Page 48 of With Stars in Her Eyes

Courtney

I stood at the window Thea had just climbed out of. I allowed myself the luxury of considering crying for five whole minutes, but my face remained dry. I was still in control.

And also… oh…

I took a big deep breath in and pushed it out again, enjoying the feeling of nothing while it lasted.

This had become a daily habit. Soon after waking, I felt that dull, ominous ache on one side of my head, often along with the tingly paresthesia around one side of my mouth.

I had spent every day since the disaster in LA waiting and expecting these harbingers.

But there were no subtle migraine symptoms so far today. I touched the hoop in my daith piercing. Maybe it was helping. Or maybe it was the new injection medication.

Or maybe it was the psilocybin.

Something did feel different today.

Goose bumps had risen on my arms. I had left the window open like I expected Thea to crawl back inside. I didn’t know how long I stood there.

This was pointless.

I shut the window hard enough that the wall shook.

Of course Thea was angry. I rustled through the sheets I’d been sleeping under just minutes ago and found my notebook.

I had woken before dawn, and my fingers had been aching for my bow.

When was the last time I’d felt that way?

When I opened my eyes before all this happened, I’d felt energized in a way I hadn’t since those nights after leaving Jeremiah, when writing and playing had become a compulsion for months.

I had spent an hour before dawn creepily staring at Thea between scribbling song fragments in my notebook.

Then I had gotten back into bed and curled up against a distractingly naked Thea and dozed off.

And now Thea was gone.

I rubbed my bare upper arms.

The house’s old thin walls meant I could make out voices from the kitchen, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying.

Of course Sam would let Demetrius in.

Why shouldn’t she? Their now mega-famous old college buddy had appeared on her best friend’s doorstep in Kansas and probably shouldn’t be left knocking on the door for an hour in case paparazzi showed up or whatever the hell superfamous people who don’t perform under a fake stage persona needed to worry about.

Anger at Demetrius wasn’t fair. None of what happened was his fault. He should be pissed at me.

All of this was my fault.

But given that I’d texted him a final no, why the hell was he here now?

I pulled on sweatpants and an old sweater and headed down the hall to face the music. Facing the music being more of a literal thing than a cliché at the moment since “the music” had been featured on last month’s Rolling Stone cover.

When I came downstairs, Sam had left. Demetrius sat alone at the kitchen table. He held up his phone where I could see the screen.

I gasped. “Oh my god. No .”