Page 41 of The Sun and Her Star

Except that I almost kissed Apollo. I know it’s stupid to be so prudish about this shit. I’ve been out of there for six years. But Mama reminds me almost every time I see Apollo that I need to finish school. That Apollo is still a girl.

So, I’ll wait. But once I finish my degree and get my master’s, I can get a good job.

I have a plan. From teaching to administration. And then, I’d have a salary that could make us comfortable. We’d still have to fly economy, but I could afford a hotel in London and a meal at The Savoy.

I could have picked a more lucrative career path, but I really want to teach. Reading a book is what put me in the right place at the right time when the sun fell from the sky and needed me to rescue her. And before that, my book was the hope I clung to even when I thought the world had forgotten I existed. I want to give that to other children.

Apollo believing I can makes me think I can, too. Now, it’s not just an idea. It’s a conviction. I wish the path was a little smoother, but nothing worth having is easy to attain. And Apollo is wortheverything.

Interrupted

Apollo

“We’re almost there. Come on,” he says and looks back to his phone. I let him lead me, content to be able to watch him as he tries to follow the directions on the maps app on his phone, instead of trying to figure out where we’re going and take the chance to feast my eyes on him.

After he left Cain’s Weeping, we exchanged letters, books, and phone calls for three years before we saw each other again.

When I got back from my trip to Fredericksburg that summer, the first thing I did was drop that letter in the outgoing mail of the hotel’s concierge.

Maman was home. She seemed better. And for a while after we got back, she was.

We still lived in one of the penthouses of the Locklear Casinos. My father’s younger brother was now the head of the organization. The first decision he made was that they should move their corporate headquarters to Delaware. So, they did. He, my cousin Josh, his wife, and their dogs, all moved, too.

It was just Maman and me. We rubbed along okay. We spent a lot of time together. But we never talked about Papa and Arti. On my birthday in October of that year, she had a panic attack. The first of many that resulted in long bouts of agoraphobia and depression. The first one lasted nearly an entire month.

She didn’t leave her room, except to use the bathroom. She needed me to do everything, and she didn’t want anyone else in the apartment.

I became Mama’s companion, caretaker, maid, and cook. She hired a teacher to school me at home, and we almost never left the house. When Graham’s first letter arrived more than a year after I’d last seen him, it had been a lifeline. Even though we couldn’t visit each other yet, we wrote constantly, shared books, and talked on the phone.

I remember being so afraid that the memories I had of him were based on a childish fantasy that he couldn’t possibly live up to in person.

Instead, he was even more incredible.

He’d been a beautiful boy.

As a man, he’s devastatingly handsome. Thanks to his devotion to the gym, his six-foot-four frame has gone from lanky to ripped and broad. His closely cropped dark blond beard hides the dimples that give his smile an air of innocence.

Now, when he shares a wide, full mouth smile, it’s nothing but sexy. Whenever it’s aimed at me, my knees go weak. But my favorite thing about Graham are his stormy gray eyes. They ground me, like a gravitational force.

When he looks at me, IknowI’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

And then there’s that hair. Once when I teased him about growing it to impress me, he’d told me that it was the only way he could sleep.

He had nightmares about the day his head was shaved. When he started growing it, he’d started sleeping better. He said it reminded him that he was the master of his own destiny.

But I’ve seen him bald, beaten, bound, and bloody. Never once did he appear anything less than bright and special. It’s not his hair or his face or even that ridiculous body that makes him a star. It’s his generous, curious, hopeful soul that does it. He bleeds charm. Sweats charisma. He’s funny, curious, and hardworking.

Everyone loves him. From the lady who works the deli counter at his grocery store to the professor he’s a teaching assistant for.

I’d want to kiss him even if he had purple skin and blue hair. It’s just a nice bonus that he’s also the best looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

The last few times we’ve seen each other, something’s started to change. The way he touches me … His fingers linger on my waist a little longer than normal when he hugs me. When he’s holding my hand, his pinkie caresses the sensitive skin on the inside of my wrist for just a second before he lets go.

His eyes drift to mine, and I was sure he was thinking about kissing. But then, he’s never tried. I wonder what would happen ifI tried.

I want to try. I haverealfeelings for him.

Not the childish crush that was borne of hero worship and a mutual love of books.

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