Page 9 of When the Stars Rise

I wave a hand over my shoulder to acknowledge that I’ve heard him.

“Did you bring an extra helmet?” I ask as we follow security down the stairwell. As if I always ride on the back of his bike. I don’t.

Noah’s gaze sweeps over my high-waisted denim shorts and cropped sweatshirt.

“You’re not getting on the back of my bike in shorts. Besides, we’ll probably be chased all the way to Dean’s house. I’m not risking it.”

But he’s happy to risk his own neck. It leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

We push through the door and step out into the heat, the air heavy and the sky thick with storm clouds. My fans are waiting outside the barricades, jumping up and down and shouting my name. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.

I’m still Hayley Peterson—the shy, small-town girl from Cypress Springs, Texas. In high school, my only claim to popularity was being friends with Noah McCallister. He wasthatguy. The one all the other guys wanted to be and all the girls wanted to be with.

I was just the girl standing in their way.

Noah lets go of my hand, and I immediately feel a sharp pang of loss. “Wait for me? You can follow us to the house.”

“Your PA texted me the address.” He laughs at the look on my face. Annoyance mixed with hurt. “I’ll grab my bike and meet you back here.”

I smile, appeased, and walk over to the people waiting for me—mostly girls in their teens and twenties. I sign whatever they thrust into my hand. I laugh and joke, pose for photos, and hug a girl in a beanie with no eyebrows who tells me my music means so much to her. “I listen to my Hayley Saint James playlist on repeat while I’m getting chemo.”

I can’t speak past the lump in my throat, so I hold her a little longer, a little tighter, praying that she’s strong enough to beat it. “Fuck cancer,” I say when I release her.

We both hold up our middle fingers and then we laugh. Not because it’s funny but because sometimes you have to laugh, or you’ll cry.

Sheis the reason why I do what I do. Not only her but all the other girls who share their stories and tell me that my music has saved them.

Girls who used to cut.

Girls who have contemplated or attempted suicide.

Girls who were bullied by mean girls.

Girls who have lived through unspeakable tragedies.

I love these girls. The survivors. The fighters. The ones who struggle but still dig deep and find the inner strength to keep going.

These girls are just like me.

Fifteen minutes later, I slide into the back seat of the black Escalade with tinted windows and look over my shoulder, ensuring that Noah is right behind us.

As the car whisks me to the Garden District, Noah overtakes us on the expressway, speeding past us so fast he’s a blur on the horizon.

Thunder rumbles, and a crack of lightning splits the sky in two just as the heavens open. Heavy rain drops the size of golf balls pummel the windshield and drown out the music pouring from the speakers.

My heart rate accelerates, and my pulse beats like a drum. I crane my neck and strain my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of Noah through the windshield, but I can’t see anything except taillights.

Guilt mingles with fear, and it’s so strong and pungent that I can smell it on my skin. If Noah hadn’t waited for me, he would have been at Dean’s house before the rain started.

I try to keep my leg from bouncing and my stomach from somersaulting, but I can’t. My fingernails carve crescent-shaped grooves into my palms, and I try to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

The summer Noah and I were seventeen, he told me he wasn’t scared of dying. “The only thing that scares me is leaving you behind.”

That was right before he rappelled down an eighty-foot waterfall after solo-climbing the limestone cliff.

Ever since the accident, he’s been taking bigger and bigger risks. Pushing the boundaries as if he genuinely believes he’s invincible.