Catch a Falling Star (27 page)

wings. I had a flash of him darting through the late evening of our

yard, his Batman cape streaming behind him. “Carter, don’t get

the sheriff. I’m leaving.” His eyes looked upward. “Er, I mean, I’ll

leave.”

Adam stood and gave Mik a quick nod. Mik released T.J., who,

like a small animal that’d been trapped beneath the paw of a sud-

denly generous Rottweiler, dashed off down the driveway.

That night at home, I texted John:

T.J.’s looking for you.

When I woke up the next morning for my shift at the café, he

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still hadn’t answered, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him

or heard from him since that night outside the Jensens’ barn.

I texted him again:

Where did you go, John?

“Jones?” I poked my head into the kitchen. “Did you clean the

bathroom already?”

He didn’t glance up from his morning prep, small piles of

chopped red bell pepper, onion, and tomatoes. Ready for the

breakfast rush. “Sure did.”

I leaned on the door frame, watching him chop. “You didn’t

have to do that; it was my turn.”

He gave his tattooed shoulders the smallest of shrugs, more

of a wink. “Seems to me, you’ve got enough on your plate this

morning.”

He meant the reporters outside. They seemed to be multiply-

ing, filling up our café tables, perched on curbsides, hanging out

on the back of their rented cars. A plague of press. I’d been

approached by individual members before, but this morning a pack

of them crowded the gates of Little Eats.

“That was some kiss last night at the fireworks — are you two serious?”

“Did you know about the song?”

“What will you do when he goes back to L.A.?”

“Is Adam helping with your brother’s gambling problem?”

Parker’s words echoed in my ears.
Don’t talk to the press
. I had

tried smiling in a friendly-but-distant sort of way, and hurried

inside to the ever-present snapping of cameras.

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“I can still clean a bathroom,” I said to Jones, but crossed and

gave his arm a squeeze under the auspices of reaching for a roll of

paper towels.

He stopped chopping a red pepper and let his eyes fall on me,

those gray eyes that looked like sheet metal. “I know you can clean

a bathroom. You can do a lot of things. But other people can also

help you.”

I wasn’t used to Jones stringing that many words together. It

struck me as the only sort of advice he’d ever given me. “Thanks.”

I flipped the sign from CLosed to opeN, my gaze falling on a

clump of men with cameras leaning against the outside of the

waist-level white fence that separated our patio from the main

sidewalk. One of them, his straw bowler hat pulled low, perked up

when he saw me through the window.

I moved out of sight before he could raise his camera.

The next couple days of shooting were at the Little Club, Little’s

only tennis and golf (nine holes) club. I sat in my chair in Video

Village, watching Adam shoot a scene with the actor who played

his father, one of the pivotal scenes where Scott realizes he’s been

wasting his life and needs to make a change.
Building an epiphany arc.

The actor playing the father, someone I recognized from tele-

vision but couldn’t quite place, sat across from Adam at a table by

the window, staring out over the golf course. Hunter crouched

beside him, one arm resting on the white linen tablecloth. He gave

him some whispery direction, his other hand moving in big ges-

tures, his Sundance cap bobbing as he spoke.

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Someone slipped into the seat next to me, a flash of dark and

light out of the corner of my eye.

Beckett Ray.

I had sort of forgotten about Beckett Ray. Until now.

Catching my eye, she waved in an overdramatized way consid-

ering how close we were sitting, a wide smile on her pale face.

“Hi!” she whispered.

I nodded, trying to find the sort of smile that wouldn’t seem

like I’d tasted something awful. She stared intently at the actors,

her lake-blue eyes searching the scene as one would the surface of

an ocean where someone had gone under.

Why was she here? She wasn’t in this scene.

Hunter called for a short break, still huddled at the table with

Adam and the TV actor.

“Isn’t this incredible, Carter!?” Beckett chirped. “Well, I don’t

know how incredible it is for you. You’re not an
actor
. But as an

actor
, this is just thrilling.” Beckett held the word
actor
in her mouth

as if she were having it bronzed.

“Are you in this scene?” I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.

She tossed her dark mane of hair. “Oh no, I’m done shooting

my scene. But Adam suggested I watch some of the shoot. You

know, get some guidance, make connections. Acting’s really all

about connections. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,

you know?”

I didn’t know.

I shrugged, pretending to search my bag for something, any-

thing to avoid eye contact. Gum. I found gum.

“This has been such an incredible opportunity for me.” Beckett

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swelled like an overfilled balloon, waving away my offer of

minty gum.

Adam finished talking to Hunter, spotted us, and sauntered

over. “Well, if it isn’t Little’s two most beautiful women.” His eyes

darted to the crew members nearby, making sure they’d noticed.

This was one of my least favorite versions of Adam, the one who

played to the whole room, who saw every person as a potential

audience member. I even preferred obsessed-with-his-iPhone

Adam over this guy.

Beckett’s laugh trilled throughout the room. Probably because

his comment was just so
incredible
. At least to an
actor
.

Adam narrowed his eyes a bit at me. “Did you like the scene?”

Before I could answer, Beckett jumped in, her voice almost

squeaky. “Adam, you are so at
ease
in that scene. I just love what

you’re doing when your father asks you about your lunch — how

the way you describe your hamburger is this huge metaphor for

what’s wrong in your own life. You never noticed the pickles

before. Brilliant.”

“It’s not too overt?” He tilted his head, his arms crossed on his

chest.

I actually did think it was too overt, that he lingered too long

on the pickles comment, as if the audience would miss it if he

didn’t punctuate it for us, but I didn’t tell him that. He didn’t want

to hear that; I could tell by his face he wanted praise and only

praise.

“It’s perfectly in balance,” Beckett gushed. “You never noticed

the
pickles
before. But you do
now
, right? Brilliant.”

“Brilliant pickles,” I added.

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They both stared at me.

I buried the pack of gum in my bag. “You know, I should really

go help my dad with the lunch rush.”

Beckett gave me an overly sympathetic nod. “It’s so cute that

you work for your parents. Carter’s such a small-town poster girl.”

Why couldn’t something heavy fall on Beckett Ray? Just this

once. A pulsing started behind my eyes. I didn’t seem to know

about acting and pickle metaphors, but I did know I seriously had

to get out of this room. The air-conditioning felt too chill, the

corner where we sat too dark, everything shoved aside at odd

angles to make room for the film equipment.

“You okay, Carter?” Adam’s brow furrowed. “You look kind of

weird.”

“I think it’s just the air-conditioning.” I scooped up my bag,

gave a short wave, and hurried from the room, but still in time to

see Beckett stand and curl up next to Adam like a dark-haired cat.

I ended up working the rest of the day at Little Eats, a welcome

distraction so I didn’t have to think too much about Adam and

Beckett. I was just about to switch off the lights for the night when

I heard a light tap at the back door of the café. Jones had gone

home, but I thought I’d wait out the last few reporters still hanging

out near the front fence, the night darkening their faces. Opening

the door a crack, I found John standing there, hands shoved

into the front pockets of his jeans. His face was sallow, but his

eyes flickered with relief when he saw me. “Hey, little sis. I was

hoping you’d be here.”

217

Dad would be furious at me for letting him in, but I held the

door wider. “Hey.” I ushered him in, locking the door behind him,

and he followed me out through the kitchen to the front. “You

hungry? We have some sandwiches left.”

He slid into a chair at one of the blond tables. “That’d be

great.”

I hurried to put a plate together for John, pour some tea over

ice. I sat across from him while he ate for a few minutes, his eyes

downcast, his face dimly lit by the low glow of the drink cases.

“Did you get my texts?” I toyed with the pile of paper napkins

I’d set out in front of him.

He shook his head. “I don’t have my phone anymore.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Without warning, he broke down, dropping the rest of the

sandwich onto its plate, tears streaking his face. I froze. The only

time I’d ever seen my brother cry was when he’d fractured his arm

falling out of my tree house when he was twelve. “Oh, oh, John,”

was all I could manage. Chewing my lip, I scooted my chair closer

to his, not sure if I should hug him or punch him or call my par-

ents. I opted for sitting and watching him cry.

After a few moments, he took a ragged breath. “I never meant

for T.J. to come after you.” I started to explain that he hadn’t

really come after me, but he rushed on. “I heard he was bothering

you at Fourth of July, threatening you. I never meant for any of

this . . .” He trailed off, his red-rimmed eyes blinking. “I never

meant any of it.”

“I know.” We sat quietly, listening to the hum of the drink

218

cases, the passing of cars on the street outside. “I just want you to

be okay.”

He took a long drink from his sweating iced-tea glass, empty-

ing it, then mopped his damp hand off on his jeans. “I can fix it,”

he said.

Listening to him, my heart hurt. I’d heard him make that

promise to my parents so many times before. Needing a minute to

myself, I said, “Hang on a second, okay? I’m going to get you more

tea.” I grabbed his glass and headed toward the kitchen where I was

brewing a fresh batch. Even before I’d reached the jar of tea, still

warm from its earlier soak in the sun, I heard the click of a lock

and the bell on the front door jingle. I dashed back out to the front.

John was gone.

At the table, surrounding his empty plate, he’d left a spray of

shiny green glass drops, the dragon tears he used to scatter under

the trees in our yard, back when he told me about the fairies who

lived there and I’d believed him.

219

eighteen

“have you seen this?” Chloe slapped a copy of
Entertainment Now!

on the counter. It was folded to an inside page, something cal ed

“Caught!” What would these entertainment magazines do if the world

suddenly lost the exclamation point? I squinted at the picture. I was in

a little cut-out window shaped like a jagged heart, looking bereft

(probably because I’d just cleaned the espresso machine), and the

main picture showed Adam with Beckett, both laughing on the set.

I’d spent today helping Dad, ignoring Adam’s texts, and avoiding the

Little Club, but the picture must have been taken back when they

were in a scene together because Beckett was wearing an apron.

The caption read:
Adam Jakes Breaks a Little Heart
.

Seriously, what if my town had been called Pineville or

something?

I pushed it out of the way. “She’s in the movie with him. I

already knew this.” I turned back to the decaf latte I’d been mak-

ing for the very patient gentleman in the tan khakis and polo shirt

who Chloe had just stormed in front of at the counter.

“Look where his hand is!” Chloe widened her eyes at me.

I handed the man his latte and a free cookie for being so patient.

The heat was making people cranky and demanding, and he hadn’t

220

even blinked an eye when Chloe cut in front of him. “Thanks for

your patience.” Smiling his response, he settled into a seat by the

window and flipped open a copy of the
Sacramento Bee
.

Upon closer inspection of Chloe’s magazine, I could see that,

yes, Adam’s hand appeared to be on Beckett’s hindquarters.

Pushing aside the thick rope of dread coiling in my stomach, I said,

“They’re just working together.”

Chloe snorted and circled the offensive hand with one of the

many Sharpies she kept in her pockets. I wanted to tell Chloe that

it really wasn’t any of my business where Adam Jakes put his hand.

He wasn’t paying me to monitor his extracurricular habits . . . or