The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

☽ Peter ☽
I shouldn't have come here. What was I thinking?
The music is too fast, too loud, and the light is too blinding, too bright. It's giving me a headache, and I can't believe I willingly agreed to this. What was I thinking?
I am such an idiot.
I can almost hear Nicole's chirpy voice as she mocks me. It would be something like: I told you this would happen. I warned you. I was right, and you were wrong.
I'm standing in Sam's bathroom, with my hands on the tap. The water has been running for about five minutes, or maybe more. I can't tell anymore.
I think I'm going to pass out.
Deep breaths. One, two... one, two...
The grounding techniques aren't working. It's much too difficult to concentrate on my surroundings when everything is overwhelming, and my body feels like it's about to explode, and—I am not okay. I need to calm down.
My hand fumbles for my phone. My fingers are clammy, and my head is pounding. The text on my screen wobbles like it's made of water, and for some reason, I have to squint to read it. I click on the call button with my thumb, listening to the line as it rings.
While it does, I shut off the tap and sit on the basin of Sam's bathtub. My shoes squish against the damp plush carpet, and I have to place my hand against the cold tile to keep myself from falling.
"Fucking hell, why are you calling me at ten at night?" Nicole's voice answers, after the fourth ring.
"Hello to you, too," I say through deep breaths.
There's a stifling silence on the other end of the line. I can't hear anything besides the thudding of music from the living room.
"Oh," Nicole says, the realization hitting her. I can practically sense her rolling her eyes through the phone. "Oh, you went."
"Yes," I answer softly.
"You're a fucking idiot."
My finger slides under my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. The white paint blends into the family pictures on Sam's wall, looming over me. "Yeah, I know. I just thought that... you know what? You don't even have to agree with me. I believe him. He wants to make it work with me. He invited me to the party for a reason. He likes—"
Nicole sighs. "So, this is the moment you decide to listen to Suzanna? Honestly, you're hopeless. I know she's smart, and everything, but she's your therapist, not a psychic. She doesn't know."
"And what do you know?" I ask quietly.
"It's not worth it. He doesn't like you. Not romantically, anyway," she answers with a scoff. "I know you've been crushing on him for a long time. I get it, okay? But Sam is not your friend. He's a snake in the grass."
I really don't need this right now. I wanted reassurance, not this. "Nicole," I say with a hiccuping breath, "you don't know that. You don't."
"Peter," she replies in a mocking tone, "please don't freak out on me. I know you hate taking my advice. It's like you're allergic to it or something. But, just this once, I don't want you to be making the biggest mistake of your life. It hasn't even been two weeks since senior year started. Could you chill out for, like, a minute?"
"I'm not freaking out." I might be. "And it isn't a mistake."
"Do you want to take some deep breaths, please?" Nicole asks.
"Yeah," I say with a sigh. Nicole takes an exaggerated breath, and when she sighs, I follow suit. I sit in silence as the clock above the sink ticks.
One. Two. Three. I press my hand to my forehead, straightening my back like Suzanna always tells me to. Open my airways. Five things I can see, four things I can touch, three I can hear, two I can smell, and one I can taste. "Thank you."
"I'm going to bed," Nicole says. The phone line rustles as she shifts position. When she speaks again, it sounds distant, and I wish I had stayed at home. "Stay safe. Don't do anything stupid."
And then the line clicks. I lower my phone and stand. My legs wobble from underneath me. Placing the hand towel underneath the tap, I wait for it to dampen and hold it against my forehead. Impossible to tell that I'm nervous, besides the look on my face.
As soon as I open the door, the pounding music grows louder. The hallways of the second floor are occupied only by the occasional North High student, none of whom I recognize.
As I hurry down the stairs, one of the players brushes past me. He stops, whirling around to follow me. "Peter? Are you okay?"
I turn, my foot halfway between two steps. I recognize the person in front of me—Sam introduced us. Lucas Azan, whose number I can't seem to recall, but since I was invited to most of the games last year, I can remember he's a decent player. His skin is a lighter shade of bronze than mine, and his hair sticks to his neck. Eyes pinched in concern, he waits for my response; the pause seems heavier when neither of us wants to be the person who speaks first. "Um, I... I'm fine," I attempt to say.
"Okay." He nods, but I can tell he doesn't believe me.
"Where is Sam?" I ask.
Lucas points me past the dining room. "He's outside. I don't think he was looking for you, though. And, Peter, you know that you don't have to go out there—I don't know if you should..."
I just nod and keep walking, brushing him off without a response. Luckily, Azan doesn't stop me again.
When I reach the first floor, the noise increases. The light flashes erratically, alternating through the colours of the rainbow. Sam's living room is crowded, so I push past them until I reach the sliding glass door to the back garden. The glass chills my fingertips as I pull it forward, opening the screen door.
Almost immediately, cheers arise from the outside. The moon peeks out from behind the shrouded darkness, and the grass crunches under my shoes. I forge a path directly to the huddled group of teenagers near the trees, where the noise is more bearable, and the light doesn't hurt as much.
"You came," Sam greets as he approaches. The group of hockey players behind him are sitting in plastic lawn chairs, some of them staring at me. The stares drill into me, my ragged breaths tearing at my throat when I swallow. "I didn't think you would."
Sam Fields is not particularly tall. His hair is blond, his shoulders stocky. When he's on the ice, he glides until the blades of his skates transform into wings. When he's off the ice, he's harder to read. His expressions turn stale and leave me hopeless, but then again, I've never been the best at detecting emotions.
"Yes," I say plainly. Sam takes my wrist and drags me away from the group, his grip powerful enough that I can't pull away.
"You know what happens if you tell anyone."
I nod. Sam keeps walking until we reach the dim light of his porch. The occasional droplet of water lands on the asphalt.
"I'm not going to—"
Sam moves closer in a swift movement. His hands move to my forearms, and he gets so close that my vision doubles. He gets close enough to kiss me, but he doesn't bridge the remaining gap.
There is a pause, and my heart risks leaping out of my chest. I blink, in slow motion. I thought he'd forgotten about me over the summer, that the time spent apart had caused me to lose my chance. But he's right in front of me, regardless of what Nicole thinks, regardless of what anyone realizes. My breath sticks in my throat as it dawns on me how close we are.
I move just a little closer, and Sam's laughter cuts through the air, loud and mocking. He pushes me away, and I stumble backward. I'm close to the banister, and my arm scrapes against it. "Fuck, you weren't kidding. You actually thought—you actually thought I was gay? Me?"
He lets the statement hang in midair between us.
"You invited me to your games," I point out. "And... introduced me to everyone. You told me about your brother—"
His laughing subsides, and he stares at me blankly. "None of it was true, obviously, Peter. Nothing. Not the games, and not even the invitation to the party. You know why? Because I think it's fucking hilarious that you thought you had a chance with me."
"I—"
He grins. "Don't argue with me. It's pointless. You tried to kiss me."
"You—"
But Sam has already turned away, his chin tilted in my direction. "Who's going to believe that?"
And then he's gone. The group watches me, and when Sam rejoins the circle, their piercing eyes become a spotlight dousing me in waves of anxiety. It builds in my chest, and I can't move. My legs are stuck to the ground, chained in place, and I'm not sure how long I stand there, frozen and unable to say anything.
I shouldn't have come here. My legs finally take a feeble step forward, and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm running towards the street. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, moving faster than light and faster than I can comprehend.
Five things I can see. Sam's truck, parked behind a row of cars forming a line down the subdivision. The wire fence at the edge of his property, marking my exit. The streetlights shedding patches of orange on the pavement. An army of shrubs on the other end of the road, the muted clouds mixing with the fogged-up lens of my glasses. The stars above my head, twinkling like the tears I'm trying to hold inside.
The techniques never work when I need them to. Suzanna says it's not my fault: that sometimes when the pressure builds into a tsunami of sensory overload, I just can't make it go away. That part of me wants to freak out, wants the mindfulness to fail because it means I can give myself permission to cry. But right now, I don't want to crumble—I need it to work, just this once. I need a semblance of normalcy, of peace, so I can get home.
I stumble onto the driveway of Sam's house, my body heaving with exertion. Every time I move my head, to look around, to glance in a certain direction, the world tilts off its axis and the bile forms a pit in my throat.
Who's going to believe that?
It's me against the hockey team captain. And I don't stand a chance. Sam is going to tell everyone, if he hasn't already. He's spinning the threads of a story, crafting a tale that is going to spread like a wildfire.
I need to sit down.
My hands hit the pavement. The wind blows right through me, as if I'm not really there. As if I could disintegrate, turn to sand and disappear completely.
Breathe.
I set my head in my hands, rubbing my eyes underneath my glasses. My vision goes blurry, turning into a collection of colours and blotted movement.
"Are you okay?" a voice from next to me asks. It sounds a bit gruff, and I can't seem to place hearing it before. I look up, but my vision hasn't clicked back into place yet, so I can only make out the outline of a person.
I shake my head. The figure crouches next to me, on the curb. I can see him better now, and I faintly recognize him from the hockey games. I don't know his name, though. I'm struggling to remember anything.
"Water," I manage to say. "I need to drink something."
"Okay, hold on. I have a bottle in my car." He ducks back into the driveway and returns a moment later, uncapping the metal bottle and handing it over.
The water has a slight tang of iron, but it's still freezing cold. "Thanks."
"Are you okay?" he asks again. "I mean—not okay, like in general. I mean, do you have a ride home?"
"I can walk." Azan picked me up, but he's probably wasted by now. And I doubt he cares either.
"God, I don't think you're in any position to walk. Just... I'm sober. Where are you going? I can drive you."
I shoot a glance at him. My eyes are still adjusting to the darkness, but I squint in time to see him give me a half-smile. His shirt is plain and black; exercise gear. He scrapes a hand through his curly brown hair, which flops over the left side of his face.
"It's fine, you don't have to do that," I say.
"I want to get out of here, anyway," he says and sits on the curb next to me. His cheeks puff slightly when he sighs. "This place sucks."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Silence. And then he says, "Well, yeah, the party sucks, but this town is worse. If you want to leave, I really don't blame you. But it might be better to have someone go with you, you know, so you don't get lost."
"You're not drinking?" I ask.
"I don't drink. Come on, let's go."
He offers me his hand. I take it, pulling myself off the ground.
"You coming?" Sporty-guy opens the door to his car, an older model Camry. The engine hums loudly, like the vibration of an airplane before it takes off.
I nod. "Yeah, as long as you promise not to murder me."
He chuckles and climbs into his car. "Deal."