Every Star that Shines Sample

You can read the first chapter of Every Star that Shines below, or, if you prefer, you can download a copy to your device at the link:

Chapter 1

Delanie Fletcher had to be the happiest woman in Vancouver. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much.

It’s finally happening. Took a little longer than I hoped it would. Okay, a lot longer. But that’s in the past now. And tonight, I’m going to enjoy my success.

She stretched her champagne flute across the steakhouse booth toward her friends’ raised glasses.

“To dreams coming true,” said Desmond Sun. The Korean-Canadian film editor grinned at Delanie from across the table, the bling on his bright pink rhinestone cowboy outfit glittering with every movement.

“Word,” said Delanie’s other best friend, Marie Daramola, from her seat near the wall next to Desmond, her large gold hoop earrings swinging against her curved jaw beneath her afro. As per usual, Marie exuded polished glam, her upslanted amber eyes accented with perfectly done golden eyeshadow and dramatic glittering teal eyeliner, and the body-conscious striped scoop-neck tee and jeans she wore drawing the eye of every guy in the room—and a few girls. Marie took the glances of both genders with an equal nonchalance that Delanie envied. Delanie’s own glittering black tank and skinny jeans may be drawing eyes, too, but that only made her self-conscious.

“Thanks, you two,” she said, tucking a long lock of golden hair behind her ear. Her face warm, she touched her glass to the other two, the satisfying clinks audible even above the din of the busy restaurant. After taking a sip, she said, “It still feels more like a dream than reality, though. I don’t know if it will truly sink in until I’m on set.”

The effervescent liquid bubbling in her belly buoyed her almost as much as that afternoon’s news—the show she had landed a main role in, a cowboy romance called Trueheart, had been approved for production, and she’d been offered a three-season contract as the female lead’s best friend. It was the kind of job security every actor dreamed of. The kind that could launch her career.

“About bloody time you got your break, I say.” Marie snagged a piece of garlic toast from the complimentary basket in the middle of the table and tore off a piece. “I can’t believe it took a decade for the idiots in this town to see what they were missing out on. At least your loser producer boyfriend has that much going for him.” She placed the bread chunk in her mouth.

Delanie’s smile faltered. Marie made no bones of her dislike for Josh, but when it came to Delanie’s career, she’d been a true believer since they met at film school. With Marie, what you saw was what you got. It was one of the things Delanie loved about her. Most of the time.

“Thanks, Marie.” She chose to ignore the barb—a well-established habit by now. As a costume designer, Marie didn’t have to worry about the things she said to others quite the same way Delanie did. Her frankness was part of her charm.

Marie swallowed. “My turn.” She raised her glass again. “To Delanie Fletcher, Canada’s rising star.”

“Hear, hear.” Desmond clinked his flute with theirs, then downed the remaining liquid in a single swig before slamming the glass down next to his half-finished Caesar. He blinked away the carbonation, the far-too-curled brim of his white straw cowboy hat shivering back and forth as he shook his head.

“Easy, there, cowboy.” Delanie laughed and put out a cautioning hand. “You don’t want it to come out your nose and ruin that shirt.”

She wrinkled her nose at Desmond’s outfit doubtfully, questioning whether that might not be better. To honour Delanie’s new role in a western, Marie had chosen the steakhouse as the celebration venue—and Desmond had worn a fringed western shirt and matching pants with enough oversized rhinestone studs to blind a cow into submission. If anything, the clothes made the editor look less cowboy-like than usual, which was saying something, given his normally fashion-forward aesthetic. Good thing there weren’t a lot of cows in Vancouver.

“Says you,” he said. “That’s my best party trick. Totally works on the ladies.” He wiped away the moisture at the corner of his eyes, then gave a small belch and hit his chest with his fist.

Marie smirked and placed her elbow on the table, supporting her head on her bent wrist. “Not in my experience. Is that something guys find appealing?”

Desmond looked thoughtful. “Maybe if you did it. Why don’t you give it a shot? Here, let me top you up.”

He snatched the champagne bottle and moved it toward her glass to follow through on his threat, but Marie gave him a playful shove in the arm. Resisting her shenanigans, he managed to refill her glass halfway before she yanked it out of reach and a stream of golden bubbles splashed on the table.

“Hey, that’s my victory champagne you’re wasting.” Delanie scrambled for some napkins to toss on the mess.

Marie rolled her eyes. With an exasperated sigh, she set her glass down—out of Desmond’s reach—and helped Delanie clean up. Desmond grinned and emptied the remaining champagne into his and Delanie’s flutes, then took another generous swallow. Turning around, he beckoned at the server, who had paused across the room to survey her section. Picking up his Caesar, he pointed at his cocktail and made a circular motion toward Delanie and Marie to indicate a request for another round, and the woman gave a nod before picking up a tray and bustling over to the bar.

Marie tossed the sodden napkins onto the outside edge of the table for the server to collect when she came, then turned to Delanie. “So, girl, now that you’re going to be rich and famous, are we still going to be able to do monthly games nights? Does Desmond need to quit his job to be your bodyguard? He’s got that yellow belt in Taekwondo . . .”

Desmond, who’d been taking a sip of his cocktail, snorted and choked. When he recovered, he said, “It was only a yellow stripe belt, remember?”

Delanie polished off her margarita and placed the empty glass at the end of the table. “What’s the difference?”

“About three months of training and a lot more gluttony for punishment.” Desmond smirked at Marie. “Can you really see me as a bodyguard?”

“Absolutely. You’d be like a less broody Korean Kevin Costner.” She gave his outfit a wry look. “But you might have to wear more black, less bubblegum pink.”

He frowned down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing.” Marie laughed. “If you’re a rodeo clown.”

“Marie,” Delanie chided.

Marie rolled her eyes, and Delanie chuckled despite herself. She turned to Desmond.

“Fun as it would be to have you on set, I think your skills are put to better use in the editing room. And you can wear whatever you want there.” She gave a sideways look at her friend.

“Actually,” said Desmond, putting his hand to his chin in mock pensiveness, “being your bodyguard might be more fun than being an editor. I’d get to be around people all day. We could play UNO in your trailer while we wait for the lighting techs to set the stage for your next shot. I would get to eat the food, right?” He patted his belly, obviously thinking of the generous spreads that were usually available twenty-four-seven for the cast and crew to graze from. “And would we get to talk to the extras during breaks?”

Marie shook her head. “You’d be on high alert, I see.”

“I would.” Desmond grinned at her. “For crab cakes and pretty girls.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Delanie’s face grew warm. “I mean, this role as Maryanne is a start, but I won’t be at bodyguard-level fame anytime soon. I’d be happy if I just started making rent regularly.”

“I’d be happy about that too.” Marie arched a brow at Delanie, but her grin belied the sarcasm.

Delanie smiled back. She and Marie had been roommates since their second year of film school, and over the past nine years, Marie had often pitched in for more than her fair share of the expenses. Not for some time, though—not since Delanie’s YouTube channel had started paying a few of her bills and a bit more. For the last year, her supporters had helped carry her through when callbacks had been few and far between and tips from her waitressing job had been sparse. Sometimes, knowing she had a community of fans that believed in her enough to give her even a part-time income—on top of what she paid Marie and Desmond to help her produce her videos—still blew her away.

Of course, now she’d be able to pay for a lot more than a couple of bills. Maybe she’d even get to go home to Peace Crossing to visit Nan soon. Her grandmother’s eightieth birthday was coming up, and it would be nice to surprise her. Not for the first time, Delanie regretted how far Vancouver’s film industry was from her northern Alberta hometown, and not just because of Nan.

Caleb Toews’s face flashed unbidden to her thoughts, and she pushed it away. He didn’t deserve her regret after what he did to her.

The server brought their refills with the promise that their dinner would be out in a few minutes. The alcohol had started going to Delanie’s head, and she left her new margarita untouched. Guilt that she hadn’t already called Nan with the good news about her role pinched her. Of all people, her grandmother deserved to be among the first to know.

Marie held up her phone, its glittery purple case sparkling in the dim lighting. “C’mon, Delanie, come sit on this side so we can do a selfie. This is definitely going on social media. Hashtag move over, Meryl.”

Delanie chuckled, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her friend’s confidence. Maybe she could borrow some of it. “Okay. We should do one with mine too.”

She slipped her phone out of her purse, then swung around to sit on the bench next to Desmond, leaning into him despite the rhinestone pressing into her bare shoulder. He draped his arm around her shoulders, and they grinned at the phone Marie held at arm’s reach until they heard the click.

“Okay, now mine.” Delanie shifted position, as did her two friends, so she could get all three of them in the frame from her end of the bench. She took two quick shots, and then her phone chimed with an incoming text message. The preview flashed the name Josh Rosenburg.

“Ooo, what does Josh want?” Desmond was already halfway through his second Caesar, and it showed.

Marie rolled her eyes. “What are you, twelve? It’s probably about work. Josh is the least-clingy boyfriend I’ve ever seen, which is saying something after that guy I dated in second year. Josh is so unclingy, it’s like he’s not even here.” She gave a meaningful look at the empty bench across from them.

“It’s just because he’s so busy with the show.” Delanie knew she sounded defensive and moderated her tone. “He’s got a lot of responsibilities as producer.” She stood and moved to her own side of the table. “Maybe he’s finally able to join us.”

“I don’t care if he is the show’s producer, he should have been here celebrating with us,” Marie said fiercely. “This is your big break.”

“Which he gave me,” Delanie said pointedly.

“True. But you still deserve better.”

Delanie sighed and tapped on Josh’s text to pull it up, while Desmond retorted to Marie with a sassy quip, then laughed at his own joke while she rolled her eyes. Sometimes she wished Desmond would just get up the nerve to ask Marie out and get it over with. The endless flirting was getting on her nerves. She glanced at her phone.

Twitter is blowing up. Have you seen this?

That didn’t sound good. She clicked the link Josh had included, which took her to a thread she’d been tagged in. A quick glance was all it took to set her heart racing. Words like cancel and outrageous and #byeDelanie jumped out at her.

“What’s wrong?” Desmond said, no longer laughing.

Delanie glanced at her friends’ worried faces, her heart thundering in her ears. “I . . . I don’t know. Something about my latest video.”

Marie started thumbing around on her phone. Her eyes widened, and she looked at Delanie in alarm. “I didn’t notice anything bad in that video.” She looked at Desmond. “Did you?”

He shook his head in bewilderment. The video they had posted yesterday had been right on-brand for Delanie—a one-person musical skit offering scathing commentary about superstar actor Nathan Tait. The former Sexiest Man Alive had been accused of abusing his wife, though he said it was the other way around—as if that was likely. Delanie had made a video of the musical theatre classic “Modern Major General”, dubbing her version “Modern Major Terrible”. The righteous indignation that had fuelled her writing while she’d created the skit now fizzled in astonishment at her fans’ reaction to it.

Desmond pulled out his own phone and scanned Delanie’s Twitter feed. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“What?” Marie demanded.

“It’s not about yesterday’s video. It’s about that one you made about Nathan three years ago.”

Delanie swallowed, her mind scrambling. “Three years ago?”

“Yeah, the zombie one.”

“What?” Delanie frowned. She had used a zombie blockbuster Nathan had starred in to make a statement about multi-national conglomerates preying on mom and pop stores. “But why are they mad about that?” Delanie scrolled further down, looking for answers. She found a tweet with the answer just as Marie started reading a similar one aloud.

“‘Nathan Tait is the scum of the Earth. I can’t believe Delanie Fletcher would defend him on any level. She needs a wake-up call. Hashtag cancel Delanie.’ Well, they certainly blew that out of proportion. No one even knew Nathan Tait was a wife-beater back then.”

Desmond scowled. “No one’s even sure of it now.”

Marie drew back. “You saying you believe him that he’s the victim here?”

Desmond held up his hands defensively. “I’m only saying we don’t know, and it’s up to the courts to figure out which of them is telling the truth.”

“I don’t think the Internet is going to let a court decide my fate.” Delanie’s voice sounded hollow in her ears. How could the outpouring of hatred and bile on her Twitter feed be directed at her? She wanted to crawl under the table and hide her burning face. “I have to explain what happened.” She started to type a response.

Marie’s hand closed around hers. “No. You don’t respond to this, not right now. Maybe not ever. You’ll only fuel the flames.”

“But if I don’t, they’ll think I don’t care,” Delanie objected, tugging her hand out of Marie’s.

The server brought their food, but as the T-Bone steak she’d been looking forward to was placed in front of her, she knew she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite. Not now.

Her phone chimed with another text from Josh. Call me ASAP. Her throat closed, and she cleared it.

“I’m sorry, guys, but I think I better go home and deal with this. I need to call Josh, and I don’t want to talk about this here.”

Marie gave her an understanding look, then told the server they would take their meals to go. The server nodded and, with a sympathetic glance at Delanie, went to get containers. Delanie wondered how bad she looked.

“What can I do?” Desmond asked. He looked kind of helpless and pathetic. “I have a yellow stripe belt in Taekwondo. I could beat someone up. As long as it only involves simple blocks and breaking free from a very specific hold, I could beat someone up.”

Delanie gave a half-hearted chuckle, but shook her head. “Thanks, but no. And Marie, you don’t have to leave yet. You stay and enjoy the meal. I’ll call an Uber.”

Marie looked about to object, but Delanie shook her head. “Please.” She didn’t know what Josh would have to say to her, but she knew she didn’t want any witnesses for it.

Marie gave her a long look, then nodded. “You don’t start tweeting before I get home. I’ll know.” She tapped her phone with a pointed gel nail painted in pumpkin orange and silver swirls.

Delanie gave a reluctant nod. As she made her way to the foyer to wait for her car, she barely noticed the cheerful goodbye from the hostess or the crowd of people waiting to get in. She was too busy doomscrolling through her social media feeds, fear tightening her chest more with every post she read. The furor had already escalated to death threats.

For an innocent mistake?

The notification that her ride was there popped up. With shaky hands, she dropped her phone in her purse and went out to the car.