He holds me tight and waits until I’ve cried myself out and gradually calmed down. I feel sick, and my forehead is throbbing painfully. Suddenly I’m tired, so infinitely tired.
Easton gently loosens his embrace, just enough so he can lookdown at me. But he doesn’t let go, and I’m glad of it. My legs feel awfully weak, and I’m not sure they would hold me up if he weren’t supporting me. He puts one hand under my chin, lifts it up, and forces me to look up at him. There’s sorrow in his eyes and a deep concern that makes me feel comforted inside. Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone anymore.
He gently wipes the tears off my cheeks, and I try not to think about the fact that they’re not just tears, because my nose is running and so congested that I have to breathe through my mouth to get air. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, or at least he’s not letting it show if he does.
“What do you need?” he finally asks quietly. His voice is a whisper that sends a shiver up my spine.
“Tissues,” I manage to say.
The corners of his mouth twitch, and I almost laugh. I really do. This is totally crazy.
“I’ll get you some. Just a sec.” Now he lets go of me, and it’s also crazy how cold I feel without his hands on my back. I sway slightly without his support but manage to steady myself as he leaves the room. I can hear his footsteps on the stairs; he must not have any tissues up here.
Exhausted, I sit on his bed, even though I know I shouldn’t because it’s his damn bed and there are enough other places to sit down. But I’m so exhausted I don’t care. I don’t care what I look like, and I don’t even care that I wasn’t alone when I broke down. Any other day, at any other moment, I would have been ashamed that someone saw how weak I am. How hurt. But today isn’t any other day, and Easton isn’t just anyone.
I fall onto my back; the mattress is soft. I sniff, but it doesn’thelp the congestion. I still have to breathe through my mouth, and my head is pounding just as much as it was before. My eyelids close, and my body feels very, very heavy. My heartbeat slows a little, and then a little more, until it finally finds its normal rhythm again.
I start as I hear a soft squeak on the stairs, but it’s only Easton, returning to his room. In one hand he has a pack of tissues and in the other a tub of ice cream.
“I’ve heard it’s supposed to help,” he says, holding up the ice cream.
A desperate laugh escapes me. “Yes, I’ve heard that too.”
He hands me the tissues. I sit up and turn away to blow my nose. Easton puts the ice cream down on his bed and goes over to another chest of drawers I didn’t notice before. He turns on a Bluetooth speaker sitting atop it, and there’s a beep as it connects to his phone. A few seconds later, Lana DelRey’s melancholy voice floats through the room, and I think of the messages I wrote to Easton last year. About how Taylor’s music can usually make everything feel better, but Lana is there for the days when everything is unbearable and nothing can make it feel better. Today is one of those days, and he’s found the perfect soundtrack for it.
Then he comes back and joins me on the bed, and we lie back down at the same time with the ice cream between us. We stare at the ceiling in silence.
I blink. “There are stars,” I say suddenly, stretching an arm toward the sloping ceiling. It’s true, his ceiling is dotted with little stars that glow at night when they’ve gotten enough light during the day. I used to have some like that.
“I like stars,” he replies, even though I already know that. There’s a reason I wear a bracelet with a star on it.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the stars, unable to look at him.
He turns to face me; I can hear the sheets beneath him rustling softly. “What for?”
“For asking me not to run away. And for holding me.”
“Anytime.”
“And for not making it too weird to be lying here, even though this is the first time we’ve really talked.”
“We were talking for three months. Texting counts.”
Now I can’t resist; I have to look at him. He returns my gaze unflinchingly, a faint smile playing around his lips. Strands of dark hair fall onto his forehead, and I want to touch them and brush them back, just like he wiped my tears away.
“It really does, doesn’t it?” I say.
His fingers brush against mine, a barely perceptible touch, but it sends a warm tingling through my whole body. “Of course.”
Our hands are so close together that it would only take a tiny motion for them to intertwine. But neither of us moves. I look up at the ceiling again and count the stars above me. There are twenty-nine of them. The ice cream is melting, but I don’t feel like eating anything right now, and Easton isn’t making any effort to reach for the spoons lying between us on the bed, either.
Lana is still singing and filling the silence between us, a silence that feels strangely light and uncomplicated.
“I was living with my grandmother for the last six months,” I say finally. I don’t know why I’m breaking the silence. After being quiet for so long, I feel the urge to talk. “I couldn’t stay at my house. Every day the paparazzi were at the door, and everything felt wrong. Mom and Dad...” I struggle to get the words past the lump in my throat, and now Easton holds my hand. Our fingersintertwine as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, as though we’ve done it a thousand times. “Without them, it wasn’t a home anymore. Do you know what I mean?”
He nods, and I believe him. He really understands. When he looks at me, there’s something in his eyes that makes me want to keep talking and let it all out.
“I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have anyone left.”