When Stars Fall

  When Stars Fall

  When Stars Fall

  Wendy Million

  Wattpad Books

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To all my Wattpad readers who love #Wyllie as much as I do

  Chapter One

  Wyatt

  Ten Years Ago

  As soon as the Rolls-Royce pulls into the driveway, I’m out the door of the rambling brick bungalow we share in Bel Air. I haven’t seen her in weeks—since I was on location in Shanghai, and she flew home to visit her family.

  Before Kyle can get to her door, I take Ellie’s hand to draw her out of the back seat. “How’d your visit go?” I cradle her cheeks in my hands, scanning every peak and valley of her face. Something is off. She’s hollowed out.

  “Fine. Just tired.” A weak smile rises, and she closes her eyes briefly.

  “Grab her bags, will you, Kyle?” I sweep her up in my arms and carry her through the foyer into the huge open-concept living space. She could walk inside herself, but after so long without her, I’ll seize any excuse to hold her close.

  “Sure thing, sir,” Kyle says.

  “Have you eaten? I can make you something.” She’s lost weight, and she doesn’t have a pound to spare. “Did some tabloid say something shitty about you again?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  When we get to the couch, I set her down. “Talk to me.” I sit beside her and then shift to get a better vantage point. “Do you want a Perc to take the edge off?”

  “I don’t want anything.” She twists her hands in her lap, a sure sign she’s nervous. If she starts playing with her hair, there’s definitely something wrong.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  She doesn’t say anything for a beat. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About us. Our relationship. About where we’re headed.”

  There’s a ring sitting in my underwear drawer. I dragged Isaac with me to choose one a week before he died. I haven’t been able to face the diamond since, but I understand what I want.

  She leaves the couch and goes over to where Kyle dropped her bags. From a side pocket, she takes out some pamphlets.

  Maybe she discovered the ring and spent the week looking at wedding venues in Bermuda. She wouldn’t want the chaos an LA wedding would bring. Wherever she wants to get married is fine by me. There’s no need for her to be nervous. Not like I’ll be mad about any of it.

  “What’s this?” I try to stifle my amusement.

  She tries to pass me the pamphlets and flyers. My brain stalls, and it takes a moment for me to process the bold headlines claiming effective treatment for addictions. A chill streaks across my body. This has nothing to do with weddings and nothing to do with our future. I remove the bottle from my pocket and shake out a Vicodin, then throw it back. I’m not addressing what’s written in these things. She’s going to have to say it. I set the bottle on the coffee table between us.

  After a deep breath, she says, “I think—I think if we want to have a future together, we should be doing that clean and sober.”

  “This is bullshit.” I grab the pamphlets and toss them onto the table and they scatter everywhere. Some of them fall to the floor at her feet. My chest is tight with disbelief. She knows better than anyone what she’s asking.

  She tucks her hair behind her ears. Shit, her hair. She doesn’t say anything.

  An uncontrollable rage rises in me. “What the hell happened to you on that damned island? We’ve been together for three, almost four, years and you’ve never asked me to quit. You’ve never said my using was a problem. In fact, Ellie, you do it with me.”

  “I haven’t touched anything since Isaac died.”

  “You’re a liar. We’ve gone out lots of times.” Even as I say those words, I can’t remember the last time she accepted a pill or took a drink or did a line of coke. My younger sister, Anna, started calling Ellie a No-Fun Nellie. “Nah, I don’t believe you. I would’ve noticed.” She must be lying, otherwise my intake has been much higher than I realized.

  She points at a pamphlet on the table. “My mother says this one is very good. The best.”

  “You think I don’t know about rehab programs?” I scoff. “You think I don’t have friends who’ve tried it? Rehab doesn’t work. It won’t work. I’m not going.”

  “We’re getting older. Maybe we should be considering a family.” She rubs her face. “Kids, possibly, someday . . . maybe.”

  She can’t even make eye contact when she says that. She’s not serious. Wherever these notions are coming from, she needs to send them packing back to Bermuda. A week ago, she and I were just fine, and now she’s returned with a truckload of bullshit ideas.

  “No, Ellie. No. You’re twenty-four, not forty-four. Don’t play the kids card. What the fuck do kids have to do with anything?”

  She stares at me, indecision on her face, and then her expression cements into a stubborn mask. “You’re out of control.”

  I take the pills off the table and shove an oxy in my mouth, this time to dull the memory of this conversation, which will hang over us like a cloud. Tomorrow, I won’t want to remember she even suggested this. “The only person who gets to decide that is me.”

  “I want you to quit.” She crosses her arms. “Deal with Isaac’s death, deal with your parents being terrible. Whatever underlying issues make you want to do this, be like this.”

  “You knew who I was when you went home with me that first night. I’ve never lied to you,” I say with a harsh half laugh.

  “You haven’t, but I’m asking you to be better. To want more for yourself—for us.”

  “Now that you’ve fucked your way into better jobs and higher paychecks, you think you can dictate some terms?” I shove the coffee table out of the way, and the metal legs shriek against the stone floor. “Come on, Ellie. Where would you be without me? Still pretty far down the call list.” The second pill was a mistake. Words are tumbling out of my mouth and I can’t stop them. Her tears fall faster than she can brush them away. “Sure, Ellie. Sure. Bust out the tears. They won’t work. I’m not
going to rehab; I’m not quitting any of it. We were fine until you went home to Bermuda. Who’s been pumping you full of this shit? Your mom? Your sister, Nikki? One of your old high school buddies who saw something on TMZ?”

  “I want you to go to rehab.” Her voice is thick, garbled.

  “You’re the only one.” I throw out my arms. It’s incomprehensible that she’d ask this of me.

  “I’m not.” She shakes her head. “I’m not the only one.”

  “Your family doesn’t count.” Her mother has never liked me. Maybe her sister doesn’t like me now either. Someone has been feeding her these lines. My Ellie is full of softness and understanding. She doesn’t give ultimatums.

  “Producers, directors, people who know you have been asking me to do something. To intervene. You’re not coping.”

  A surge of anger courses through me, but not at her—at the people who put her in this position. “They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “You’ll lose jobs. People won’t want to work with you anymore.”

  “Bullshit. I make people money. I’ve made you a lot of money over the last four years. Being tied to me is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  “It could be,” she says. “If you’ll get help. You could be the best thing to ever happen to me.”

  “I don’t need help, Ellie. I’m fine. We’re fine. Screw the rest of them who don’t understand.”

  “I’m one of those people. Me. I don’t understand anymore either. You need help. I can’t—I’m not capable of giving you the help you need.”

  My mind is muddled. She doesn’t ask me to do impossible things. She’d never ask me to choose. We had a pact. “Who put you up to this?”

  She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “No one. It’s coming from my concern for you. I love you.”

  “I was clear from the start. If there’s a choice, the choice is easy.” If she loved me, she wouldn’t be asking me to do this.

  “Still? After we’ve been together almost four years?” Her voice catches on a sob.

  My resolve wavers. I always let her win. She’s not winning this one. Once she cools down, she’ll realize I’m right. There’s nothing wrong with us. “I told you never to ask.”

  She snatches a pamphlet off the floor, thrusting it at me again. “Try one of them. Any of them. Just go. Even for a little while. Doesn’t matter which one. If you won’t get help, I can’t stay. I won’t watch you spiral.” Her rambling pleas are almost incoherent through her tears.

  “There are plenty of others who will.” I grab the pill bottle off the coffee table. “I’m going out. You have two choices. You can stay and accept that this is who I am, or be moved out by the morning. I’m not going to rehab, and we’re never having this conversation again.”

  “Wyatt!” My name is a frantic call as she chases after me to the front entrance. “Wyatt. Stay. Please. We need to talk about this.”

  “We’re done talking. If my not being clean and sober is suddenly a deal breaker for you, then we’re broken. I’m serious. Forget about rehab or move out.”

  “You don’t mean that.” Her face is already puffy from crying. She’s crying so hard I barely understand her words.

  “I do. I really do.” Before I can reconsider, I slam the door behind me.

  She won’t leave. Even if she wanted to, packing up and being gone in the next twenty-four hours is impossible. Our lives are too intertwined. Tomorrow, when I come back, we’ll pretend like this conversation never happened. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it. Ellie loves me. I know she does.

  When I climb into the back of the car, my pills press against my leg through my pocket. I take out the bottle, pop off the lid, and stare into the container. Shaking out an Adderall, I throw it into my mouth. A little something to take the edge off, make me completely forget this conversation so I’m not so pissed at her tomorrow.

  “Where to, sir?” Kyle asks from the front.

  “Drive around for a while and then to a hotel. Doesn’t matter which one.”

  Kyle glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay, sir?”

  “It’ll be fine.” I glance out the window as we drive onto the street. “Ellie needs a little space.”

  Chapter Two

  Wyatt

  Present Day

  I’m sweating. Profusely. It’s disgusting. I tug at the collar of my freshly pressed shirt and loosen my tie. I’ll tighten it before I go on set.

  Leaning forward on the couch, I grab my water from the coffee table. Bottles of alcohol line the bar to the right. A sign encourages everyone to help themselves. There is nothing worse than wanting a drink, being surrounded by alcohol, and not being able to have any. I need to be sober for this interview. Ellie will see it.

  I grab some candy off the table and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly. The greenroom is a weird shade of lime. Whenever I’m in a green waiting area, I’m always disappointed. We’re in a creative business—lime isn’t creative; it’s just hard on my eyes. Jackson Billows, the host of the late-night program, probably thinks the color is hilarious.

  I wiggle my back along the too-stiff couch. Maybe I’ve been doing this whole scene too long. Few things in the entertainment business surprise me anymore. Of course, having this big a stage, a platform for my announcement, is helpful. Surprises may be few and far between for me personally, but I can still deliver a couple.

  “You’re on in five, Mr. Burgess.” A dark-haired man pops his head into the room.

  I nod. Say nothing. Check my phone again. The few people who understand my plan are reluctantly on board. A last-minute Break a leg text rolls in. I turn off my ringer, readjust my tie and collar. My suit jacket is stifling, but she used to like me suited and booted. Every advantage is necessary. I’m about to blow up her life.

  For ten years, Ellie has been coordinating her projects and schedule to avoid me. We’ve developed an unspoken agreement to keep each other and Isaac, my best friend, out of the press. The weight of his death has remained ours to carry.

  Jackson enters from the hidden side door. “You all right, buddy?” He perches on a chair across from me.

  “Sweating like a pig.”

  “It’s been ten years, man. This will be great television, don’t get me wrong, but Ellie is going to eat your nuts for breakfast tomorrow.”

  “I picked you for a reason, Jack. Don’t let me down.” I drain the rest of my water and wish the liquid was something much stronger.

  “We could have booked you both on the show. Left you here in the greenroom to sort out your issues in private.” Jackson stands.

  “She’d have canceled. Whenever she’s gotten wind I’m in the area, her cavalry rides to the rescue. I even flew to Bermuda and not one person—not one,” I say, holding up a finger, “would tell me where she lived.”

  “What makes you think she’s going to take any notice of you this time?” he asks.

  “She’ll have no choice.” Certainty washes over me, and I point to my phone. “Finally got her address. I’m headed to the airport as soon as we’re done.”

  “Ten years and you’re just going to show up on her doorstep? Do you need the public spectacle first?”

  He has a point, but if I go without the spectacle, she’ll slam the door in my face. “I’m trying to make it impossible for her to say no.”

  “I hope that doesn’t make it hard for her to say yes later.” Jack arches his eyebrows.

  Truthfully, I haven’t thought that far in advance. All I’ve done is organize Operation Get Her to Talk to Me. The rest will fall into place. A long time ago, I was her kryptonite. God knows she’s always been mine.

  The doors split as we walk toward the set. Jack heads to the stage and I stand in the wings, waiting to make my entrance.

  By midnight tonight, she’ll realize I’m done with our unspoken truce.

  I’m coming for you, Ellie.

  Jackson giv
es his rambling introduction, then I strut onto the set. The crowd goes wild, and I drop into my seat. I adjust my jacket and wave to the audience as the screams die down.

  Jackson’s right about one thing: Ellie will not take this well.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie

  Present Day

  My Google Alerts tell me Wyatt’s on The Jackson Billows Show to promote his latest movie. Every time I try to convince myself it’s normal to have an alert on for my former boyfriend from ten years ago, I realize I sound crazy. I avoid analyzing it. I don’t follow him on social media, so the notifications are it. #Wyllie will never make a return.

  While I fold laundry, I flip to the right station and dial my sister. She’ll still be awake. As a real estate agent, she keeps the weirdest hours of anyone I know.

  Nikki doesn’t say hello like a normal person; instead, she says, “I hope you had a good flight. You’re not watching The Jackson Billows Show. Please tell me you’ve turned off the TV.”

  “My flight was fine,” I say. “It’s idle curiosity.” I tuck the phone between my ear and neck. Calling her was a bad idea.

  “You call it curiosity, I call it obsession.” Nikki’s voice is tight with disapproval.

  “Tomayto, tomahto. How’s Haven?”

  “She’s sleeping. All okay. Want me to drop her off after school tomorrow?”

  “Do you mind?” I finish the last piece of folding. Wyatt struts onto the stage, and I realize my screen needs to be bigger. So much bigger. “Oh,” I breathe.

  “I’ll let you go.” Nikki sighs.

  Without comment, I hang up and circle the couch to get comfortable. In these moments, when I’m transfixed and hungry for the sight of him, a little voice in my head tells me something isn’t quite right. Ten years and just a glimpse of him on a television is enough to scrape off the scab, leaving behind raw, tender skin. His effect on me is a burn that won’t heal.

  Since I left Wyatt ten years ago, acting is a job now, not a lifestyle. I’ve built a better, more stable life without him, and seeing him shouldn’t cause nostalgia for what once was. We were bad for each other—or maybe he was bad for me . . . but in any event, we didn’t work, couldn’t work.