Falling Like Stars by Emma Scott

Author:Emma Scott [Scott, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

I WAKE UP with a vague sense that it’s morning, as a hundred hammers pound the inside of my skull. The room is dark—the curtains mercifully closed—and it takes a few moments for the bungalow’s living room to take shape, like a scene fading in. Unlike the last time I woke up after too much booze, I remember all of last night. Also, unlike last time, I’m still fully clothed, wrapped in a blanket, and on the couch where I started. Rowan has left me water, Advil, medicine, and no facial wounds to speak of.

“Let’s compare and contrast the women in my life,” I mutter to no one, and my heart aches nearly as much as my head. Rowan isn’t going to be in my life. She entrusted me with some pretty heavy stuff. I have to honor her wishes and give her the space she needs to heal.

You’re not in the greatest shape yourself, chief.

I ignore that and fish around for my phone that’s on the floor next to the couch. I have a dozen texts and missed calls this morning from my team, but Eva is locked out. To be a fly on the wall when she realized she was blocked… They could probably hear the screeching as far away as Anaheim. As I’m scrolling, I find a text from late last night. From Rowan.

You don’t have to answer when you see this. Probably best if you didn’t. But I forgot to congratulate you on your win. It seems like your Oscar night wasn’t everything it should have been. I’m sorry about that, but you should be really proud, Zach. You’ve earned it. Take care of yourself. Please.

I smile, because I heard the text more than read it. Rowan’s voice—strong but soft around the edges, just like her. And the please at the end.

“Damn.”

The urge to reply is strong; with herculean effort, I put my phone down because that’s what Rowan wants. What she needs. And I decide to follow her example and pay more attention to what I need. Like selling the house and finishing my divesture from Eva.

Before I can get off the couch—which I’m not in a hurry to do—my phone vibrates with a new call. I glance at the number with its St. Louis area code.

“Shit.” I pick up and gingerly put the phone to my ear. “I’m hungover. Have mercy.”

Admitting weakness was my first mistake.

My twin brother, Jeremy, inhales. “Well, hello Mr. Fancy Pants,” he bellows. “Too much Dom Perignon at the Brown Derby with Robert De Niro? How is ole Bobby De Niro, these days, Zach? Eh, Zach! ZACH!?”

“Okay, okay,” I say, covering my eyes to keep them from popping out of my head. “I’m a dick. I get it.”

Jeremy makes a tsk tsk sound. “You don’t even call your own mother on Oscar night. Your own mother, Zachary.”

“I texted,” I say helplessly. “It was a long night. Some stuff went down. Not all good.”

My twin picks up on my tone and instantly downshifts from his usual happy-go-lucky shit-talk.

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