Page 37 of If the Stars Align
I almost forgot that he used to call me darling. Instantly, the floodgates open, and I break down in tears.
I’ve spent the past six months trying my damnedest to repress, ignore, escape,denythe inconceivable pain of losing the one true love of my life, and in the ten seconds it takes me to read an innocuous email from hisdad, I crumble to bits.
Sounds about right.
I call Sam right away. I don’t know how much she even understands in between my heaving sobs, but she instructs me to pack a bag for the weekend and says she’ll be outside my dorm in fifteen minutes to pick me up.
For the first hour I’m at their apartment, all I do is cry on the couch while Sam and Claire stand in the kitchen with their arms crossed, disagreeing over how to handle me in not-so-hushed whispers. Sam wins the coin toss, but when two mugs of her special tea don’t do the trick, Claire, who was the last of us to turn twenty-one and is eager to get carded, leaves for the corner store with a triumphant grin and comes back with a bottle of tequila, which turns out to be much more effective. We sleep in on Sunday, get brunch, watch movies all afternoon and, before I leave, I use Sam’s computer to respond to Mr. Dexter’s email.
Thanks so much for thinking of me. I just got a job helping with a legal research project on the Chicago campus at Northwestern, so I’ll likely stay here this summer. Hope all is well. Warmly, Sunny.
Then I go back to my dorm room and, feeling depleted both physically and mentally, I crawl into bed and pass out.
When I wake up the following morning, I have one new message from John Dexter.
Of course you did, darling. We’re so very proud of you. Bestof luck.
Tears start to form in my eyes again, but I take deep breaths like Sam taught me, and I’m able to will them away. There’s no time for tears. I’m starting my new job today.
I finish getting dressed and catch the intercampus shuttle to downtown Chicago. It’s a cold, gray day, which sums up the entirety of January through May in the Windy City. I walk past the law school and eye a group of first-year students heading to class with Civil Procedure treatises in one hand and large cups of takeout coffee in the other.
They look stressed.
I heave a sigh and continue toward my destination—an academic building just south of the law school. I find the office on the third floor. There’s one person checking in ahead of me, so I wait by the windows. I’m gazing at the lake’s choppy waves when I hear a voice from behind me.
“Sunny? Is that you?”
I whip my head around and am met by a mountain of a man—broad shoulders, prominent biceps and pecs under a soft knit sweater. Because he’s so tall, it takes a few seconds before my eyes fly up to land on his, which are squinting at me through a pair of stylish Clark Kent glasses. It’s not until I see his kind smile that I recognize him.
“Asher Abadie!” I exclaim. It’s tall, thin-as-a-rake, Asher from middle school. But he isn’t thin as a rake anymore.
He looks down at the clipboard in his hand, then back at me. “My boss gave me your CV about five minutes ago and told me I’d be training you. I wondered if you were the same Sunny from Beachwood and, as soon as I saw your curly hair, I knew.”
I’m rattled. Those are the same words Dex once said to me.
But now’s not the time to think about him.
“I’m impressed you remember me,” I tell Asher. “You only went to school with us for a couple of years, right?”
“Yeah, my dad was in the Air Force, so we moved around a lot. But you have one of those faces that’s hard to forget,” he says before clearing his throat and looking down at his shoes. “I remember you had that crush on…what was his name, again?” He looks back up. “Oh right, Dex. I’m surprised he’s not some famous Hollywood actor yet. You still talk to him?”
“No. We’re not in touch anymore.” My heart aches saying the words. I hope Asher doesn’t notice. “So, you go to Northwestern too?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“I do. Psychology major. And you’re interested in—law?” he asks while flipping through my CV.
“I am.”I guess.
My romance-writing dream is all but dead. I mean, how the heck am I supposed to write happy endings when my own love story is a tragedy? But, again, it’s not the time to worry about that.
“Have you been working on this project for a while?” I ask, struggling to bring back my attention.
“Almost two full years now,” Asher says as he combs his fingers through his hair. His sweater lifts, revealing a hint of his abs, and something flutters in my stomach.
Probably just nerves on my first day of work.
“Let me show you to your desk, and we can get started,” he continues. We walk into an adjacent room where several people are working quietly on computers, most of them with headphoneson. “So, this is you,” he says, pulling a chair out for me. I take a seat, and he reaches across me to maneuver my mouse. I have to make a concerted effort not to stare at the rock-hard triceps barely hiding underneath his rolled-up sleeves.
Wow. Asher sure has changed since he was a gangly preteen. How did he get this ripped? He must work out a lot. Shit! Did he just ask me something?
