We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman Page B

drop this book off to Issy.’ I grab the book I was thinking of from my bedside and hold it up, like a shield. ‘We were going to talk about it.’
    â€˜Is Issy the young girl you were talking to?’ I nod. ‘Give her the book on the way,’ he tells me. ‘Catch up with her tomorrow.’
    â€˜She might not be here tomorrow,’ I say, and his expression softens.
    â€˜She will be. I saw how you made her laugh,’ he said. ‘Her eyes sparkled; she’ll be here tomorrow. And, by the way, I think you are extremely cool for talking to her, and letting her have a laugh.’
    â€˜And I hate it when you do this,’ I say.
    â€˜Do what?’ He is going through all the clothes that I left on the back of a chair, and throws a pair of jeans at me.
    â€˜Trying to bring me out of myself,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to come out of myself. I like it in here.’
    â€˜Yes,’ he says, accosting me to drag a sweatshirt on over my vest, dressing me like I am an awkward child. ‘But you are completely failing to notice the obvious.’
    â€˜Which is?’ I ask him.
    â€˜When you are stuck inside your own head, I miss you.’
    And just like that, he’s won.

CHAPTER SEVEN
STELLA
    It’s 6 a.m. and still dark outside – too late in the year for there to be even a hint of dawn before I make it home. The night sky is still dense above the hum of the street lights, except for glimpses here and there of the fattening moon behind the cloud. I tie my shoes with precise care; the last thing I want is the knots coming undone as I run, because once I’ve started, I don’t want to stop. The beat of my feet on the pavement, vibrating through my soles into my thighs, becomes my heartbeat. If I stop, I falter, and I find it hard to start again.
    I never used to run anywhere. I never used to walk anywhere, either, except for that summer I first met Vincent. I liked my car. I liked the power and the freedom it gave me – the idea that whatever else was going on, if I wanted to, I could pick up my keys and be miles away by nightfall. I could start over, start a new life again, where nobody knows me. Back in the day, back before I had someone else to care about, and starting again stopped being an option.
    My mum and dad, well, they have always been so in love with each other that it sort of felt more like they were fond and benevolent guardians to my brother and me than parents. When my brother fell in love just as hard, and went down to Devon with his new wife, and my parents retired to a cottage where at last they could simply enjoy each other’s company uninterrupted, I was quite content to be alone. Because I was full of expectation that one day that sort of happiness would be mine.
    And I was right. I met Vincent, big, strong, wonderful Vincent, with his long powerful thighs and a backside that was so firm you could bounce a penny off it. I know because I tried once. Back then, we were nearly always naked, always engaged in some activity that would keep us physically close. His fingers always laced in mine, my arms always around his waist, the length of our thighs always touching, our bare skin gliding over one another in a delicious silken warmth. We gravitated towards each other all the time. I was the moon to his earth, or perhaps the earth to his sun, because back then Vincent radiated heat – he shone with life force. He still does, I suppose, but it’s a different kind of force: an all-encompassing hurricane of fury.
    Being at the peak of fitness mattered to him; he loved being strong and efficient. In that first summer, that golden time when we first met while he was home on leave, he’d use any excuse to strip off and stride around, skin glowing. Lots of his mates had tattoos, but not Vincent. His skin was clean and as fresh as the day he was born. Outsiders might have thought he was vain, because they didn’t know him.