The Chaos of Stars

He shrugs noncommittally. “Isn’t it in yours?”

I frown, thinking of all of the guys I interact with. I do get hit on a lot at the museum. I just don’t care because I’d as soon be left alone.

When I don’t answer, he smiles. “It’s hard to be friends with girls most of the time.”

Oh, shut up. He is not saying that he’s too good-looking to be friends with girls. But then again, at the beach there were a high percentage of beauties sitting very close to us and/or sauntering repeatedly past. And he never looked up once. I snort. “You poor handsome thing. If only you were ugly, then girls wouldn’t have to throw themselves at you all the time. I could break your perfect nose for you, if it’d make your life easier.”

He raises his eyebrows as if he’s considering it, then shakes his head. “I think my mom would be upset,” he says finally, a genuine note of regret in his voice.

“Maybe next time, then.” What if he had really asked me to? I laugh. I can see it, me trying and failing to break his nose. I’m not actually a violent person, in spite of being raised on bedtime stories of war and conquest and murder. I was also raised on stories of sex, and I’m not interested in that, either.

We leave the main road and wind through neighborhoods that are familiar, though I don’t remember why. I can see glints of the ocean from here, and then we pull up into a driveway.

A driveway I already know.

Oh, floods. My mockery echoes perfectly in my ears. Of course. Of course it’s his house we parked at when we went to the beach.

“Yours?” I ask, my voice coming out as a pathetic squeak.

He nods, a smile pulling apart his full lips. I fight back the shame burning in my face. Yes, my comments were rude. But Ry could have told me it was his house, instead of letting me look like a jerk.

We get out of the truck and climb the broad steps. Ry pushes one of the massive, carved white dou

ble doors open. It’s like we’ve stepped into a museum of Greek antiquities. The floor is polished marble, with black tiles scrolling a pattern around the borders of the entry.

A bust of a woman, the pure definition of beautiful, is on a pedestal front and center, and various other sculptures line the room. Almost laughably out of place is a single humongous framed photo of a chubby, cherubic little boy, face smeared with cake as he laughs at the camera.

“My parents take our heritage very seriously,” he says, his voice solemn but his eyes twinkling as he looks at me to judge my reaction.

“Really? I dunno, it’s kind of understated.”

He laughs appreciatively, and I’m relieved that at least he has a sense of humor about the whole thing.

“The tile work is amazing,” I say, wanting to make up for my earlier mockery, and because it’s true. This floor is gorgeous.

Tyler pokes her head out of a side hall. “There you are! You okay, Isadora? Your call seemed panicked.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.” There are no bogeymen. I need to get over this.

“Good! I’m glad you came. Come on,” she says. We follow her through a hallway with dark wood paneling and the same marble floor, but covered in a plush, ornate rug.

I approve of the TV room we go into as Tyler runs off to use the bathroom. Someone seems to have abandoned the formality of the rest of the house—framed movie posters dominate the walls, and the biggest television I’ve ever seen in my life takes up the entirety of one wall. A full bar lines the back of the room.

I wouldn’t change a lot. The movie-poster thing is really cute. I’d use shadow-box frames and backlighting though. Switch out the L-shaped sectional for one long couch and a few movie-theater-style armchairs. Heavy drapes to block out the light better—the white shutter blinds are totally out of place. Redo the beige walls a pale gold, keep the baseboards their rich cherry color, and, ooh, put in maroon velvet drapes covering not just the wide window but the entire wall. Taking the fun atmosphere of the room up a notch or two. Also, a popcorn machine on top of the bar so the whole place smells right.

But no one’s asking me.

A hugely fat white Persian cat skulks into the room. Still planning my changes, I reach down and scratch her ears absently as she twines her way around my legs, purring like a street bike.

“Whoa.”

“Whoa what?” I ask. Ry is staring in amazement at the cat.

“Hera doesn’t like anyone.”

“Oh.” I look down. Her sharp, intelligent eyes regard me with something bordering on playful worship, like we’re in on the same eternal joke. There’s a reason cats were near deity in ancient Egypt. Dogs may be loyal, but cats are smart. This one must recognize our bond. You can take the cat out of Egypt, but you can’t take Egypt out of the cat.

Wow, I should have that embroidered on a pillow or something.