which had evolved in levels of subtlety over the years, Marshall would swoop in with all his six-foot-four NFL tight end self and liberate me.
Given that I was normally so smiley it created an actual social problem, Ishouldn’tbe as frowny and grouchy as I felt. Screaming man background noise notwithstanding.
Kansaswas my fresh start after years of failed relationships and all the weirdness with my family obligations back in Alabama. So why did I look like I was sucking on a stale lemon drop? Ishouldbe brimming with happiness and gratitude. I had a good job and a free place to stay for a few months while I figured out a new path for my life away from constantly feeling like an outsider. Ishouldbe ecstatic.
But I, Dorothea Estelle Quinn, felt as ornery as all hell. And I had the sourpuss scowl to match.Unacceptable.
I checked my phone.
Three more missed calls and several texts. My mother was still calling a couple of times a day. The calls had started out normally, but they always ended with a barrage ofI miss yous designed to make me feel guilty rather than make me feel loved. I should have expected that though. When I lived a few miles from my childhood home, Mom relied on me a lot. I had moved several states away, two months sooner than expected, so of course she was having trouble with the transition.
My attention snagged on the date on the screen.
