Page 90 of Girl Made of Stars

She smiled and I brushed my mouth over her forehead, then her eyes and her nose, and then we kissed for what felt like hours, safe and hidden in our own little world.

But eventually, we had to come out.

Now the tap-tap on my parents’ door echoes through the hall and I just want to crawl into my bed again, circle myself around Charlie and disappear.

Maybe a small part of me will always try to lock myself away, yelling about everything except what I really need to yell about. I’ll always try to chain myself to a rock. But then I think about a classroom full of fourteen-year-old girls, wide-eyed and open and trusting. I think about Hannah at school, devastated and strong all at once.

“Come in,” my mother calls.

I open the door and find my parents on the bed. My dad lies on top of the covers still in jeans and a sweater, The Atlantic open on his lap. Mom curls in close to his side, looking small and vulnerable bundled under the sateen quilt.

“Hi, honey,” she says, sitting up. There’s a hunger in her eyes as she looks at me and I almost back out of the room right there, because I’m about to feed her a plateful of shock and sadness.

“Everything okay, honey?” Dad asks.

I can’t answer, a sob cutting off my voice. Shaking my head, I crawl onto the bed and wedge myself in between my parents. My mom inhales sharply, but her hands come around me, smoothing my hair. My dad rests his cheek on top of my head. We used to do this all the time. Saturday mornings in my parents’ huge bed, giggles and lazy yawns and hands rubbed over backs, a happy foursome with a day to waste.

Except Owen’s not here and his absence is a shock all over again—?what he did, how powerless we are to do anything about it. We can’t go back, and going forward seems so bleak. Maybe Owen will tell the truth. Even if he does, I have no idea what that means legally. Any option is terrifying. Either way, I’m not sure if we’ll ever be that happy foursome again.

The thoughts come in waves, rolling over me, the salt water leaking out of my eyes.

“Sweetheart,” Mom whispers, and presses her lips to my forehead. It feels so safe here, and for a few blissful seconds, I forget why I knocked on their door in the first place. That there’s another truth circling us, one that belongs to only me.

“Mom . . . Dad . . . I need to tell you guys something.”

For Hannah.

For Charlie.

For all the girls whose names I’ll never know.

For me.

Girl made of flesh and bone.