The Stars Will Shine Read Online Free PDF Page A

stage where my last dream is superimposed on the real world. The darkness from it sweeps over the pink walls, clothing the room in gothic maroon. And that face—his face—the one I never want to see again—still hovers before my eyes, a sweet nothing on his lips and desire like a fire beneath his stone gray eyes. I blink hard, but when my eyes shut, I feel his touch on me, fingers crawling over the skin of my thighs, higher and higher…
    And disgust consumes me because in the thump of my heart and in the tingling of my skin, I feel how much I wanted it then and how much I regret that now.
    I throw on a bra under my tank top, loosely braid my long hair over one shoulder, and make my way out of the bedroom, past the bathroom, which I assume by the closed door is currently occupied by Dylan, and down the stairs, a bad mood bubbling like food poisoning inside of me. When I’m standing in the foyer, Aunt Miranda calls from the dining room, probably having heard me thoroughly thump down the stairs, “You must be starving, Delilah, seeing as you skipped dinner last night.”
    Her tone is clipped, and the disappointment on her face becomes clear to me the second I look up and see her peeking around the corner from where she sits. I don’t know why she really cares; it must be embedded in her lifestyle, in her constant need to please and impress.
    “Yeah,” I reply. “I fell asleep. Long drive yesterday.” I go around the other way to the kitchen so that I don’t have to pass her in the dining room. My feet stick to the light marble tiles as I make my way to the cabinets next to the stainless steel refrigerator, thinking briefly how even the smallest of crumbs could be spotted instantly in this bright, white kitchen.
    Aunt Miranda is right—I really am starving. I begin my quest for food by opening one of the cupboards and perusing its shelves.
    “We had grilled salmon and rosemary red potatoes,” Aunt Miranda says. I nod, as though she can see me, but I don’t say anything. There’s some kind of fancy granola mix sitting on the shelf before me and it looks a little too healthy for my taste. I shut the cabinet with a grimace. They have an eleven-year-old for Christ’s sake…Where’s the Frosted Flakes and Pop Tarts?
    “I apologize for the bathroom situation upstairs,” Aunt Miranda continues, still trying to make conversation and still not getting that I desire no interaction of the sort. “We are remodeling the other one up there; otherwise, that one would have been yours.” I open the refrigerator and browse its contents, tapping my chin.
    A pair of footfalls make their way down the grand staircase, and I can only assume they belong to Dylan, the one and only. Sure enough, he shuffles into the kitchen, ruffling up his wet, dark hair. He’s wearing black gym shorts, a red Rolling Stones tee-shirt, and black socks that stretch straight up, not quite to mid-shin. All in all, he stands in stark contrast to this blinding kitchen, and I can’t help but feel like, as much as I hate him, he’s a sight for sore eyes. And I really do mean sore eyes; mine are physically aching from how bright this kitchen is. Dylan barely glances at me before reaching over my arm and pulling the milk jug off the refrigerator shelf.
    I narrow my eyes at his forearm as Aunt Miranda continues to yap from the dining room. “If you’d like, you can have one of the bathrooms down here, but that might be more of a hassle for you. Besides, Dylan doesn’t take up much space in there, do you, honey?”
    “Though it’s not really the space I’m concerned about,” I say idly, deciding the time has come for a response. “Apparently Dylan takes lengthy showers and even longer shits.”
    A spoon clanks to the table in the dining room. There’s a snort to my left, and I turn to catch Dylan’s eye. He’s leaning back against the counter, ankles crossed, holding a glass of milk in one hand that’s halfway to his mouth. Amusement flashes