Page 93 of Chasing Stardust

I shift my focus to Mom’s mischievous grin. As far-fetched as the idea may be, I can almost see what Dash means. “Maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“She never told you the story?” Dash hands me the diary and pulls a knee to his chest. “About your grandma and the Ziggy tour?”

“Nope, never said a word. I mean, I always knew she liked Bowie. But I had no idea how much until the day he died.” A thick lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down.

“What do you mean?”

Memories rush back, and my eyes sting with unshed tears. Dash squeezes my hand as if he knows my heart is breaking all over again. He nods for me to continue.

I clear my throat. “I still can’t get the look on her face out of my head. I’d never seen my mom cry so hard in my entire life. Not even three weeks later when she was diagnosed with cancer. I never got around to asking her why David Bowie’s death hit her so hard. The topic never came up again, and she was so sick, it never seemed to be the right time.” I lower my eyes to the pink-and-gray-speckled linoleum floor. “Then she died, and my grandma Lola rolled up in front of the church in her butt-ugly Cutlass—over an hour late for Mom’s funeral—and the pieces started falling into place like a giant puzzle.”

“That’s . . .” Dash lets out a long breath. “Wow.”

“I don’t believe a single word of it. My best guess is that my grandma came up with the story back in the day to cover her shame. It was the pre-Roe seventies, and she was young, pregnant, and probably didn’t even know who the guy was. I’m guessing she told the lie so many times she started to believe it herself.”

“It’s a stretch, but not entirely impossible.” Dash opens the diary again and flips to the picture of my mom in front of the junk house.

I chuckle under my breath. “I love my grandmother, but she’s the original wild child. And definitely not firing on all cylinders.”

“But your mom believed it?”

“She must have.” I snatch the diary from his hands, close it, and slide it into my tote, hoping to close the subject along with it. “Why else would she send me on this crazy mission?”

“Come on.” Excitement oozes from Dash’s pores. “You can’t tell me some small part of you doesn’t think it’s possible.”

“Sure.” I heave out a breath. “I still believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny, too.”

“Listen.” Dash rakes a hand through his hair. “Bowie did a lot of interviews where he talked about all the indiscriminate sex he had back in the day. So it’s not impossible.”

“Maybe not.” I stand and stretch, putting some distance between us. “But it is highly improbable. I really don’t care either way. This trip isn’t about who was or wasn’t my mom’s sperm donor, it’s about honoring the promise I made her.”

“You’ve got to admit, it would make for a great story.”

“Right. Because I’d love the whole world to think my mom and my grandma were crazy . . . or liars.” A nervous laugh rolls up my throat. “No thanks.”

Dash jumps up and follows me across the room as I check on the clothes. “But you must be curious, at the very least.”

“Maybe, in the beginning. But now, I’m just glad I get to connect with Mom this one last time.” I reach into the dryer and drag out the still-damp clothes, stuffing them into a wire laundry cart. They need at least ten more minutes, but quarters aren’t the only things I’m out of. “In my head, I know she’s gone. But in my heart, I swear she’s been right beside me this whole time.” I glance around the dingy laundromat and snicker. “Maybe not here.”

Dash fishes his things from the cart, folding them before placing them in his bag. “You know you could probably make a fortune selling your story.”

“To who?” I snort.

“I don’t know. People?”

“What people? The bottom-dwellers of Tattle Tale magazine? No thanks, I’m not interested.” I shove my clothes into my backpack with more force than necessary. The idea of exposing my family secrets to a bunch of strangers turns my stomach. “All I want is to get back on the road and finish what I started.”

“About that . . .” Dash leans against the block wall and fidgets with his glasses.

I study him out of the corner of my eye.

“I, uh . . . came up with a plan to get money.”

“I told you.” Abandoning my laundry, I drape my arms over his shoulders. “I’m gonna call G-Lo and Jeanie, and have them send—”

He presses a finger to my lips. “This one’s on me. It’s my fault we’re in this situation.”

“I’m a big girl, Dash.” I let out a breath. “I don’t need—”