Page 2 of Chasing Stardust

Oblivious to the tempest swirling inside me, Jeanie rattles on. “But Damian is your boyfriend. Two-hour drive or not, he has no excuse for ditching you today.”

I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that he’s home for the summer and only five minutes away. That the “booty calls” are as much for me as him. Where the hell did she think I’d find someone else my age when I spent all my time in hospice with Mom? How else was I supposed to distract myself from the soul-crushing sadness? And God knows I needed that distraction. Under the circumstances, putting up with his control issues and toxic masculinity for a few hours every weekend seemed like a small price to pay.

Jeanie drops onto the step beside me, scooting me over with her narrow hips. “Wanna know what I think?”

I count my heartbeats to keep from fleeing our excruciating conversation. “Not particularly.”

“I think you only started dating him because you thought he was the kind of boy Mom would’ve picked.”

My jaw drops, my head whipping in her direction. The words you’re wrong stick in my throat. I close my mouth, going back to counting heartbeats, half convinced she’s working through a playbook filled with every one of my insecurities.

“He’ll be here,” I whisper, no longer believing my own lie.

“Not that it matters anymore. The funeral’s over. Everyone’s already gone. Wait all day for all I care, but I’m going home. Reverend Tom and the ladies’ church league are probably sitting in the driveway with another month’s worth of crappy casseroles as we speak. Better be nice to me if you want me to save you any.” Jeanie snickers.

When I don’t respond, she hops up with a huff as if I’ve insulted her. And maybe I have. Somewhere during the past couple of years, I outgrew her. Jeanie may be two years older, but she acts as if she’s twenty-two going on eighteen, and after all the time I spent caring for our sick mother, I feel as if I’m twenty going on forty.

“You don’t laugh, you don’t cry . . . you really need to drop the robot act, Zo. Mom died. It’s okay to show some freaking emotion.” Her hands tremble as she reaches for Mom’s ashes, and my fragile hold on those emotions slips for half a second.

“What are you doing?” I tighten my grasp on the urn, fighting the urge to set my tears free. I can’t cry now. If I do, I may never stop.

She arches an eyebrow, slowly enunciating each word as if I don’t speak her language. “Taking Mom’s ashes?”

“No. You’re not.” I squint up at her, burning my retinas in the process. Sunlight streams through her icy-blond hair, making it glow like a halo behind her. An involuntary snort slips out of me. Horns would be more like it. “Not unless you’ve changed your mind about her last wishes . . .”

“No.” Losing her own battle with tears, Jeanie blows out a breath, deflating along with it. “We’re doing it, so get used to the idea.”

Head pounding, I curl my fingers into a fist, sinking my freshly manicured nails into my palm, welcoming the sting. We’ve already had this argument more times than I can count, but if she wants to go at it again, I’m in.

“Do you even know why she wanted us to spread her ashes along some fifty-year-old concert path?” I demand.

“Does it matter?” Jeanie locks her shimmering blue eyes on mine. “That’s what she wanted.”

“It’s just so . . . wrong.” I pick at a loose thread on the black dress Mom bought me the day she found out her cancer had spread to her lymph nodes and then check my phone again. Three spam texts asking me about my car’s extended warranty and a calendar reminder to refill my birth control, but nothing from Damian. “She was half out of her mind on opioids at the end.”

“Right or wrong, we need to do it soon. This is my last free summer. I start my new job in less than a month.”

When I ignore her, she flicks a loose pebble into the grass with her big toe. Neither of us wants to tackle the elephant in the room—how she’s a college graduate with a bright future, and I’m a twenty-year-old high school graduate who’s never even had a real job.

“Is Mr. All-American picking you up, or are you walking home?”

“I don’t know yet.” I shift my weight again, squirming on the uncomfortable stone steps.

“I really have no idea what you see in that guy.” She snorts. “I’ve never liked him. Neither did Mom.”

Red-hot rage sears my veins. If we weren’t on the steps of a church, I’d slap the smirk from her lips. “What would you know about what Mom did or didn’t like? You’ve been gone for almost four years!”

“I wasn’t gone. I was in college.” She lowers her gaze as if my accusation wounded her. “And I talked to Mom every day.”

“That’s nice for you. But I’m the one who gave up my entire life to take care of her. Watched her slip further and further away every single day. And do you know what she never said? ‘Break up with the quarterback, Zoey. Don’t follow in my footsteps, Zoey.’ Because she wanted me to have the kind of life she had.”

Jeanie’s head snaps up. “Damn it, Zo, maybe you don’t remember how bad things were before Dad left, but I do. Mom divorced him for a reason. Marrying the quarterback isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“I never said I was gonna marry him.” The words tumble out on a breath. The mere thought of seeing Damian every day for the rest of my life makes my soul itch. But I’ll be damned if I tell Jeanie that.

“Good, because we both know that didn’t work out so well for her. And despite what you think, that’s not what she wanted for you.”

“Like that matters now.” My shoulders sag, the fight draining out of me. Mom’s dead. Every single sacrifice I made over the past two years pales in comparison.