Beyond the Stars Read online

  “Yummy! Grab us some seats. I’ll bring the drinks over. I want to make sure they don’t screw mine up. They always forget to leave the lid off and smash the whipped cream.”

  “All righty. I’ll let you work that out.” I choose the oversize chairs in the back corner. Everyone else is scattered at the tables up front, their eyes glued to their laptops or iPads.

  Meg hands me my Frappuccino and curls into the chair next to me, her brown eyes dancing. She takes a lick of her perfectly swirled whipped cream. “So is he totally dreamy?”

  “Dreamy? No. I think he’s pretty much all asshole.”

  “Oh, he can’t be that bad. What’d he do? Ask you to separate the blue M&Ms from the rest of them?” She raises one eyebrow as she says this. I know what she’s doing. It’s what she always does. She gives you a ridiculous example, and then what really happened doesn’t seem so bad. To be honest, her tactic usually works.

  “I had to deliver his pet pig to the set of The Francine Allen Show, for one.”

  “Ohhh. Francine Allen! Did you get to meet her?”

  “No. I sat in a holding room.”

  “That’s too bad. What’d you say about a pig?” She types into her phone and giggles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Her laughter takes over, rendering her speechless. She holds up her phone and turns the screen to me. “Look!”

  Oh, ew! I’m faced with a nearly naked photo of Jack. He’s wearing something like a Speedo and is crouched down like Tarzan ready to launch into the air. It has to be for a foreign underwear ad, because no red-blooded American would find that look appealing.

  “Check him out!” She practically falls out of her chair laughing.

  I push her hand away. “Just shut that thing off. I really don’t want to see pictures. I’ve had enough of him already.”

  Meg sets her phone on the table. “Anytime he acts like an ass, remember the photo. I’m happy to find more if you need them.” She grins. “We can even copy them and post them to his Twitter account for Throwback Thursday.”

  “Let’s not. But thanks for the laugh.”

  “It’s my specialty,” she says. “Life is too short to worry about things you can’t control.”

  “I know. I was hoping to learn something interesting from this job, but the reality is, I’m a glorified babysitter. I should be back in school, not wasting my time hanging out with another egomaniacal actor.”

  “Just because you’re not in school doesn’t mean you’re wasting time.” She presses the lid onto her now empty cup with a smack. “Do you think I’m sitting around with my thumb up my ass just because I didn’t do the college thing?”

  “Oh, come on. This is different. You have an awesome job.”

  Tension wafts around us. Meg and I had planned to go to UCLA and room together. At least, that’s what we discussed. But when I told her I was accepted, she was uncharacteristically blasé and informed me she’d changed her mind about applying. Nonetheless, we kept our pact to live together, and we moved to the apartment we have now. It’s hard to believe it’s been two years already.

  Meg looks at me. “Listen to what you said. This is different. Well, now your reality is different. College doesn’t have to be the only answer. Broaden your perspective, and you won’t be disappointed.” She pauses. “Anyway, I have to get back to the office. It’s tough being a heavy hitter, but someone has to do it. We can discuss this more tonight.”

  I hug her good-bye and watch her go. My nearly empty cup sits in front of me, and I try to figure out how many calories I just ingested. Probably at least a thousand. That’s okay. I wasn’t really down with the emaciated post-mono look anyway.

  Chapter Five

  Relief washes over me when I reach our sunny Santa Monica apartment. But as I walk through the door, the feeling is replaced by dismay. It’s like walking into a stranger’s house. It suddenly hits me that nothing here is mine. Everything belongs to Meg or her mom. When Mrs. Branson moved to a luxury condo in Marina del Rey with her new boyfriend, she left the apartment to Meg. Since it was furnished, I never gave a second thought to adding a personal touch. Maybe it’s because I’ve always liked the decor. It has a cute, shabby chic feel to it. But now it looks only shabby, not chic. The denim sofa sags. The blond pine coffee table that was chock-full of character, with all the nicks and the bleached circles from too many forgotten water glasses, now looks like it needs to be hauled to the dump. A few days ago, I told Meg I couldn’t scrub off the blue pen mark I made while doing a crossword puzzle.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “That old table can tell some stories. Now it has one more to tell.” Should a coffee table really tell stories? Or should a coffee table just sit there and be a coffee table?

  I can’t even address the kitchen floor. It’s linoleum. Seriously. Circa 1950 black and white checked linoleum. I wonder what Jack McAlister would say if he saw my place. He’d probably run. Or maybe he’d say, Wow, where’d you get this shit? Not that he’s going to come over and do a random house check.

  I pick up a pillow off the couch. It’s made from the same boring denim as the sofa. A splash of color would do wonders for it. Just last week, I was leafing through the Pottery Barn catalog where there were pages of cool pillows. And now that I’m earning a decent paycheck, I don’t have to feel bad about spending a little money here and there. I need to take pride in my surroundings and make this place feel like it’s my home¸ too.

  By the time I return from my shopping excursion, I’m exhausted. Pottery Barn was having a huge sale and was packed with grabby shoppers. Nonetheless, I found some great items. I pull the new pillows from my shopping bag and stage them on the sofa. One has a darling red poppy smack in the center. The other is emblazoned with a bright yellow sunflower.

  Meg pops out of her bedroom. “Hey, what do you have there?”

  “Look! I found these adorable pillows at Pottery Barn. Aren’t they great?” I fluff the poppy pillow and dent the middle, the same way the salesgirl did. I stand back to admire my work.

  “They’re a little too big, don’t you think?”

  “No, they aren’t too big. That’s the look. They’re supposed to give you a feeling of comfort.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think they look great.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, trying to stifle laughter. “But they look awful. They look like a giant’s pillows on a doll’s sofa. And they don’t match.”

  “You mean each other, or the sofa?”

  “Any of it!” I give her a look, and she straightens up. “Sorry. What else did you get?”

  I pull out a package wrapped in brown paper. Just as I was about to leave, I found a precious trio of creamy white milk glass pigs sitting on the clearance table. The biggest one is the size of a plum, and the other two are consecutively smaller, as if it’s a dad, mom, and baby. They have two tiny flowers painted on their bodies that match the pillows perfectly.

  As I was picking them up to take them to the cash register, a hyper kid grabbed the baby pig from my hand, causing it to fall. The head cracked off, but it was a clean break, so I’m sure a little white glue will fix it right up. The salesgirl was super sweet, and she gave me an extra ten percent off.

  I slowly unroll the packaging to reveal the largest pig first, followed by the mama pig.

  “Well, these are cute,” she says, picking up the mama. “Are they salt and pepper shakers?”

  “No. They’re decorations. I thought they’d look nice on the coffee table.” I don’t mention that they’ll make a much better conversation piece than the stupid table that’s telling stories. I pull the baby pig’s body out along with the tiny head, and set them on the table. “I have to glue this one.”

  Meg sees the broken pig and that’s all it takes. She falls over laughing. “You bought a headless piglet? What happened to you today?” She tries to catch her breath. “You’re seriously going to keep these? Oh, Jess. Return it.”

&
nbsp; “No! Not a chance. You have no idea what I went through to get these.”

  “What? Did you lose your head over it?” Her laughter erupts all over again.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No! I’m not drunk. Are you? You’re the one buying broken ceramics.”

  “Oh, come on. I was trying to do some decorating. And you have to admit they’re cute.”

  “Look at you. Just like your mom with the little knick-knacks. You’re so cute, Jess.” She moves in to pick up the piglet’s head.

  I glare at her. “Don’t touch my pig family.”

  “Oh, fine. You can keep your barnyard friends. But the pillows are awful.”

  “They’re far from awful. Give them a chance. You may feel differently tomorrow. Anyway, you want to get some dinner?”

  Meg suddenly looks serious. “I can’t. Date tonight.”

  Wow. She’s been out with a different guy every other night the past few weeks. She’s always dated a lot, but I’m starting to worry a little. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  She shrugs. “Just someone I met in the elevator at work. Ethan.”

  “You met him in the elevator?”

  “Yeah. Funny, huh? We always seem to be on the same one after lunch. He asked me out last week. He’s cute, in a conservative businessman sort of way. We’ll see. If he’s cool, I’ll fish around to see if he has any hot friends for you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m good.” God knows I don’t want to suffer through dinner with some boring blowhard who’s yammering on about the wonders of the stock market.

  She glances at me. “You know, you could come with if you want. It’s no big deal.” She grins. “Actually, that might work to my advantage. I can tell him I didn’t know he was asking me on a date. It’ll make him work harder. So come with us. Please?” She clasps her hands together and holds them under her chin, giving me her best puppy dog eyes.

  “Nope. Thanks, though. I want to get to bed early. It sounds like I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes. The job. We need to deconstruct it a little further. Let’s do dinner tomorrow night, just you and me.”

  She sashays to her room, and I marvel at the way she never slows down. I pad to the kitchen to make dinner but feel too uninspired to come up with something interesting, so I grab the closest available thing—a bag of blueberry bagels. I slide one from the bag and stick it on my index finger like a giant ring and stand in the kitchen, eating circles around it.

  Meg reappears from her room, looking gorgeous. She hands me my piglet. “Here you go. It’s no longer decapitated. Just be careful. The glue may still be a little wet.”

  I inspect the pig, which now has a fat glob of glue oozing out of his neck like a tumor. I know she means well, but I would’ve fixed it more carefully. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  “Positive. Have a great time.”

  “You know I will.” She winks and walks out the door.

  After she’s gone, I dab the glue tumor with a damp paper towel and set the piglet aside to dry. I move to the fridge and pull out the butter and two eggs. Then I grab a mixing bowl, white sugar, brown sugar, flour, vanilla extract, baking soda, and chocolate chips. I can’t help myself. When I feel stressed about anything, I bake. I don’t eat everything I bake, obviously. I’m not an obsessive-compulsive comfort-eater, like the people on reality shows. But I am an obsessive baker. Sometimes it’s simple chocolate chip cookies, like tonight. Other times, I’ll make up recipes. Some work, some don’t. I do have a long list of keepers, though, like my mocha caramel brownies. And I came up with an amazing peppermint tunnel of fudge cake that’s now a Christmastime favorite. I’ve gotten a few marriage proposals for that one.

  As the butter softens in the microwave, I click on the TV. E! News is on. It’s Meg’s favorite show. I’m about to switch channels when Jack’s name catches my attention. I step closer to the TV, and sure enough, there’s Jack talking to a reporter, with none other than Naomi Tatum clutching his arm.

  “This is a charity I’m really passionate about. Cancer affects so many lives, and it’s time to find a cure.” He flashes his million-dollar smile. I’m sure his publicist wrote those words for him. No one uses passionate on purpose.

  Naomi Tatum gazes at Jack with a look of awe in her famously blue eyes. It’s as though he just announced that he discovered the cure for cancer. Oh, please. I always thought she seemed somewhat intelligent, but clearly being around Jack has reduced her to just another adoring fangirl. I jam my finger on the remote and shut off the TV. I’ve had my fill of Jack McAlister for one day.

  Chapter Six

  I punch the code into the gate keypad, making sure I don’t inadvertently mouth the numbers as I type. God knows there could be a photographer camouflaged in the bushes, lying in wait for the opportunity to get at Jack. As much as I hate to admit it, he had a point about people pestering him.

  When I reach the top of the driveway, I send him a text, just like he requested. Minutes tick by. I look at my phone to make sure it went through, and of course, it did. I give the door a hearty knock and ring the bell for good measure. Nothing happens. I slump down on the front steps and begin checking emails while I wait.

  My sorority is having a back-to-school mixer with the Delts on Friday night. As I skim the invite, a feeling of loneliness surrounds me. If I were reading this in Paris, I’m sure I’d laugh about a stupid mixer. But now I feel like I’m left behind in my own life. I glance at my watch again. It’s eleven minutes past ten. If this were one of my college classes, I would be able to leave in nine minutes. Sadly, I’m pretty sure leaving isn’t the protocol when it comes to a movie star with an attitude.

  It’s amazing how the minutes crawl when you’re doing nothing. A bike leans against a tree near the bottom of the driveway. It wasn’t there yesterday. Maybe Jack isn’t even home. This is stupid. I had to leave my apartment before nine this morning to get here. Stopping for a coffee wasn’t an option, because I was so worried I’d be a minute late. I’ll stay until eleven, and then I’m going to leave. I can’t wait out here all day.

  I flip through a few more emails, but I couldn’t care less about Abercrombie’s twenty percent off sale. I need to know if my boss is here. With determination, I push my way past the giant leafy plant I admired yesterday to get a look in the window. I try not to think about the spider webs and God-knows-what that could be dangerously close to me as I plow into the bushes. I’m careful not to touch any part of the house. The last thing I need is to set off the alarm. I reach the window but can’t see in—I can only see my reflection.

  As I push my way out of the plants, a leaf tickles my arm, and I whip past it. When the prickly feeling doesn’t disappear, I look down to witness a giant green bug crawling up my arm. Gah! With a flick of my fingers, I send the bug flying and tear out of the bushes, only to crash into something hard. I scream when I recognize it’s a body.

  My boss’s body. I grasp his biceps to steady myself.

  “What the fuck!” he shouts.

  “Jesus! You scared the hell out of me,” I snap, squeezing his arms tighter—his seriously muscled arms that could probably pick me up and chuck me back into the bushes if he were so inclined. A tall guy with close-cropped hair stands near Jack. At least there’s a witness if he does toss me back in.

  “Why the hell are you sneaking around my house?”

  “I’m not sneaking around! I got here at ten, just like you said, but you didn’t answer the door. I’ve been waiting for half an hour and got worried something was wrong, so I was checking to see if anyone was home. A poisonous bug nearly attacked me in the process.”

  “I told you to get here at ten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you text me?”

  “I did text you.” I brush my arms again, hoping to remove the tingling sensation of a creature crawling on me.

  “Shit. I don’t have my phone on me
. Still, you should’ve waited. Snooping around isn’t cool.”

  I’m about to shout that I wasn’t snooping when the tall guy steps over. His skin is the color of milk chocolate, and his shoulders are simply perfect. In fact, his entire body is perfection. “Hey, I’m Shawn. I train this jackass who left you sitting out here. My bad about the phone. I don’t let him have it when he’s training.” He pulls the phone from his pocket and passes it to Jack, then reaches out his hand to shake mine. “And you are?”

  “Jessica.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica. You’ll have to join us next time.”

  Yeah, right. “Nice to meet you.” He keeps my hand in his and it makes me feel dainty, like my hand belongs to a petite Southern belle.

  Shawn pecks it with a quick kiss and turns to Jack. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You better not keep me waiting like you did this lovely lady, or I’ll beat your sorry ass.” He chuckles as he jogs over to the bicycle and hops on.

  Jack turns to me. “Would you like to come in through the door, or would you prefer the window?”

  I’d prefer not to go in at all. “The door is fine, thanks.”

  As much as I want to stomp my feet, I know I have to let it go. Staying angry will only make my day worse, and I’m sure Jack doesn’t care if I’m upset. I’ll just act upbeat and friendly. And if he’s a jerk, I’ll smile.

  I trail him into the house, noticing for the first time the huge wrought iron chandelier hanging in the entry. It’s possible I’ll discover something new every time I walk in here. Jack heads straight to the refrigerator and begins pulling things from it and setting them on the counter. He grabs a box of blueberries and some spinach. Spinach and blueberries? At the same time? Ew. He takes a banana from a bowl on the counter and starts dumping a little bit of everything into a professional-grade blender. It looks like it could turn a brick into pulp. “You want a smoothie?”

  “Uh, no thanks. I’m good.”

  He hits the start button. Within seconds he has a pitcher full of a dark purplish concoction. He fills his glass, but there’s extra, so he pours the rest in another. Hands full, he walks around the kitchen island to where I’m standing. “Here. Drink up.”