The Falling of Stars: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  But my shoulders deflate and the smoke swirls off into oblivion as I hear Xander’s squealing— “Mooooooom!”—and Malik’s baritone harmony. I drop my cigarette and stamp it out, heading toward the patio door. Duty calls.

  “What’s the problem?” Alex is hollering as I step inside. He glances up from his dicing, apologizing with his eyes for the chaos that’s managed to cut short my cigarette break. I shrug and smile at him while Xander continues acting like everyone’s being murdered in front of him.

  “Malik’s watching porn!” Xander squeals, his eyes dancing below a mop of fiery red hair, despite that blatant lie.

  Malik shuffles in, rolls his eyes, and pulls a Gatorade from the fridge. “I am not. You don’t even know what porn means.”

  “You’d better not be watching porn,” Alex says, and I stiffen amongst Xander’s chirps of, “What’s porn? What’s porn?”

  “Leave him alone, Alex. Xander’s being a little stinker.” I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and try scrubbing the cigarette smell off my hands at the sink. Alex’s knife stops chopping—I know it’s because he’s bothered by my rebuffing, so I glance over my shoulder and wink at him. “We’ve had a rough day, Malik and I,” I remind him softly.

  “I’m not a stinker!” Xander’s chanting, and he’s wearing a Kylo Ren costume without the mask. He looks so cute, I chuckle. “Go take that costume off and get ready for dinner, Cutie Ren.”

  “What’re we eating? I’m starving,” Malik says as Xander darts to his room. I can tell by his voice that he’s just as exhausted as I am. I gesture toward the Crock-Pot and dry my hands, reaching up to accept the kiss Alex is aiming at me as he dumps his chopped onions into a bowl.

  “Chili, and we’re eating now,” Alex replies. “Help me carry these dishes to the table, please. Malik.”

  Malik sighs but doesn’t argue, and I pull the cornbread from the oven. It’s burnt.

  “How was the funeral?” I hear Alex asking Malik as I curse and pick off the blackened edges. Malik mumbles a reply, but I can’t understand it. I hope he’s not getting an attitude with Alex; I can only defend him so much, and neither Alex nor I have a very high tolerance for backtalk.

  It’s not like I have to spend my life defending Malik against Alex—Alex is a fantastic stepdad. Alex is a fantastic everything: teacher, husband, father … I truly believe he loves Malik just as much as Xander. But he’s also a fantastic temper-loser, and toss in a smartass remark from Malik, that’s a recipe for disaster. I prefer to call my constant guard mitigating.

  I cut the cornbread into ridiculous-looking squares to detract from the missing burnt chunks and toss them in a bowl, scurrying into the dining room because it’s too quiet in there. I stop short when I see Malik leaning on the table, his palms propped on the surface and his face hovering over the pot of chili. He looks like he’s about to cry.

  Alex sets the salad down and reaches an arm across Malik’s broad shoulders to give him a quick massage/hug/masculine-yet-sympathetic pat on the back in an awkward way that only a stepdad whose stepson just got home from a funeral can pull off. Even though Malik is six feet tall, Alex still towers four inches over him. All this height is making this picture even more awkward.

  Malik ignores his sentiments in an attempt to regain composure. “Let’s not talk about it now,” I mumble as I place the cornbread chunks next to the salad. I squeeze Malik’s arm and shoot him a smile. He’s already poker-faced, and it’s almost scary how quickly he morphed back into normalcy.

  Alex calls for Xander (who’s been abnormally quiet back there) as Malik and I sit at the table. “Xander!” he calls again.

  “What?”

  Malik and I giggle as Alex flattens his lips to hide a smile. “Let’s go! It’s dinnertime!” He shakes his head as he lowers in his chair. “I swear that kid’s gonna be grounded off everything until Christmas if he doesn’t start listening.”

  Malik scoffs and I roll my eyes. We take his threats just as seriously as Xander does, obviously. Xander runs in the room, devoid of any Kylo Ren paraphernalia and complete with a sweater and combed hair.

  “Wow! Don’t you look nice?” I gush as he plops in the chair next to me. He smiles unabashedly and smooths his hair with his palm.

  Alex begins scolding him for his dinner tardiness, but Malik interrupts. “You look like you have a hot date, Xander. You got a hot date?”

  “Pshh. No, I don’t have no hot dates,” he replies in the voice he uses when he tries to sound grown up. “You have all the hot dates, Malik. I don’t even have cold dates.”

  Alex chuckles as he ladles chili into everyone’s bowls. “That’s a pretty tight schedule squeeze for Malik during football season, isn’t it? You still managing to date between schoolwork and football?”

  Malik laughs. “Yeah, I’m pretty much married to Coach Jay for the next couple months.”

  “Well, hopefully he’ll put a ring on it at the end of the season. A championship ring.” Alex winks and Malik snickers and suddenly my heart is full. I feel like crying. “When’s your next game?” I ask Malik, scooping copious amounts of cheese into Xander’s bowl, because cheese is his favorite part of chili.

  “Friday.”

  “Friday night lights! Let’s go, Liberty Lords!” Alex says excitedly through a mouthful of salad. “Coach Jay told me he’s got you and Javier learning some new plays.”

  Malik nods as he wipes his face with his napkin. “Yeah. Javi cuts a post. As long as the O-line does its job, I should be able to put the ball right in his hands.”

  “You’re still the quarterback, Malik?” Xander asks.

  “I’m always the quarterback,” Malik answers with slight irritation, and I’m not sure if it’s because Xander asks that every week, or because Malik doesn’t really want to be QB anymore. I don’t ask. Malik has the best arm in high school football in all Miami-Dade County, including Varsity. He can throw a perfect spiral over fifty yards—in motion. So no matter how much he wants to run the ball, his unswerving throw and precise aim condemns him to quarterback. Especially when you have a receiver like Javier Acosta.

  Alex picks up on Malik’s tone, too. “You should have gone to Varsity when they asked you to. You wouldn’t have to be quarterback.”

  Malik smirks. “Right, I’d have a starting position right on the bench the entire season.”

  Alex nods. “Yeah, I understand. Have you studied for your history test tomorrow?”

  My phone sings in my pocket, and I smash any button through my pants to get it to stop. Malik turns his face down to his food and begins shoveling it in his mouth, clearly avoiding Alex’s stare. “Not yet.”

  Alex’s silence is loud and clear—Malik is to study for his history test tonight. It’s the fine line he teeters, being Malik’s father as well as his history teacher, and he refuses to give Malik any special treatment because of this conflict of interest.

  I don’t think Malik would want special treatment, anyway.

  “Can I be done?” Xander asks, and my phone chirps a text from my pocket. I ignore it as I assess Xander’s bowl—still full of chili and void of cheese, and that’s dinner.

  “Fine, but no dessert.”

  Xander grumbles and stomps into the living room as Malik excuses himself to his room to do homework. Alex and I are left alone at the table, and we look at each other.

  We smile.

  He drags the back of his fingers down my jaw and runs his thumb along my bottom lip. “Rough day, huh?”

  I nod and feel my eyes drooping. “You have no idea.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to go with you to the funeral. You know, with the thing…”

  I nod again; I know the thing—a nasty bout of pink eye Xander had up until this morning. I can’t blame him for not wanting to take any risks, but this was a funeral and there are no repeats.

  I push my face into his caresses, closing my eyes and absorbing the comfort of his warm hand. “It was so awful, Alex. I don’t ever want to experience a
day like this again as long as I live.” All the emotion I’ve held back rushes to the surface, and Alex pulls me into his lap as tears build in my eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Eve. I’m sure Jill was a wreck.” Alex rubs my back as my phone manifests in my pocket—again. I squeeze my pocket—again.

  “She actually asked me why Jordan did this. She looked me in the eye—a grieving mother whose son took his own life—and waited for an answer. I never want to see eyes like that again. I don’t know how such oceans of pain can fit into such a small face.”

  “Damn. What did you tell her?”

  I shrug. “I don’t even remember. I think I just told her how sorry I was.”

  “Why don’t you get a glass of wine? Go take a bubble bath? I’ll clean this up.”

  I kiss him. Hard.

  He kisses me back, and after nine years you’d think the fire would’ve died down a little. But we’re just as hot and heavy as we were back in the teachers’ lounge, before we got caught by Jeremiah Lorrey and he wrote us up. We were engaged the following month. Then as a wedding present, Jeremiah removed the infraction from our files.

  He’s still the charming, adorable creature that had all the high school girls giggling when he was hired nine years ago. Even the teachers—full-fledged conversations turning to hushed murmurs when Alex Hunter, the new strawberry-blonde history teacher, would enter a room. The whole thing was romanticized; Alex is cute, but he’s no Hemsworth brother. I mean, he’s a history teacher, for crying out loud.

  He fell hard for the “hot literature teacher” (as I was known amongst the students, and which wasn’t true) and the “single mom to the cute little exotic-looking boy” (as I was known amongst the staff, and which was true). And, not immune to his charm, I fell equally as hard. I’ll never forget the day he paraded into my classroom—smack in the middle of sixth period when my desks were full of senior butts—and handed me a rose, asking me to dinner.

  He’d made a scene on purpose, knowing the effect we both had on the students. The cheering and hooting lasted until the day we came back from our honeymoon, and if we weren’t already, we were instant favorite teachers. Scholastic celebrities. Oh, it was totally blown out of proportion; they called us Barbie and Ken. And let’s be realistic. I’m way too plain to be Barbie, and Alex is entirely too dorky to be Ken.

  His hands move down between my thighs, and I flip my leg over to straddle him. But my phone goes nuts again. “Who’s the cock block?” he asks amusedly, and I finally pull my relentless phone from my pocket.

  “Two missed calls and three texts. All from Jill.” I look at him wide-eyed.

  Alex raises his eyebrows. “Oh, boy. What do her texts say?”

  I open them.

  I’m so sorry to bother you. Can you call me when you get a chance?

  I’m sorry, Eve. I just need to talk to you.

  ???

  I jump off Alex’s lap and pace. “Oh, crap. What’ve I done?”

  Alex smiles sympathetically as he clears dishes from the table. “Go call her back and take your bath.”

  “Love you,” I mumble as I head toward the bathroom. What does Jill need so desperately? I’m nervous.

  She answers on the first ring. “Eve, hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re with your family.”

  Tears flood my eyes, and I swallow. “Hi, Jill. Don’t be sorry. Are you okay? What can I do?”

  She hesitates. “I know you’re busy with the boys, but if you have a few minutes, can you come over? I want to talk to you about something.”

  I abandon thoughts of a bubble bath and grab my keys off the dresser. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

  3

  EVE

  If Miami had the proverbial railroad tracks that divided the good and bad parts of town, I’d be crossing them now. Instead, it’s a canal.

  A canal that’s been known to host an alligator or two, and flanked by two highways. I’m driving over a bridge that ascends above them all—a bridge that Xander calls “The Bump.” A city should never have so many highways and alligator canals that people need to build bridges and bumps just to go to a friend’s house two miles away, safely.

  As I coast down the other side, I pass a cemetery on the right and plain, small homes with well-manicured lawns on the left. See, the proverbial railroad tracks insinuate that one side is “good” and the other is “bad.” Sometimes that’s not the case. Sometimes there are gray areas in between. And those areas are my favorites.

  Just north of the Section 8 housing, Jill’s neighborhood is inexpensive (for Miami real estate), simple, and often avoided—probably due to the proximity of the Section 8 housing. But Jill is the proud owner of this modest, 1980-something ranch she purchased all on her own after the falling out with her family, and my heart swells with pride for her every time I pull up to her house.

  Both Jill’s and Petra’s cars sit in the driveway; their elderly neighbor is raking fallen leaves from the mango tree in his front yard. I flash him a smile, and he gives a friendly wave. I cruise up to Jill’s front door, giving it five hard raps and wondering if the neighbor knows about Jordan.

  Petra opens after a moment, and her face draws into a long, horizontal line, like she can’t imagine what must’ve transpired to result in Eve Hunter appearing on her doorstep the evening of her stepson’s funeral. She opens the door wider, edging aside to allow me to enter.

  My feet stumble over the threshold as I mutter, “Sorry, it’s just—Jill wanted—I didn’t—”

  “Jill’s in the kitchen,” she states. “I don’t know why she’s bothering you with all this. She needs to just mourn in peace.”

  Petra’s slamming of the door and forward trudging propel me even more quickly toward the kitchen. “I’m happy to help in whatever way I can, Petra,” I call over my shoulder with a hint of disappointment I try very hard to hide. Why is Petra trying to dictate how Jill mourns?

  My heart flips when I see Jill seated at the table, a lot more slack in her body than the rigid pose she held at the cemetery. She’s put sweatpants on, and what I think is one of Jordan’s Miami Hurricanes T-shirts. A cup of tea sits in front of her that I feel she’s barely tolerating; I’m assuming Petra told her to drink this, it’ll make you feel better.

  “Jill?”

  “Hi, Eve,” she says without looking up.

  I slip into a chair across from her and clear my throat. “How ya holdin’ up?”

  “This sucks.”

  “I know.”

  Petra sighs from the entryway. Silence follows, and I watch Jill as she fingers the swerving handle of her teacup. She’s so wispy. A tiny brunette thing whose only indication of her thirty-five years is the lines in her forehead and mouth. But she’s pretty much the strongest person I know.

  “Why did you name your boys their names?” she finally whispers.

  I’m thrown by the randomness of the question, and I think Petra is, too, because she joins us at the table, as if preparing to intercede if Jill flies off the handle.

  “Malik—” I jar the phlegm from my throat. “Malik was supposed to be Malachi, but I couldn’t fit it on this … this snowman mug I wanted to personalize.”

  Petra looks at me sideways, and I shrug. “I was sixteen. A child. Things like that are important to a child.”

  Jill snorts a soft giggle. She stays quiet, as if waiting for me to continue with the origins of Xander’s name, although I think it should be fairly obvious. “And Xander is short for Alexander. He was named after his father.”

  Jill sighs from somewhere far away. “Jordan was the name of my first love.”

  I swallow and shift in the chair. “His dad?”

  Jill looks at me and smiles wistfully. “No, the girl I met after his dad. I was pregnant with Jordan. She helped me through that really hard time in my life. I never told you about her.” She rests her chin in her hand, her elbow propped on the table. I don’t dare look in Petra’s direction while Jill talks about an ex, but I imagine
the awkward tension shooting from her ears like a smokestack.

  “Do you think I ruined him? By naming him after a girl? Do you think that’s why he did it, Eve?”

  Oh, my god. How tortured Jill’s mind must be that she’s going through every decision she’s made as his mother, even before he was born, trying to determine why he killed himself. I can’t fathom the depths of pain her mind is enduring.

  “No! Jill, you’re not the reason Jordan did this.”

  “It couldn’t’ve been easy being a boy with two gay moms.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Do you think he was gay?” Her hand drops from her chin, and she analyzes me.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. Petra’s chair scrapes on the floor. “Jordan wasn’t gay, Jill. You know that,” she says. “He had that girlfriend last year.”

  I look up to see Jill shrugging. “I had boyfriends up until my twenties.”

  Petra shakes her head. “It was different for Jordan. He knew if anyone understood, it was us. He knew we would’ve helped him through that.”

  “But it’s not the same for boys,” Jill bounces back. “They would’ve made fun of him at school. Bullied him. You know what it’s like. It’s not easy, especially for a kid.”

  Petra studies Jill then shoots me a glance. “What do you need from Eve, love? She’s here to help you, but unfortunately, she can’t answer these questions.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe Petra doesn’t hate me, after all. Jill nods through a loud exhale, leaning back and looking toward the ceiling. “I wouldn’t wish this upon my worst enemy.” And she bursts into tears.

  Petra moves to her and rubs her hands up and down her arms. Jill drops her head on Petra’s shoulder, and I don’t know what to do. My heart is breaking as my tears drip onto the table.

  “Someone did this to him.” The words rip through Jill’s gritted teeth.