The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 33: Chapter 33

☽ Peter ☽
With the required six members, the Astronomy Club gains its place in the school yearbook. Student council is scheduled to meet us in Ms. Crozier's room on Tuesday a few minutes before the end of the day, and in the meantime, I organize the club room.
Nicole is the first to arrive, followed by Lexa, Jay, and Dina. Nicole's wearing a blue pullover with the school's logo across the middle; her earrings are in the shape of dangling rainbows. She prances over to me. "What are you doing?"
"Making the rows straight," I say.
She chuckles lowly. "I am not going to make a joke about that. It would be too easy."
Soon enough, the clubroom is occupied by Willow, along with Lucas and Evan. Holding a camera and a tripod, Willow guides the group into the frame. The flash clicks off, leaving white spots like raindrops in my vision.
Lucas is in my periphery, and he enters the realm of my personal space. He forms a semi-circle with Evan on the opposite side. "Have you been invited to the hockey game yet?" he asks me.
"It's tonight, isn't it?" I deflect as my eyes settle between them.
"Yeah, you should come," Lucas replies softly. "I'm walking over to the rink once school is over. I can show you the way." He turns to Evan. "Do you want to?"
Evan shrugs and points his thumb towards the window, replying, "I have to pick my sister up. You can go without me—I'll just meet you at the rink."
My sense that he practiced that answer is piqued. It doesn't help that there's a nonverbal wink exchanged between the two hockey players, and I automatically tense up. I flatten my hands against my pants to prevent them from becoming jittery, but I'm already past that point. I don't like this feeling.
The bell rings before I can protest. Evan dismisses himself from the room in a rush; I sigh heavily.
"I have to pick up some food on the way there," Lucas says, turning down the hallway. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweater, removes a beanie and puts it on. "Do you want coffee?"
"Sure, I guess that's fine," I answer, following close behind him. He heads onto the pathway connecting the school to the sidewalk, and I hold my arms close to my chest. I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on the pavement as if the ground is about to lead me astray.
I can tell that Lucas is holding onto a question for me, but he doesn't let it slip until we've entered Tim Hortons. The line is short, and Lucas orders a bagel and a muffin for himself, (he unwraps and digs into it immediately, which I suppose must be in preparation for the game). He picks a seat near the far corner, sliding in the chair that faces the window.
He passes me my coffee. I pull back the tab of the plastic covering. The steam rises in tiny wisps, fogging my glasses for a moment.
"I'm sorry I waited so long," Lucas says. And it's the kind of sentence where I have no idea how it'll end. I could try to guess, but I'd likely be unable to figure it out. It leaves me completely motionless, as I don't want to give him the wrong impression. I'm not sure what to do with my hands, and I run my thumb across the rim of my cup to occupy myself. To be fair, I'm not sure what to do with my facial expression either.
(I should never have looked up how long it takes to form an impression of someone. Inexplicably—maybe even precipitously—it occurs in one-tenth of a second. In an instant, a single interaction forms an idea of a person based purely on that moment—that first facial expression. It doesn't help that it doesn't change—that a long moment only reinforces that initial emotion. And I overthink it, sometimes—but then again, my first introduction to Lucas Azan was not too different from the way I see him now. And I know his impression of me can't be the same as how I see myself. It's a constant fear; that there are different versions of me.)
"I should have told you about it before. What happened at the party was pretty much all my fault," Lucas continues.
I stare blankly at the red cup in my hands. "That was in September," I point out as if he can turn back time, "so... maybe now is better, I guess. I don't think I was ready to hear it back then. But how was it your fault? You had nothing to do with what Sam—"
"It has everything to do with me," Lucas interrupts. He eats his muffin from the bottom upwards, by pulling the halves apart. He smears butter along the inside, and I don't even bother pretending like it doesn't mystify me. Finished, he wipes the chocolate residue off of his fingertips. "Look, I was the one who set it up. I didn't know what would happen. I didn't think it would become such a big deal. I told Sam that I liked you. I wanted him to set us up." He takes a deep breath, looking anywhere but directly at me. It's a feeling that I understand, at least on the surface. "When he started talking to you, I thought maybe he would make it work. That by inviting you to the games, and—well, you know what he did—I could try to be... try to get closer to you without seeming like such a creep."
"What?" I blanch. And this is a different version of me—what he sees. "You trusted Sam with that?"
He nods. "I know. I shouldn't have. But I was under the impression that he wouldn't mess it up like I would. I think he can... he's good at making people think they can trust him. And I did tell him how I felt, thinking that maybe putting my faith in the team would help. I don't even know if that makes sense. I guess that's part of why I didn't want to tell you about it. Because now that I'm saying it out loud—it makes it real. And it sounds so stupid."
"It's, um..." I stumble to find the right words, but I come up empty. Lucas regards me like assuming that I have the words to repair it. The words to make it sound less terrible. But I don't. I think I must have a penchant for attracting broken people, and I invite them into my world like they're my problem to fix. Like solving the mystery of Sam Fields could win me a Nobel prize. "Really, I—I don't know. I really... did anyone else on the team know about this?"
"No. I mean—okay. They knew Sam was trying to set me up with you, but that was it. The rest of his plan, if you can even call it that, was probably not something he thought about until the day of the party."
I swallow. My jaw locks and fires, and I couldn't stomach a sip of my coffee if I tried. "But you weren't there when I tried to..."
Lucas shakes his head. "I was there afterward, though. That's how I got pulled into it. I wanted to make it right. I convinced myself it was a misunderstanding—that everything would blow over. But trying to make Sam understand the damage he'd done... well, I don't think he liked it. So, that's how I ended up on the Instagram post. There were two of us, and I guess nobody could find your phone number—just the blog."
"And Noah?"
"His brother?" Lucas asks, confusion underlying in his tone. "What does he have to do with any of this?"
That's what I'm wondering. "Do you think it's possible that Sam was trying to understand his brother? I'm just assuming, based on what he told me, but it always sounded to me like Sam wanted to know why Noah left. Why his parents wouldn't let him come back. Maybe it was his way of trying to piece it together—to justify why his parents don't want Noah around."
Lucas shrugs, staying silent for a beat that lasts too long for my liking. It's like he can sense my unease, but he doesn't know what to do. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me, but is there anyone you like? I mean, if you're over Sam."
"Trust me, I'm over that," I reply evenly, dismissing that thought from my head. "And anyone that I like? That's a broad question—if you mean in general, then no."
He shifts, moving his napkin to the side of the table only to adjust it for a second time so that it lines up with the edge. "I meant like a crush."
"Oh." That would make sense. I've never quite gotten a hang of the word 'crush.' In French, it's simple: Avoir un faible pour. It's like asking what my weakness is, and who I have a weakness to. The visual the English word gives me has an intensity to it as if I'm supposed to want to smash the person of my interest underneath a cement truck.
"I won't tell a soul," Lucas promises. "But I think I already know what you're going to say."
I shake my head, tilting it slightly as I try to make sense of it. "I'm not sure what you mean."
He pauses, chuckling to himself even though I wasn't really kidding. The silence extends between us, and it's not the same lull that I've come to expect from Evan. Lucas wants to speak—wants to shatter the quiet into a million minuscule pieces—but he doesn't, and I become acutely aware of how rigid my posture has become. I don't want to be thrust into the conversation, not knowing how it will end. Predictably is like security. Unfinished thoughts leave me hanging on the edge of a precipice.
"Never mind, then. I just thought you were going to say—" He shrugs, leaning over to check the time on his phone. Flippantly, he says, without picking up the previous train of thought, "Oh, we're going to be late."
☆ ☽ ☆
Entering Northwood's hockey rink should not feel like such a nightmare. The kind that I woke up from ages ago, but that I can't seem to shed. All while dreading the inevitable, I head into the building under a darkening sky. The air is brisk and cold as I find my seat, cupping my steaming coffee in my hands.
I find a seat near the rink; my thoughts are like rapid fire. I've been in this exact position before—in the same seat, dreading the inevitable moment where I see Sam. Even behind a helmet and a mesh net, there's no way I can avoid him.
When the game starts, I shut out the sound of the ice skates scratching by putting on my music. It leaves only the blur of motion behind, and I focus on the back of the jerseys, locating Evan's number; fifteen.
His feet are planted firmly on the ice, and he stutters a bit as his feet take hold. The team disperses alongside the rink.
A tap on my shoulder distracts me from the game. It's Claire Lethbridge—donned in the school colours, her mouth moving, although I don't catch half of what she says. I take my headphones off in time to hear her exclaiming, "You don't mind if I join you, right?"
She gestures to the empty space on either side of me.
"I don't mind," I manage to murmur. But I definitely mind, so I don't know why those are the words that leave my mouth. I wouldn't be satisfied with either scenario; if she hadn't asked, I would have no control over interacting with her. And even though she asked, it would be rude to say no.
"First of all, I'm so glad that Evan has a friend," she starts, but she doesn't follow it up with a second point. On the ice, Lucas circles the opposing goalie, passing the puck back to Evan. Before he can aim for the net, Sam pushes past him, knocking against his shoulder. "Does he seem different to you lately? Maybe that's just me."
She continues to chatter away, mostly to herself than to me. The sound of a goal being scored goes off, and I focus on keeping track of the players. The puck bounces between teams, changing hands before it winds up back in Sam's grasp. Evan flanks him from behind, vying to take the puck back.
"He seems fine to me," I answer.
Claire nods. "Well, that's good to know. Personally, I think everyone on this Earth can tell he's dealing with something. Maybe—I don't know how—but you could try to wrangle it out of him."
Somehow, I doubt that'll work.
I take a sip of my drink, which has cooled to the perfect temperature where it doesn't burn my tongue, but it keeps me warm.
After a few goals have been scored and Claire remains by my side, the period is over and the players from the opposing team return to the bench. Sam glides over the centre of the ice, and for a moment my breaths halt. He faces Evan; they circle each other, their voices too far away to catch.
My stomach churns in nervous circles. Like there's a rubber band inside me that's been pulled too far, and it's ready to break. Evan tosses his hockey stick onto the ice and moves to take off his helmet. His hair is slick with sweat, his shoulder pads making his frame stockier, more imposing. He's only an inch shorter than Sam, but the scales are unbalanced.
"Maybe you should stay out of—" Claire starts, but I ignore her. Without looking back, I jump to my feet and sprint down the hallway.