Rewrite the Stars

Sebastian comes out of the bathroom, and he must give him a look because I feel Eros shrug in answer to his silent question. I turn toward Sebastian, but he looks away, avoiding eye contact. I get it, I want to say. I feel raw and exposed, too. I may not have been the one divulging all my secrets, but I feel it nonetheless. Being in his bed in our dream-like state allowed us to stay inside the bubble of truth and trust and no pretenses we created last night. The moment he stepped out, that bubble popped.

I look back up at Eros, releasing my death grip on him. He scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and his eyes have lost that mischievous spark. With one look, I know he knows that I know. What I don’t know is what to say other than I’m glad you’re alive, so I opt for nothing at all. Eros drops a kiss to the top of my head before mussing up my hair and playfully shoving me away with both hands, making me laugh.

I freeze, suddenly remembering my music box, and how I never put it away last night. I hurry back over to Sebastian’s bunk and smooth my hands across the mattress before shaking the blankets out. “Shit,” I say, trying not to panic. It’s not like it grew legs and walked away. I drop to my knees, searching under the bed, too. Nothing.

“What’s she doing?” Eros asks flatly.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Have you seen my music box?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down so I don’t wake Tres and Lathan. Sebastian walks over to a cabinet I didn’t know existed, pulling out the ornate green and gold music box.

“This thing?” he asks.

“Thank God,” I say, moving toward him to take it from his hands, but he opens it, letting the music play, looking at it with a crease between his brows.

“This thing stabbed me when I got into my bed,” he explains, still inspecting it in the palm of his hand. “Looked fancy, so I put it away.”

“Thanks.” This time, when I reach for it, I’m able to snatch it from his hand. Bending over, I zip it back up safely in my suitcase before fishing an outfit out—a pair of light denim skinny jeans and a plain white T-shirt—before heading to the bathroom to change.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door, noticing how different I look from when I first came. I don’t spend an hour making sure every strand of hair is stick-straight or making sure my makeup is perfect. I look younger without the makeup to hide my pink cheeks and the freckles across my nose, courtesy of my father. I’d never have worn this outfit to school. There’s nothing sexy or powerful about jeans and a T-shirt. But here, I feel…free. Free to be myself, whoever that is. Content. As my old life falls apart, this one is coming together.

I open the door and quickly brush my teeth at the sink. When I’m finished, I turn to find Eros sporting a shit-eating grin.

“What?”

I ask, looking from him to Sebastian.

He stands in the walkway, holding a balled-up piece of black fabric. “Missing something?”

Oh God. My cheeks flame. He’s holding my cum-stained underwear. I flatten my lips together, dropping my toothbrush to the counter, my eyes darting to Sebastian who looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“You having fun holding my cum rag?” he asks. Eros’ face twists with horror before he launches them at Sebastian’s head. I shake my head, embarrassed, grabbing my phone from Sebastian’s bed before stuffing it into my back pocket, and then I’m heading for the door.

“Evan,” Sebastian’s clipped tone calls after me, and I pause, looking back at him. “Be at the show tonight.”

“We’ll see,” I say with a casual shrug. He lifts a brow, daring me to see what happens if I don’t, sending a thrill through me. I’m tempted to not show up and see what happens. Pushing him to lose control worked out well for me last night.

Before he has a chance to respond, I’m out the door. “You sick fuck. It’s about time,” I hear Eros say behind me.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped breakfast. I decide to set up the face-painting booth, and if I have any time before we open, I’ll grab something from one of the stands. Plucking my phone out of my pocket, I check to see if I have any missed calls from my parents. Nothing. I punch out a text.

Remember me? The daughter you left in Arizona? Or are you too busy pretending you don’t have a family?

I hit send without hesitation. Passive-aggressiveness at its finest. After all, I learned it from the best. My mom invented passive-aggression. I shove my phone back into my pocket as I approach my booth. To my surprise, Jada is already there, flattening paper towels before setting the paints on top. The standing sign advertising all the design options is already up, too.

“Did we switch shifts today?” I ask her, confused.

“Nope,” she says innocently, arranging the handheld mirror and tip jar just so. “I just thought we could work together today.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Okay, eager beaver. What aren’t you telling me?”

Her shoulders slump, and she rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. I heard about last night.”

My eyes bulge. “What about last night?” Lots of things happened last night, and Jada is way too young to know about any of them.

“Sebastian showing up at the Vixens’ tent with Selina. You storming out of the tent,” she deadpans.

So much for going unnoticed.