Page 100 of My Lucky Star
Cem’s thumb brushed mine. “She worried about what anyone said about her, even online. It’s not healthy, especially if you’re famous. That brings out the haters. Burcu read everything and took it to heart. Someone said she ran funny and she spent hours practicing running for a five-second shot. She wanted to make sure nobody had anything bad to say about her. That’s not possible.”
I sighed. I could feel her burden. Poor Burcu had been after perfection.
“What about in her private life?”
“What private life?” Cem’s voice rose in frustration. “She was always on display. Always. Except when we were alone. I could make her relax, and I loved it. I loved that I could free her, for a moment, but being with me... that turned out to be her biggest mistake.” I felt his pain, moving like low-lying fog under his words.
“Why?”
“She was worried about her reputation. It’s different here. Turkey is conservative. And being with me...” Cem paused for a second, his gaze roaming out the window, voice catching in his throat. “I know she regretted it, right after. I would have married her, but she’d made up her mind and I never saw her again.”
I held my breath until I felt dizzy. “You slept with her and she... vanished?”
Cem made a gruff noise, still staring out the window. “Everyone kept telling me it had nothing to do with me, but to this day, I don’t know. I hear a lot of bullshit and I’ve become more aware of that lately.” He turned to me, his eyes catching the light from the streetlamps. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?”
“When I met you, I saw something. Like, a glimpse outside the Matrix, you know? What the world looks like outside of the bubble. It’s brutal. But everything you say, how you see me... it’s like I’m finally looking into a mirror that doesn’t distort.”
I sighed, exaggeratedly. “In other words, I make you feel bad about yourself. I’m the human equivalent of harsh overhead lighting in shopping mall fitting rooms.”
He burst out in laughter and the infectious rumble of it hummed straight to my core. I’d never tire of that sound of pure delight.
“Do you always get rose-tinted lightbulbs?” I asked, thinking of the first time I’d heard about him.
“What?”
“Before you arrived at the hotel, I bumped into the janitor, and he said he had to change the lightbulbs before you arrived.”
“Seriously?” Cem stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“I thought it was your request, but now I’m thinking that was probably...” I nodded at the front seat, my voice barely above whisper.
Cem nodded, averting my eyes. “He’s big on lighting and photography, but I never thought he’d go that far.”
He shook his head, staring out the window. When he finally turned back to me, I saw tears in his eyes. I couldn’t tell if they were from laughter or something else. “You make me feel alive, Aria. Real. I want real. It’s worth more than a thousand beautiful lies. Even if it sometimes hurts. Please don’t change.”
I looked straight into his pleading eyes. “I promise I’ll never become one of your star-struck fan girls, even if your fame and fortune freaks me out a little.”
It was a promise to me rather than to him. He’d likely grow tired of my honesty and stupid jokes, and retreat into his bubble of comfortable lies. Who wouldn’t?
I stared at my fingernails, which Melis had filed smooth and covered with gold-tinted polish. They helped me imagine myself as Burcu, channeling absolute control, chasing perfection. Always alert, always on, never sloppy like Aria, that crazy Kiwi.
The familiar buzz of performance returned, energizing every cell in my body. I’d missed acting so much. I’d gone without it like on life support, alive but not kicking. Not really here.
Tarik turned into a narrow alleyway and stopped short of hitting a wall. He opened the door for Cem, who in turn opened my door and helped me onto the uneven stone pavement. I aimed my heels carefully, avoiding any obvious wobbles until we reached a heavy, paneled door.
A staunch maître ‘d greeted us at the door, passing us to a waiter who had an air of authority. He led us through the restaurant of exposed brick, gilded mirrors and intricate lighting, to an elevated terrace with expansive ocean views. The European side of Istanbul glimmered across the strait, and the bridge connecting the two sides glowed against the inky sky in festive lighting.
The waiter showed us to a far-off table by the balustrade. I noticed heads turning as we crossed the terrace but kept my eyes on the table. The night felt warm, warmer than I’d expected, and I let Cem help me out of my coat. When I took the seat he offered, I noticed the terrace heaters radiating like giant, floating fireplaces on either side of us.
Cem sat across the table, placing his elbows on the white cloth as he leaned in to smile at me. The waiter stared at him, either shocked at his table manners or starstruck, I couldn’t tell. I heard the faint rustle of the other diners turning on their seats and the low murmur of their commentary. The air bristled with tension. It was probably a blessing I didn’t speak Turkish.
I held my tongue, terrified to blow our cover. From the corner of my eye, I saw someone raising their phone to take a photo. Someone else stood up from a table behind Cem, moving closer to for a better shot. Would they actually let us eat? Bathing in the blissful warmth from the heaters, I felt my spine relax and eyelids dip, but the steady supply of adrenaline kept me upright.
I held a gracious smile and gazed adoringly at Cem as he rattled off what I hoped was our dinner order in Turkish. The waiter nodded and left.
When we were finally alone, I leaned closer and whispered. “It’s probably too late to tell you I hate squid.”
