Where the Stars Still Shine Read Online Free PDF Page B

shops. The gift-shop windows are filled with sponges, soaps, shells, and Greek-themed tourist wear; the bakeries scented of yeast and honey; and the restaurants called Mykonos and Hellas.
    Almost everything is closed, but the plucky mandolin music from a couple of open restaurants follows me, the melodies melting one into the next. My skin is stained blue in the neon glow of the gift shops, and I feel as if I’m an alien in yet another new world. I pause on the sidewalk and close my eyes. Maybe if I stand here long enough I will remember how to be Greek and I’ll feel as if I belong in Tarpon Springs. Except none of this is familiar and it is not my home. I look around as if my surroundings might have changed while my eyeswere shut, but it’s still the same, still strange. So I cross the street.
    On the opposite side of Dodecanese there is a riverfront esplanade lined with rows of fishing boats, their decks heaped with dark mounds of something I can’t identify. It isn’t until I reach a boat illuminated by a caged utility light hanging from the deck roof that I realize they’re sponges.
    Standing beneath the light, a guy around my age—no, probably a little older—strings the dark-yellow tufts on a cord like an oversize version of the popcorn garlands Mom and I used to make at Christmas. He has a blue bandanna tied around his dirty-blond curls, and when he bends down for another sponge, there’s a sweat-stained spot on his gray shirt where it sticks between his shoulder blades. He glances up, and his face is something so fine and beautiful, it makes my chest ache the way it does when I hear a sad song or finish a favorite book.
    If he sees me standing beyond the reach of his light, he gives nothing away. I watch, curiously, as he threads one last sponge, then secures the entire string to the underside of the roof.
    “You know”—his voice is low as he knots off the second end of the cord. The muscles in his tanned arms flex—“you’re kind of creeping me out, standing in the dark.”
    I move into the light.
    His dark eyes rest on my face long enough to bring heat to my cheeks, and he gives me a little half smile that makes my heart grow wings. They beat against my rib cage as I take a bolder step closer.
    “Better,” he says.
    “What, um—what were you doing just now? With the—” I gesture toward the garlands of sponges.
    A quiet laugh rumbles up from his chest. “You must not be from around here, huh?”
    “Not really, no.”
    “Well, I can give you the tourist brochure version,” he says. “Or, we could grab a beer and I’ll give you the behind-the-scenes version.”
    I know how this works: flirt, drink, sex. A familiar road on a brand-new map.
    “What time is it?” I ask, wondering if Greg knows I’m gone.
    “Eight thirty, maybe? Early.”
    “I really—” I look at him and he’s standing on the side rail of his boat, poised to step down to the pavement if I say the word. The air between us is thick with want. Mine. His. It doesn’t make sense because I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name. He’s only the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and I’m so, so tempted. But I also know how this ends. And after everythingthat’s happened in the past two days, I’m not sure I want to add feeling like a slut to my to-do list. “I need to go.”
    “Wait,” he says, as I turn away. “Can I drive you … somewhere?”
    “Not tonight,” I say. “But thanks for the offer.”
    I don’t look at him again, because if I do, I will change my mind.
    Greg’s house is dark when I get back, only one light still shining. I picture him and Phoebe tucking the boys in bed, reading stories and kissing them good night. I remember bedtime stories, but more than that, I remember when they stopped. After we left Frank, we lived in the empty model home in Washington State. It was at the head of a cul-de-sac with no other houses. No grass. No trees. There were only depressions along the side of