Catch a Falling Star (32 page)

it into, but just doing it. Because it made the world more beautiful

to me to be dancing in it. He’d said I would regret leaving it behind,

that I was already building my regret.

Why had I felt there were only two options?

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1. Hardcore professional-track dancing, the path all my

teachers had wanted for me, expected of me.

2. Nothing.

When I thought about it, it seemed so immature. Like a child

who, because she couldn’t stomach a massive sixteen-scoop sun-

dae, suddenly refused all ice cream. I’d turned down New York,

but I didn’t have to turn it
all
down. Why hadn’t I considered the

wide expanse of middle ground, of other possibilities?

There was a knock on the door frame, and Adam poked his

head into the tree house. “Let’s make up,” he said with a smile.

Seeing him was like sinking into a hot bath.

I motioned him in. “I forgive you.”

“Um, you mean I forgive
you
.”

“If you say so.” I thought of our fight. Yesterday, Chloe had sent

me a text:
I’m that shoulder!
— with links to several of the online

celebrity sites documenting our fight, a picture of me actually cry-

ing on their shoulders afterward, and a few other articles about the

fight. They had headlines like, “Big Trouble in Little Paradise?”

I’d deleted the text.

Adam settled against the wall next to me, staring out the slat

of window. “Wow, look at that sunset.” I noticed the faint traces of

makeup at his temples. He must have just come from shooting.

I offered him a Junior Mint. “Beautiful, huh? I love this time

of day.”

He popped it into his mouth. “You love whatever time of day it

is.” He brushed some hair away from the side of my face, his touch,

as always, leaving an electric glaze on my skin. He dropped his

hand back into his lap. “I don’t know how you do it.”

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“Do what?”

“Just always love being right where you are.” He breathed in

deeply. “It’s like you were born without any restlessness at all. You

don’t seem to need anything other than what you have.”

I shot him a wary look. “I’m warning you, if you make any

Hobbit references at all, I will punch you in the face.” But I thought

about what Dad had said earlier, about being the sort of person

who just loved things. Somehow, I felt like I should apologize for

it, for being fine right here.

He held up his hands in mock defense. “No, seriously, I would

give anything for that. To be able to — how did you describe it

when I first met you? Not venture outside the fence. It’s very

grounded and sweet.”

I gave a sort of snort. “Yeah, lots of good it’s doing me. People

don’t trust it.”

Adam thought about it. “I think people tend to confuse your

sweetness with being naïve or sheltered, and I don’t think that’s

you. You know there are bad things in the world. You’re even try-

ing to make them better. Just like your parents.”

“My parents are kicking me out.” He looked at me quizzically,

and I told him about my list, about the talk with my parents about

life after Little.

Adam helped himself to a few more Junior Mints. “I think they

worry you’ll have regrets.” At my dark look, he hurriedly added, “I

know, I know . . . you probably don’t believe in regret.”

Sighing, I said, “I think my theory might be faulty. Apparently,

you can’t have regrets until you’re too old to do anything about

them.” I shook the last of the mints from the box. “I’m sure they’re

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worried that the regret won’t be about what might have happened,

but more about never trying in the first place.” A breeze came in

through the window, cooling my face, and sending the wind

chimes in our neighbor’s yard singing.

Adam contemplated the evening light sneaking into the tree

house. Outside, the sherbet colors had faded, leaving the sky

bruised and pale. “You know, you can love a place and still leave it.

It’s always here. It’s not going anywhere.”

“I know. It’s just that I like it here already. I have roots here.”

Outside, the crickets started an early chirping. Adam said,

“I’m not sure I like the whole roots thing.”

“Why not?”

“It’s so limiting. It’s like, well, you have roots here, so you have

to rip them up if you want to go anywhere else. It’s so . . . botani-

cal. Like we’re a bunch of semi-transplantable shrubs or some-

thing.” He gave a little shudder.

I studied the shadows moving along the walls of the tree house.

“Having roots is a real thing. You don’t get it because you’re, well,

because you’re famous. Your world is too big.”

He winced. “Judge much? I can’t have roots because I’m from

Hollywood? Small towns have the market cornered on roots? It’s

not true, you know. I know I can always be in L.A., but it doesn’t

mean I can’t go other places, be other places.”

“But that’s your job.”

“I guess. But I like to think of L.A. as my home port. I can sail

around wherever, but it’s always a place to put down my anchor.

Yeah, I like the anchor metaphor better than the root one. More

room to move with the anchor metaphor.”

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My mind reeled with anchor and shrub imagery. I saw his

point, but I was sticking with my roots. “I think small towns get

such a bad reputation. No one ever criticizes kids who want to stay

living in L.A. or New York. They’re allowed to stay in their home-

towns without people thinking they’re closing off their options.”

Adam shrugged. “Maybe, but I think the point is to try new

things.”

“I try new things! Yesterday, I ate a white beet.”

“Yes, that’s an adventure, all right.”

“Have
you
tried a white beet?”

“I doubt it.”

The room had darkened around us, cocooning us in the

upcoming night. I wanted to tell him that I thought there were

anchor people and there were root people and those were different

sorts of people. I wanted to say that not everyone had to have

adventure for their lives to feel full, but I heard the back door slam

shut. Hurried footsteps crossed our deck, then Dad stuck his head

through the tree house door, his face twisted with worry.

“What is it?” My body tensed.

Dad nodded quickly to Adam. “It’s your brother. He’s in the

hospital. We have to go.”

Adam’s gaze slipped between us. “Mik’s out front. He can

drive us.”

This was not the Christmas hospital of Adam’s movie shoot. No

festive decorations, no nurses wearing holiday-themed scrubs. It

was empty and white. The woman working the front desk gave us

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a wan smile before handing Dad a clipboard, dark circles beneath

her eyes, no Kelly to dab on some concealer at last look. After Dad

filled out the necessary information, he’d gone off in search of the

doctor while Mom and I sat in the waiting room on a couple

of cracked blue chairs. Adam stood near the vending machines,

avoiding the stacks of magazines strewn about. Two had his picture

somewhere on the cover. The only other person in the waiting

room was an old man in a flannel shirt and running shorts reading

a hunting magazine. He sat with his fish-belly-white legs splayed

out like opened scissors. He hadn’t recognized Adam or, if he had,

he didn’t care. Above us, two of the fluorescent lights buzzed,

shuddering off, then on, every few minutes.

Mom watched Adam in what she thought was a sly way, but I

noticed. “Stop staring at him,” I whispered.

“I’m not.” She kept staring. “He’s so good-looking.”

Adam’s phone buzzed. Annoyed, he texted something. “Adam,

if you have to go, you can go,” I told him. “We’ll be fine.”

He tucked his phone into the pocket of his lemon-colored

shorts. “They need to reshoot something. Hunter’s imploding. You

sure you’re okay?”

“We’re
fine
,” I assured him. “The doctor said he’s not in critical

condition.”

Adam glanced first at me and then at Mom, his face creased with

concern. “You can call if you need anything.” He crossed the room

in big strides and gave me a sloppy bear hug, my body enveloped;

before I could hug him back, he stepped away, engulfing Mom next.

Surprised, Mom gaped at me over his shoulder. Pulling back,

he nodded once more at me before disappearing through the glass

259

doors of the hospital into the purpled light. I could see Mik idling

the Range Rover through the window, his brake lights glowing.

Several hospital employees standing outside perked up as they

watched Adam climb into the back. They watched the Range

Rover disappear.

“What was that?” Mom adjusted her shirt.

“Turns out, the jerk’s a pretty nice guy.” I studied the spot

where the Range Rover had been parked. I would miss Adam Jakes

when he left Little in a few days. That, at least, was the truth. I

wasn’t sure about all that had happened between us, about our

blurry line between what was real and what was scripted, but I

knew when he left, he would leave behind an Adam-shaped space

in my life.

Dad emerged into the room, his face pale. He twisted his base-

ball cap in his hands. “We can go see him.” He motioned for us, his

face sad. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”

Pretty bad shape didn’t really cover it. I hovered in the door-

way, my breath caught somewhere in my chest. John was like

wadded-up Kleenex, a crumple in the bed under pale sheets. His

body seemed like one tie-dyed bruise, swirls of yellow, blue, pur-

ple, and rust covering his skin. His left eye was swollen, like a

halved apple had been fastened to his face, and his mouth had a gash

bisecting it perpendicularly, dividing it into quadrants. He was

bandaged, wrapped, taped, stapled, essentially held together like a

rag toy.

My brother, the patchwork quilt.

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Mom made a sound like a wounded animal, a whimper. Slowly,

she went to his side, touched his arm. He stirred, one eye opening

only a slit, the other not opening at all.

“Mom?” He tried to sit up.

“Don’t,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “Don’t try to move.”

They whispered a bit to each other. Finally, Dad motioned for

Mom to follow him into the hall. They brushed past me in the

doorway, and I went to sit with my brother.

“You don’t look so hot.” I smoothed some hair out of his eyes.

“Take pictures,” he managed through his cracked lips.

We sat in silence for a couple minutes.

“Carter?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t —” He tried to lick his lips, but he couldn’t even man-

age that. “Don’t give T.J. any money.”

“I won’t.” I held his hand. “Mom has help for you. She has a

place you can go.”

He blinked one eye at me. “Yeah, she mentioned.” Even under

the mounds of blankets and pain medication, I could sense his body

resisting.

“You have to go. It’s best for you.” I squeezed his hand.

“I know.”

We listened to the hum of the hospital room, the whirl of the

air-conditioning. Someone flushed a toilet in the next room.

I wanted to ask him where T.J. was, if we could do anything,

but my brother had fallen asleep again.

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Outside, I texted Mik so he could give me a ride home. My parents

were staying with John for now, and I would drive my car back to

get them. The night had cooled, but compared to the icebox

temperature of the hospital, it felt warm. My body shuddered a bit

in the sudden freshness of air. It wasn’t too late, maybe ten, but a

spray of stars freckled the night sky. I tilted my head up, scanning

it, and didn’t see the man until he was standing next to me.

“Oh!” I started.

He held up his hands in apology. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare

you.” It was the man from the café, the one with the decaf latte

who Chloe had powered in front of the other day to show me

Adam’s hand on Beckett’s backside. This time, he was dressed in

khaki pants and a green polo shirt, and wore a badge on his belt.

“I’m Clint Meadows, Senior Investigator.” He gave a nod toward

his badge. “Sorry about your brother in there.”

“Oh, right, thanks.” Investigator? John must have done some-

thing pretty bad this time.

“Did Adam mention he’d given me a call?” I shook my head.

Investigator Meadows nodded, his closely cut hair gray in the faint

outside lights of the hospital. “Probably best. Adam shadowed with

me a while back for a movie he was working on. A week or so ago,

he called me about some of the stuff going on with your brother.”

He gazed out over the parking lot, narrowing his eyes at a couple

of guys leaning against a Honda. He let his eyes slip back to me. “I

looked into it. Small stuff, mostly.”

My mouth went dry. “Not small to us.”

“Right. No, of course. Listen, I’m heading back to Sac tonight.

Got another case I need to get back to, and I already spoke to your