Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(67)

“Do you ever think about doing something behind the scenes, like directing?”

“Maybe. But in this industry, people put you in a box and don’t want you to step out of it.” He studies me. “I guess I’m like you. I need to step out of my comfort zone.”

“You should, Chase. You can do anything you want. If you choose.”

“I can say the same about you.”

I sigh. “Lately, I’ve been thinking about my choices. It’s like I’m scared to move on and find a life of my own. I live in my childhood home, which I love, but still. I’ve worked the same job since high school. I went to college just ten minutes away. And I write books that I’m too afraid to send to an agent or publisher. I’m hiding away from anything that truly makes me feel alive, anything that feels scary. That’s what these risks are about.”

“Did you always want to be a writer?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I started writing the year my mom died. It was a distraction, I guess. And catharsis.”

“What happened to your mom?” he asks. “You’ve never said.” And then he shakes his head. “Is that too personal?”

“A car accident.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I don’t talk about my mom. But something about the way he’s looking at me, as if he sees and accepts all of me, releases my words.

“My mom loved driving. She drank in the morning while she was writing. Said it helped her process, and then she’d go on these long drives, drunk. Sometimes, when she did, she’d take me. And when she did, she thought everything I did was wrong. I was too quiet. Too boring. Too shy.” My smile is bittersweet. “You should have seen her. She was brilliant. She had red hair and this magnetic personality. And she was a famous writer.”

I slant Chase a look. “You would know her if I tell you her name.” I laugh, but it’s a joyless sound. “She won all sorts of awards for her first book, a memoir about how much being a mom sucked. The critics loved it. And they loved her. Called her bold and honest. Meanwhile, I was mostly raised by Nanna.

“There I was, this shy girl who was terrified while my mom swerved all over the road. She loved driving fast. She scared me as much when she was manic like that as when she was depressed.” The words are coming faster now, toppling over one another, as if once I’ve opened the dam, everything just floods out.

“One minute, we were flying down the coast in a convertible while I begged her to slow down, and the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. I spent a month there, but she escaped with just a broken arm that time. She didn’t learn. She died a year later in another drinking and driving accident, this time with her married lover. Sometimes I think that’s what she wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

I look at him. “I’ve never talked to anyone about that.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, eyes somber.

He moves closer to me in the dark and takes my hand as if it’s as natural as breathing and folds his fingers between mine, letting our joined hands rest on the surface of the water.

We’re friends, I think. This is friendly hand-holding.

Chase makes my heart beat faster and my stomach do twists with just a look. But this feeling that spreads through my veins like warm honey is different. It’s sweeter, deeper. It’s not the butterflies I had when I first met him, an impossibly handsome movie star. This is about Chase, my friend, the man behind the image.

“What about your family?” I ask quietly. “Before the foster homes.”

He’s silent for so long, I think he’s not going to answer, and then he begins to speak. “My mom was young, a single mother. She worked several jobs. But she loved me. I remember her making up stories at bedtime about what we’d do and where we’d go when she could save up enough money.”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“I wish I remembered more.” He takes a deep breath. “She died when I was seven. She was driving home one night, and she was killed in a car accident. A neighbor was babysitting me, and then a lady came to her house, told me my mom died, had me pack a bag, and took me to a foster home. And that was it. My whole life changed in that one night.”

My heart turns over. He says it offhandedly, but I know the searing pain of the words, and I wish I could draw them into me, take some of his burden.

“Oh, Chase. I’m so sorry. I had Nanna. But you had no one.”

“I’m glad you had her,” he says with intensity. “That you were safe and loved.”

“I can’t imagine going through what I did without her. You were so young. You must have been so confused, missing your mom.”

He plays with my hand, our fingers entwining. “I think the hardest part is that the memory of her fades a little more each year,” he says.

He attempts what I think was supposed to be a careless smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It was a long time ago, and it feels good to talk about her. I knew what it was to be loved, at least for a little while. Daisy’s asshole parents gave her nothing.”

“But don’t you see? You gave Daisy the stories, the care, the love. You filled that role for her, even if it wasn’t long either.”