Deep breath. I can’t believe I’m doing this—saying this—out loud, to someone I hardly know.

“I miss him. Sometimes it feels like I just let someone punch me in the stomach for an hour, it hurts so much. And I just need to talk to him,” I say, sharing more than I have now with anyone…ever. “Looking at the stars was kind of our thing. So when the pain gets to be too much, I look at them. I pretend that he’s looking at them, too. And just the possibility that we’re both seeing the same stars makes me feel like we’re connected, and like maybe he can hear me.”

I suck in air and feel my voice quiver; I’m fighting so hard to hold it in, my eyes burning and my throat closing up. I squeeze the pillow tightly to me. I can’t believe I just told Cody all of this. I’m partly worried that he thinks I’m crazy, and I’m also worried that I’m going to crack, break into a million pieces right here in his room.

My biggest fear is about to be realized when he gets up from the bed. I brace myself for him to open his door and ask me to leave, tell me that he just doesn’t have time in his life for my kind of crazy. I’m actually counting the seconds until he kicks me out, but instead of words, I hear him pull open a drawer and riffle through some papers.

I’m holding my breath, watching him as he pulls out a safety pin and starts to push holes in a piece of paper. He spends maybe five minutes looking at the paper closely, biting on his bottom lip while he concentrates, only letting his eyes drift to me for brief seconds before going back to work.

I’m squeezing the pillow tighter now, my body rigid with anxiety. Cody flips on a switch for a small lamp on his night table, and then turns off the main light in his room. The bulb is bright, and looking at it is making me squint my eyes, trying to get them to adjust. I pull the pillow up to block the light a little and listen as I hear Cody rip a few pieces of tape and crinkle the paper while he fastens it to the top of his lampshade. The room is suddenly much darker, and when I pull the pillow back from my face, I realize what he’s done.

Cody has given me my stars. They aren’t perfect. There’s no Big Dipper, and the dots on his ceiling are misshapen and not quite the right size. But the feeling is there. I’m staring up at them, my smile unavoidable and so big it’s actually starting to hurt my cheeks. I feel the bed move from Cody’s weight. He’s lying next to me again, this time, we’re so close our arms are touching, and between the stars above my head and the heat to the right of my body, I’m no longer sure of anything in my life—but I also don’t feel alone.

“Go ahead,” Cody says. “Talk to him.”

I can’t seem to look at his face, even though I know it’s only inches from mine. I can’t do it, because I’m so damn afraid of what I’ll feel if I do. I want to be Cody’s friend. No, I think I need to be Cody’s friend. But when I look at him, my heart squeezes, and I know it’s because I also want him to touch me, kiss me, and, Oh God, I don’t dare let myself indulge in any more.

I take in a deep breath and hold it for a second or two before letting it out slowly, like I’m throwing sandbags over the edge of a hot air balloon so I can get it to lift. I shut my eyes tightly, imagining the real stars in my head before I open them back up and see Cody’s beautiful sky.

“Hi, Daddy. It’s me…Charlie,” I say my name, the only one Mac ever called me, and the instant I do I feel Cody’s fingertips stretch for mine. I give in and wrap my fingers together with his tightly. I don’t have to explain; I know I just gave him a key to look inside me, to see my secrets—the good ones and the ugly ones—with that one small sentence. And I also know it’s more than I’ve ever given anyone. And I think he knows it, too.

I decide to keep talking to Mac out loud. The feeling of letting it all out for someone else to hear is doing for me what months of therapy couldn’t.

“Daddy, I miss you. It’s almost Halloween, and I bought candy corn when I was at school the other day. Those were your favorites.”

I have to pause. I work so hard keeping these memories away from the surface, that when I let them out they overwhelm me. I catch my breath and feel Cody squeeze my hand tighter. He’s giving me courage.

“I’m worried about Caroline. She hasn’t been answering my calls. I know I should go see her, but I haven’t been in the house since the day I left. I just can’t…”

Cody rolls to his side, my hand still in his, and I feel his other hand along my arm, almost like he’s bracing it. I feel his forehead against my shoulder, and I know he’s doing that so I won’t feel uncomfortable having him look at me while I bare my soul.