The Stars Will Shine (24 page)

Dylan wanders over and spends a few seconds pushing his wet, flattened hair out of his eyes. When he manages to wipe it all back from his face so that it’s flipped backward and sticks up in every direction, he takes us in with a serious, almost childlike countenance.

“I love you guys,” he says and pulls us into a group hug.

Aiden and I protest, but Dylan only pulls us in tighter.

“I’m so gonna hold those words against you when you’re sober,” I mutter.

Dylan calmly shushes me.

“Feeling better, buddy?” Aiden asks, his cheek smooshed against Dylan’s shoulder.

Dylan nods solemnly. “Rain is a tonic, man,” he replies like a stoner. “So fucking therapeutic.”

When he lets us go, a brightness in his pupils lights up his usually endlessly dark eyes. “Let’s write a song when we get back,” he says. “We’ll put Delilah on the keyboard. She’s killer at it.”

Aiden looks at me, and I drop my gaze to my feet without a response, a flush in my cheeks.

When we head back to the car, Aiden tugs on the strap of my dress and says so that only I can hear, “You told me you played no instruments. You lied to me.”

I look sideways at him. “Does that really surprise you?”

“You’re a liar,” he says, clutching his heart.

I roll my eyes. “So are you. At least by omission.”

“Hey, I just got that cleared off my chest. I am a liar no more.” With conviction, he declares, “I am spiritually cleansed, and the rain is my witness.”

I toe the grass with my bare foot, suddenly quieter. “I wasn’t lying, you know. Not really. I don’t play anymore.”

Aiden only studies my face, thoughtful, until I turn away, fearful that what he’s seeing in me are the parts I’ve always kept, and always want to keep, buried.

Back at the house, we quietly head upstairs, but when Dylan and Aiden go into Dylan’s room with every intention of writing a new song, I decline their invitation to help, claiming fatigue. Before Dylan shuts his door to block out the noise, though, I catch a glimpse of his keyboard, pushed haphazardly against the side wall in our haste to get to the party after their concert, and something inside me grows heavy with longing.

***

Aiden and I are back to hanging out, but neither of us brings up the night after the baseball game, when I pushed him away. However, after the events at the party and the swing set, Aiden seems more intent than ever on convincing me to date him—and to do so exclusively—despite my insistence that it will never happen. I mostly just ignore his arguments until he kisses me, at which point I gladly respond in kind, wrapping my body around his and pushing for more, physically, even though I know he’ll stop us before we get there.

He always does.

On Wednesday night, I sit alone cross-legged on my bed, the sheets mussed and the pillows scattered all around me as I scroll through college listings. I don’t have a grand plan yet, and I doubt I ever will. I’ve never been one to lay out my life on a clear path. But I overheard Aunt Miranda conversing with Dylan last night in the living room about his prospects for college—or rather, his lack thereof—and it got me thinking. In spite of everything rebellious I’ve done as a teenager, I’ve always been a decent student—mostly A’s and B’s—so I could have options. I could move across the country, far from the man that’s my father by blood and blood alone. Even far past Dave and Tommy in the Midwest, if they stay there after they graduate. Distance myself from everybody else I’ve ever known: my classmates, Aunt Miranda, Dylan, Aiden…Aiden, who always seems to be trying to weasel his way further into my life, into the broken bits of me, those deep, dark cracks and crevices I don’t want him to delve into. Keeping him on the surface, that I can handle, where he can see that I, like everybody, have scars, but he can’t explore them.

I don’t even know if I want to go to college, though, honestly.

A light knock on my door distracts me. I make my way over, prepared to find myself face to face with Aunt Miranda, who probably plans to lecture me, too, about college, a duty my father would have gladly delegated to her. But as I reach for the door handle with a chance glance at my feet, I narrowly stop myself from stepping on a thin black CD case that lies casually on the carpeted floor as if I left it there. Only I know I didn’t, that it must have been slide-tossed into my room through the crack under the door.

I flip it over a few times in my hands before snapping it open. Inside, the first thing I notice are the words
Songs for Delilah
typed in a fancy midnight blue font and printed on a white paper label, which appears to have been stuck with great care to the front of the CD, despite its edges not quite lining up perfectly. I look at the case again; there is nothing on either it or the CD that gives away who it’s from or what it’s for. Of course, I have my guesses—the oh-so-insistently-romantic Aiden Crosser above everyone else—but what’s the point? Does he think he’ll win me over by gifting me some “mixtape.”

“Songs for Delilah,” I ponder aloud. “Songs for Delilah.”

Oh, what the hell.
I pop out the CD and toss its case onto the white plush blanket folded over the foot of my bed, then press the CD into my laptop’s disc drive. The music begins, and by the opening song, I’m almost positive the CD is from Aiden, considering the song is by Led Zeppelin, his favorite band. A quick perusal of the playlist only verifies this further. There are twenty-six songs in all, an eclectic mix of bands for which he or I or both of us profess our love—though, there are a few on here I’ve never heard of, and there’s a curious track at the end with a title but no artist.

Songs for Delilah

As I listen, I watch the colorful pulses of the visual media display beat and warp with the music until everything around me, except for the screen, blurs and all I see are those slow explosion of colors and waves. At times, the songs give me chills. At times they make me want to cry. Some bring a smile to my face. It’s a mix of emotions so vast that all I can do is sit there and let the music continue to brush every part of me.

I’ve lost count of the number of songs I’ve listened to, but when the laptop goes silent, I assume it’s the end. Just as I get up to restart the playlist, the silence is broken by a sound much like the nervous clearing of a throat. And then a voice comes through the speakers.

“Delilah,” it says, followed by a long pause in which it sounds like he’s moving a guitar around. I hear the accidental pluck of a string, high and metallic.

“Aiden.” His name is just a whisper on my lips, barely there yet consuming me even as I say it to some digital ghost of him.

“Delilah—Delilah Swan. I hope you like this CD. I—I don’t know why I made it really, just that these songs often remind me of you—”

There’s a loud knock on my door, and I hurriedly cut the recording to silence.

Squeezing my eyes together, I call out, “Who is it?”

“Aunt Miranda.” I let out a sigh. She’s going to ask about the upcoming school year or whether I’ve started looking into colleges or why I still haven’t contacted my father. “I just wanted to let you know that dinner is still warm on the stove if you want some before I put it away.”

“I—”

Wait, what?
A second ago, I was prepared to brush her off, but I’m thrown off course. Before I can reply, I hear her footsteps lead away.

I forget about the rest of the CD for now.

Chapter Sixteen

I’m not awake enough for the long day of work ahead. It was a restless night of sleep, so I head to the bathroom now, bleary-eyed, a fresh towel in hand, while thoughts of vinyls and concerts and tourism swamp my mind. After the success of last Saturday’s concert, Trevyn is all about expanding down that promotional route. He’s been in contact with a number of local bands and has Amber and I busy reaching out to some better-known acts to convince them to consider us for a small venue performance.

“It’d be nice if we could get a liquor license,” he remarked just yesterday. “For concerts 21+. What do you think, ladies?”

I didn’t know how to answer that one. Possibly that he was getting a little ahead of himself? Thankfully, Amber was there to bring things into perspective.

“Honey,” she said as she placed a gentle hand on his arm. He regarded her with a mix of expectance and adoration. “You know, we’ve got a lot on our plate as is, with just the music aspect of this shop. Besides, I’m not sure we want the responsibilities of a bar quite yet…you know, all the young drunks in a shop like this”—she gestured around to signal the delicacy of all our records—“and underage people trying to get drinks. Not to mention all the other regulations that come with selling food and alcohol…”

It took Trevyn a moment to reconsider, but he let out a long sigh of surrender and said, “No, you’re absolutely right,” then tenderly kissed her cheek. “Maybe in the future,” he added with a cheeky smile.

Two minutes into my shower, there’s a knock at the bathroom door.

“I’m showering, Dylan,” I say.

“I need to shit.” His voice comes slurred through the door, like he’s still groggy from sleep.

I move the shower curtain and pierce the closed door with a glare. He knocks again as I let the curtain fall back into place and soap up my luffa.

“Unless you want to be scarred for life, I suggest you stay on the other side of that door,” I say.

“
No
,” he retorts. “Unless
you
want to be scarred for life, I suggest you hurry up and haul ass out of there before I come in and take a shit.”

“Go downstairs.”

“Leah’s showering. And she takes longer than you.”

I nearly slip when I chuck the luffa down in frustration. “Just—
fine
. Give me like five minutes, alright?” That should be enough time to shave my legs, too.

“Okay. But in five minutes, I’m coming in and shitting, whether you’re still in there or not.”

But less than a minute later, the bathroom door opens and shuts just as quickly.

“Dylan!” I shout. I yank the curtain back a little to see out. “Get the hell out of—”

But it’s not Dylan.

Aiden meets my eyes with a sheepish smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, hushed now. His hands are folded behind him as he stands with his back against the closed door. I eye him warily, not buying the innocent act. The water shoots hot against my back, which makes me aware of how completely naked I am and how completely clothed he is, with just a thin vinyl curtain hanging between us.

“Did you get my CD last night?”

My mouth falls open. Does he seriously want to have this conversation right now?

“
Aiden
. I’m showering. Can we talk about this when I’m not soaking wet and I’ve got my clothes back on?” Aiden’s skin reddens ever so slightly, but to his credit, his gaze never wavers from my face. “Dylan’s coming back in, like, three minutes, and if you’re in here when he barges in, there will be hell to pay.”