Chapter 32
TARA
My phone buzzes with another FaceTime request from Alex. I almost ignore it but her third call in a row suggests she won’t give up.
“Oh my God, finally!” Alex’s face fills my screen. “Did you see—” She stops, squinting. “Wait, what are you wearing?”
I glance down at my outfit, a vintage-inspired midi dress in a gorgeous emerald silk that makes my eyes pop. “Just something I threw on.”
“Just something you threw on?” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “That looks new. Please tell me you didn’t buy fast fashion clothes again.”
“Actually,” I spin for her, letting the silk catch the light, “I found it at that amazing vintage store downtown. Total steal.”
It’s not exactly a complete lie. I did find it downtown. In the department stores’ newest collection. At full price. But Alex doesn’t need to know that. She’s not as perfect as she likes to think environmentally and I am not in the mood for a lecture today.
“The accessories though,” I continue quickly, showing off my carefully curated mix of actually thrifted jewelry, “are all vintage finds. This necklace was only twelve dollars!”
“Now that’s more like it.” Alex nods approvingly. “Though I have to admit, the dress is incredible. The color with your skin tone? Amazing. Sensational.”
I try not to feel guilty about the lie. Alex is my best friend, but she wouldn’t understand how sometimes you just need to buy the dress that makes you feel like a goddess, even if it costs more than your textbooks. Besides, I’ve been saving my Luzia tips for exactly this kind of splurge.
“I miss your fashion shows.” Alex sighs. “California is all athleisure all the time. It’s like people forgot how to dress up.”
I adjust my perfectly styled waves. “Well, someone has to maintain standards around here.”
“Speaking of maintaining standards,” Alex’s voice turns sly, “have you seen Alfie’s latest post?”
My heart skips. “What post?”
“Don’t play dumb! The animation? The girl reaching for stars? The most romantic thing I’ve ever—”
“Alex, I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m just getting up Instagram now.”
I scroll through my feed quickly when my thumb freezes mid-swipe. The video fills my screen - hands turning pages of a sketchbook, each frame meticulously animated. I recognize those hands. I’d know them anywhere.
Clapping a hand over my mouth I squeal.
“I gotta go, Alex. I’ll text you!”
“Wait! Are you going to—”
I end the call before she can finish. I play the video again.
The first page shows a girl - unmistakably me - reaching toward a distant star.
The star glows against the dark background, impossibly bright and beautiful.
The next page shows her stretching higher, fingertips straining, while the star pulses with light.
As the pages turn faster, the star moves closer, drawn to her reach.
My breath catches as I realize what I’m seeing. All those times I caught Alfie sketching in his notebook, all those moments he’d snap it shut when I got too close... he was drawing this. Drawing me.
The girl in the drawings starts to glow too, light spreading from where her fingers nearly touch the star.
Page after page shows their light mixing, blending, until it’s impossible to tell where she ends and the star begins.
Their collision creates a supernova that fills the entire page with radiance.
The final image steals my breath completely - the girl and the star have become a constellation, permanently part of each other’s light. In the corner, in Alfie’s precise handwriting, “Some people burn so bright, they turn the darkness into stars.”
I replay it. Once. Twice. A dozen times.
Each viewing reveals new details - the way he captured my exact expression when I’m excited about something, the delicate shading that makes the star seem to pulse with real light, the subtle way the girl’s face shows both fear and determination as she reaches for something that might burn her.
Alfie Spencer, who barely posts on social media, who keeps his art hidden from everyone, who guards his privacy like a fortress... just laid his heart bare for anyone to see.
Under the video, comments are building up:
@EthanTheMan: brO. THIS IS EPIC.
@FreddieG: About time man
@AlexRocks:
But it’s the caption that breaks me completely.
“For the girl who taught me that some stars are worth reaching for, even if you might get burned.”
Before I can overthink it, I grab my keys.
I don’t check my phone. I don’t let myself spiral.
I choose.
The silk of my dress whispers against my skin as I move, and I catch my reflection in the mirror—perfect makeup, carefully styled hair, a designer dress that makes me look invincible.
But that’s not why I’m doing this.
I’m not here to prove anything.
I’m here because I know what I want. And I refuse to let fear make that decision for me.
The rain starts halfway to his house—because, of course, it does.
Everything important between us seems to happen in the rain.
By the time I reach his door, I’m soaked. Dripping, shaking, but resolute.
I knock.
Déjà vu slams into me—the last time I showed up here, terrified of the security footage.
Now, I’m here for a different kind of fear.
Alfie opens the door, looking like he hasn’t slept. His eyes widen as he looks me up and down.
“You’re wet.”
“It’s raining.”
“I can see that.” His brow furrows, like he wants to say something else. But instead, he pulls me inside, going to grab a towel—just like he did that first night.
Déjà vu again.
Only this time, I’m not leaving with more questions than answers.
“Tara—”
“I didn’t take it,” I blurt out. “Your mother’s offer. I wouldn’t.”
He freezes.
“I’ll admit I considered it, for a moment. Before we were anything…real. But even if none of this is real, even if it’s all still nothing, I wouldn’t take it. I swear.”
His jaw tightens, guard up instantly. “How did you—”
“Know that you knew?” I exhale. “You’ve been weird ever since that night at Luzia. Then Drake said something about ‘elegant solutions’ and...” I shrug. “I put it together.”
His eyes flick to the floor. “I should have asked you about it.”
“Yeah. You should have.” I wrap the towel tighter around myself. “Just like I should have told you about it in the first place.”
He nods, but I can see the weight in his shoulders.
A silence stretches between us—thick with things unsaid.
Then, softly he asks, “Why didn’t you?”
I exhale, heart hammering.
“Because I was trying so hard to prove I could handle everything myself,” I admit. “Even your mother. And then the James thing happened and...” I meet his eyes. “I was wrong about that, by the way.”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s afraid to breathe too hard or I’ll vanish.
“About James?”
“About not wanting help.” I swallow. “I still want to handle things myself when I can. But that night at Moe’s with Troy made me realize—sometimes being strong means knowing when to let people help you.”
Something flickers across his face. A crack in the armor.
He steps closer, slow, careful. “I can’t promise not to want to protect you.”
“I’m not asking you to.” I hold his gaze. “I’m just asking you to trust that I can protect myself most of the time. And maybe...” My breath hitches. “Maybe trust that I’m strong enough to handle your family too.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. Realization. Relief. Something deeper.
“I know you can,” he murmurs.
But he still looks trapped.
Like he’s holding something back.
“You’re so afraid of your world tainting mine that you didn’t even give me a choice,” I say, voice quiet but steady.
He flinches.
“I’ve seen what they do to people,” he admits. “What they do to everyone who doesn’t fit their mold. How everything turns into a deal, an arrangement.”
I step closer, closing the distance. I need him to hear this.
“I’m not ‘people.’” I lift my chin. “I’m Tara freakin’ Hawkins.”
His lips twitch—like he wants to smile, but doesn’t let himself.
“You think I don’t see how different you are from them?” I say, softer now. “How hard you fight to be your own person?”
Something shifts in his expression.
Then—he shakes his head.
Steps back.
“I don’t know if I can love like you can,” he says quietly. “Maybe we should just be friends.”
For a second, it knocks the wind out of me.
But I square my shoulders. Not letting him run.
I cross my arms, forcing myself to look at him, even though it hurts. “Is that what you want?”
Alfie hesitates. It’s the smallest thing—a flicker in his expression, a pause before he speaks—but I see it.
His jaw tightens. “It’s what makes sense.”
Something sharp twists inside me.
“You keep doing this.” My voice is quiet, but firm. “You push people away before they can disappoint you. Before they can hurt you. Before you even give them a chance.”
His head snaps up, eyes dark. “Tara—”
“No.” I step closer. “You did it with your family. You do it with friends. And now, you’re doing it with me.”
He lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then stop making my decisions for me.” My hands clench at my sides. “If you don’t want me, fine. Say that. Say you regret it, say it meant nothing—”
He flinches.
“But don’t stand here and pretend you’re walking away for my sake,” I continue. “Because if you do, you’re lying. To me. To yourself.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and buzzing with everything unsaid.
His hand lifts—just slightly—like he wants to reach for me but can’t let himself.
Finally, he exhales, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to be my father.”
I still.
His words are raw, stripped of all their usual careful control.
“I don’t want to pull you into something that’ll ruin us both,” he continues, voice low. “I don’t want to be the reason you wake up one day and realize you should’ve chosen someone else. Someone safer.”
I shake my head. “Alfie—”
“Most of all, I don’t want to hurt you,” he says again, softer this time.
I take a deep breath. “And I don’t want to spend my life being controlled by other people’s expectations. Not my parents. Not Troy. And not you.”
His eyes flick to mine—sharp, searching.
“This is my choice,” I say. “I want you. I don’t care if it’s messy. I don’t care if it’s complicated. I care that it’s real.”
He doesn’t move.
“Do you even know what you want, Alfie Spencer?” I push him, I challenge him, because we’ve never gone easy with each other.
Alfie doesn’t hesitate this time.
His jaw hardens, and instead of stepping back, he steps forward—closing the space between us in one smooth, deliberate motion.
I don’t have time to react before his hand curls around the back of my neck, fingers threading through my damp hair.
“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” His voice is low, rough, the kind of voice that leaves no room for argument. “You think I don’t know exactly what I want?”
My breath catches.
His other hand grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, his body heat searing through the soaked fabric of my dress.
“I’ve wanted you since the first night you walked into my life, Tink,” he murmurs, lips a breath from mine, “and I’m done pretending otherwise.”
The world tilts as he claims my mouth—no hesitation, no restraint.
It’s not a question. It’s an answer.
A declaration.
I grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, but he’s already a step ahead of me—his hands sliding over my hips, anchoring me to him like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, certain.
“You want messy?” His voice is pure command, pure control. “You want complicated? Then you better be ready, Tara. Because you’re mine.”
A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from the cold.
My pulse is hammering, my entire body thrumming with the weight of those words.
Alfie isn’t holding back anymore.
He’s claiming me.
Choosing me.
And I want him just as recklessly, just as irrevocably.
“I’m yours,” I whisper, and it’s the easiest truth I’ve ever said.
His grip tightens. “Damn right you are.”
And then—
He kisses me again.
And this time, I know—there’s no turning back.