Page 10 of She's the Star

“Umm…yes. Thank you,” I stammer.

He nods, pivots, and starts to walk away.

“Thank you!” I shout again. He waves over his shoulder and keeps walking.

I’m so confused. He didn’t ask me for anything. Not even an autograph, or a selfie. I don’t want him to leave without me giving him something in return, but I can’t imagine chasing him down and handing him one of the signed photos in my bag. He’d probably think I was crazy.

If he hadn’t stopped, I’d be—I don’t even know. I feel like I owe him. Maybe I could send him a gift?

I make a mental note to ask Mina if she has any ideas when we get home.

FOUR

NOLAN

Monday morning is harder than I expected it to be.

I wake up early, and while I make an attempt to fall back to sleep, I’ve been waking up at dawn for years—even without an alarm, it seems the routine is firmly established. I flop around for a bit, trying to find a comfortable position, but it doesn’t happen.

Before I get too irritated, I pull myself up and climb out of bed.

Since I have nothing better to do, I get out my French press. I grind the expensive beans a parent gave me a couple weeks ago and use them to brew a cup of coffee. It’s far superior to the single serve cups I’ve come to rely on. Maybe making fancy coffee can be my next endeavor. If I wear a sulky expression, I might be able to pull off brooding barista.

Actually, scratch that—I’m too old. And not nearly tormented enough.

I wonder if a coffee shop would be a safer place to meet women. With a wince, I realize it’s too soon to joke about, even if it’s only in my head.

Sadly, it isn’t too soon to start looking for a new job. A year’s severance is nice, but I was barely scraping by on my salary, and I’ve lost all the perks that came with my job.

No more free lunches. No more access to the sports complex’s gym or pool. Plenty of student loans to pay off. House payments to make. Food to purchase.

I set my coffee down and fling myself onto my IKEA couch. I reassure myself that everything will be fine, but saying it over and over doesn't make it true.

I scrape my hand across my face and try to think happy thoughts. As expected, my mind leads me to replay my encounter with Amber Hope and her daughter.

Amber was obviously having a shit day, and I certainly felt bad about that, but seeing her disheveled and frustrated also called to every protective instinct I’ve ever possessed. I wanted to give her a hug and promise her everything was going to be okay.

I couldn’t do that, so I did the next best thing—I gave her a helping hand.

When I first spotted her, I didn’t even recognize her, but as I got closer, it was impossible not to realize who was kicking their bag and cackling.

I’ve always been a sucker for a damsel in distress. Not that Amber was truly in distress. Her heart-shaped face, wavy platinum hair, and propensity for sparkles might make her look like a fairy tale princess—but she’s not. Everyone knows she’s fierce and strong. She paved her own path with instinct, talent, and determination, and I have zero doubt she would have figured out a solution without my help.

It was a stroke of luck that Maddy was screaming her head off. At least for me.

Children are infinitely easier to figure out than adults, and I could tell what she needed even before Amber thrust her into my arms. Nothing could have restored my confidence in myself quicker than comforting a baby. It was nice to be needed for that brief moment in time.

Drinking my coffee and thinking about Amber doesn’t suck, but eventually I get antsy, so after I finish my second cup, I lace up my sneakers and head outside to get some exercise.

A light breeze ruffles my hair as I lock my bright red door and jog down the steps. I just cut the grass yesterday, and power-washed the white picket fence a couple of weeks ago, so it looks quite tidy. It’s a relatively small house—only two bedrooms, with a large kitchen and a deck in the backyard. Before I moved in, I had a couple of walls taken out, so the living space is open concept, and it feels bigger than it actually is.

I’ve always thought it suited me, but until Saturday, I worked a lot of hours, so I’ve never spent all my time in it. I’m not particularly looking forward to doing so now.

I jog for nearly an hour, attempting to exhaust myself as I zigzag through my neighborhood and nod at people who look like they’re leaving for work. When I’m drenched in sweat and my legs are nearly shaking with fatigue, I head home, fill up a water bottle, and go directly to my back deck. I settle on a lounge chair out of the sun and guzzle the water.

The shade slowly recedes. It’s hot as hell to sit directly under the California rays, but I can’t convince myself to move. It isn’t as if I have anything better to do. The light has just hit my elbows when the doorbell rings. I assume it’s a package, so I don’t bother getting up.

When it rings again a minute later, I pull myself off the chair and head into the house. I reluctantly walk to the door as the bell rings yet again.

---