Read The Stars Will Shine for Free Online Page A

But the thing is, I don’t think he even knew he was humming it, which almost makes it a little endearing.
    Aiden sets the paint cans by the back tire of my car.
    “I got it from here,” I say along with a murmur of thanks. I don’t meet his eyes, but I know he’s waiting for me to. He leans back against my car, feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest, and watches me. I watch him, too, in my periphery, but I keep my eyes forward on the paint cans, which I load onto the floor of the backseat, one by one.
    “Right, well, I better go now.” I move to slip past him to head around to the driver’s side. As I pass, he pushes off the car and brushes my arm with his fingers.
    “Wait, Delilah.” I stop even though I wanted to avoid this. I know what he’s going to say. I can hear it in his tone and in how he says my name—a little hopeful, a little unsure. “I thought maybe…” He leans back slightly, inwardly debating whether to go on. And then he straightens, tucks his hands into his pockets, and braves it. “I thought maybe since you’re new here and all, I could, you know, show you around town sometime.”
    I was holding my breath, but I let it out now as I drop my head. “Aiden, you seem like a really nice guy. But”—I hesitate—“I’m not—I’m not a very nice girl.” I manage to meet his eyes, and I see the way his smile falters so infinitesimally as to be almost unnoticeable. “I think you’re better off not hanging around me.”
    I force myself to move on without looking back. It’s better this way; it’s better that I push him away now. The only people I ever let close are those I know will never mean a thing to me; that way, when they leave me, it won’t hurt to see them go.
     
    ***
     
    I move the roller through the paint and consider my first target: a wall to the left of the bedroom door, one I stripped completely bare to its big pink bottom. I changed into another loose tank top I couldn’t care less about splattering with paint. It’s a dark gray one with a low-hanging neckline and the words “MADE YOU LOOK” stamped large in sparkly silver across the chest. The first time I ever wore this top, paired with tiny, shredded jean shorts, my dad refused to let me leave the house.
    Spoiler alert: I left anyway.
    I went to a party in the desert, had more than one too many drinks, nearly fell into the bonfire, and hooked up with some guy, whose face and name I don’t remember, in the bed of his pickup truck. That was also the night I vowed to live by the motto: Any vodka is too much vodka.
    I stare at the too-thickly coated roller in my hand and watch the paint slowly succumb to gravity, sliding over itself and off the roller cover. A bright orange drop falls to the floor, which I was kind enough to cover with a sheet of plastic I found in the garage.
    Another drop falls and splatters onto the topside of my foot. I blink down at it, breathing in long and exhaling slowly. A third one falls, and I blink again.
    A memory brushes my mind, soft and featherlike, coaxing me, tempting me to remember a time when I was truly happy. It swims forth, but I push it away, the muscles in my forearm straining as my grip tightens around the handle of the roller. My mother’s face —I shake my head. I don’t want to remember. My mother’s smile, filled with life and love and laughter —I slap the memory away, but it’s relentless. My mother taking my hand and gently wrapping my fingers around a paintbrush, the bristles coated in blue paint. My eyes sting.
    “Paint something, Delilah.” She nods towards the canvas. Her voice is like an angel’s, sweet and melodic. There is rhythm to the way she speaks, and passion, and a softness that swells my heart.
    “I don’t know what to paint.” My voice is small. I am so young.
    A tear rolls down my cheek, and I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering. I don’t want to remember because it hurts. It hurts me so bad that she’s