Page 71 of The Star in Room 7

“It wasn’t luck. Phoenix is good at matching people with the right caregiver.”

“You’re so much more than that, Daddy.”

“I’m glad.” I kiss his fingers again, and then pull him into my arms, his ear pressed over my heart. “What can I do to make you feel safe tomorrow?”

“Just be with me. That’s enough.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I might be a mess.”

“That’s okay. We’ll do whatever you need to, then we’ll come home, and I’ll hold you for as long as you need me to.”

He snuggles against me and kisses my chest. “I love you, Daddy.”

I gasp.

He tilts his head up, cracking one eye open. “Too soon?”

I smile and stroke his hair. “No. I think your timing’s perfect. I love you, too.”

19

ZACH

We sit in Nate’s car, in the parking lot opposite my apartment block. I want him to hold me, but I don’t dare ask. Every time someone walks or drives past and so much as glances our way, I tense. I don’t want to live like this. Not able to hug the man I love. Not able to kiss him. Not able to hold his hand. Was I wrong to go back in the closet? Will being out really damage my chances in Hollywood?

“Are you ready?” Nate asks.

“No.” I unclip my seatbelt anyway. “Let’s get it over and done with.”

Skin clammy and heart pounding for all the wrong reasons, I get out of the car and wait for Nate to follow. He walks just behind me as I cross the street to my apartment block, looking and acting for all intents and purposes like a bodyguard.

A group of teenage girls intercept us.

“It is him,” one of them, a blonde with big blue glasses, whispers. “I told you it was.”

“Are you really Zach Taylor?” another asks. She has red hair.

“You were so good in Confessions of a Teenage Jock,” a brunette says dreamily.

“Can we get your autograph?” the blonde asks.

“And a selfie?” a girl with mousy hair asks.

Before my home was invaded, I’d have taken this sort of interaction in my stride. Now, my nerves are in overdrive. It’s not their fault. They’ve done nothing wrong.

I smile. “Sure. What do you want me to sign?”

“Oh,” the blonde says. “I don’t have anything.”

“Sign this.” The brunette whips a battered book out of her school bag.

“To Kill A Mockingbird?” I ask.

“We’re studying it in school.”

“Use this,” Nate says, handing me a notebook and pen.