Free Where the Stars Still Shine by Trish Doller Page A

toward the parking lot. We’ve returned to being the total strangers that we are. His curls are matted down from dozing off with damp hair and my dress is wrinkled, and it feels as if everyone we pass can tell what we’ve been doing. Sex was the easy part. Thinking of things to say afterward is harder. Except I don’t feel uncomfortable not talking to Alex. He doesn’t make me feel as if it’s necessary.
    We reach a chalky white pickup truck that’s more dented than smooth, and the wheel wells are starting to rust. Alex opens the passenger door for me.
    “I wouldn’t lean against it,” he says, holding it open as I get in the truck. The dark-red vinyl seat is hot, so I wedge my hands beneath my thighs to keep them from burning. “It’s been known to fly open.”
    I shift away from the door as he slams it shut and walks around to the driver’s side. He starts the engine and slides his arm along the back of the bench seat. Not exactly putting his arm around me, but not exactly not, either. It occurs to me that he might be lying about the door, but there are tiny points of heat where the tips of his fingers touch my skin and I don’t bother caring.
    “What are you hungry for?” he asks.
    “Anything but dolmades.”
    Alex laughs. “Greek food is for the tourists. I was thinking maybe pizza?”
    “Yes.”
    As he drives through Tarpon Springs, I check my phone for messages. Greg is not happy I ran off, so I send him a text that I’m getting something to eat and will be home right after. He replies that this is not how grounding works, but I don’t respond. Kat’s message informs me that I missed the arrival of Nick and Connor at the party, and that I should come back. I don’t answer that one, either.
    The pizza place is inside a small Italian grocery with two small aisles of pasta, sauces, cookies, sweets, and Italian wines, and a deli counter filled with meats and cheeses. The walls are covered with New York memorabilia—sports team pennants, autographed photos of various celebrities, framed newspaper clippings about 9/11, and a large framed photo of the New YorkCity skyline at night. Our table is one of only three and it has a candle in the middle, but with the deli counter three-deep with takeaway customers, it’s not a romantic candle.
    A beefy guy wearing a white apron smeared with dried blood comes out from behind the counter to take our order. “You want the usual?”
    “Yeah,” Alex says. “And a pitcher?”
    The waiter-slash-butcher looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “You got ID?”
    Mom taught me how to drive, but I never tested for a license, so I don’t have any identification at all. For all practical purposes, I’m nobody. I shake my head. “A Coke is fine.”
    “How old are you anyway?” Alex asks, after the guy shuffles away.
    “Seventeen.”
    “Really?” His eyebrows hitch up a little. “Huh.”
    When Matt found out I was only fifteen, he rolled away from me, called me jailbait, and told me to get the hell out. The trailer park where Mom and I were living was about two miles from his apartment, so I walked to the diner where she worked. When she asked what I was doing wandering around town in the middle of the night, I lied and said I couldn’t sleep. I’m not sure she believed me. Not when I could still smell his sweat and cologne on my skin and hair.
    “I’m not going to tell anyone.” I focus on the fork he taps against the tabletop. “It doesn’t have to be an issue.”
    “It’s not an issue.” He shrugs. “I’m a little surprised is all. You look older.”
    “How old are you?”
    “I’ll be twenty-two in April.”
    “My birthday’s in May.”
    On the wall behind him is a photo of the restaurant owner—I’m guessing, but it seems likely because he appears in other pictures as well—shaking hands with one of the New York Yankees.
    “Have you ever been to New York?” I change the subject.
    Alex picks up and puts down the glass shaker of grated