The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 46: Chapter 46

☽ Peter ☽
I've been playing a lot of Currently Untitled lately. Unlocking the first few endings was a breeze once I mastered the logic behind interacting with the characters.
I can't, on the other hand, figure out what to do with Neva. I'm starting to think Nicole put this character in the game to teach me a lesson. (Perhaps his dialogue leads to another ending, but I don't know for sure.)
In the early hours of the morning, as the sun hangs low in the clouds, I turn up the sound of the game's soundtrack so that it combats with the unbearable noise of drills whirring.
The first floor has been teeming with activity ever since the hotel got a new investor. From what I've gathered, this woman has been running the Croix Hotel in Montréal with success for years. Her only request was that we needed to have a vending machine.
Of course, my father complied. I know he's been trying to renegotiate for a while, especially after he initially wanted me to inherit the hotel.
For his sake, I bear through the noise. (I don't want to be responsible for making two of his deals fall through. And beyond even that, I need it to work. Maybe Evan McKenna is rubbing off on me, but maybe I am looking forward to going to university.)
I lower my headphones when the elevator doors open, revealing my mom.
"How are you, Pierre? If the noise is too much, I can take over for you."
I gesture to my headphones and give her a tight-lipped smile to indicate that I'm fine. She continues, "We have a guest who was supposed to be here by now, don't we?"
"A guest who's late by two hours," I reply.
A crash echoes from above my head. My mother peers at the flat ceiling. "Karim!" she shouts at it, like Dad can hear her through the walls. "Of course. Je pars une minute et du coup... tout est ruiné." (I leave for one minute, and suddenly, everything is ruined.)
She hurries back in the direction she came, and my mind wanders back to its previous position. As much as I care about Nicole's game, I'm not focused on that. I'm trying to parse how I feel about the past few months. I await my next meeting with Suzanna, so she can tell me I'm dissecting it like a specimen in biology class.
Outside, a taxi pulls into view. It unloads a man with blond, tousled hair and wide shoulders. He's dressed for warmer weather than it is today, as his jeans are cuffed above his ankles, and his crew neck sweater looks like it came straight from an airport gift shop. He wrestles his suitcase onto the ground and tosses a backpack over his shoulder.
The blond approaches the desk, and I get halfway through asking him for his name before he interrupts me by saying, "The reservation should be under Noah."
I type it out, letter by letter. He says, "Noah Fields."
I blink. It takes me a second to catch up, and my brain floods with thoughts like particles revved by kinetic energy. My sentences are currently colliding at the recesses of my head, and my mouth forms words without consulting me. I end up blurting out, "I'm sorry?"
"Oh, sorry, F-I-E-L—"
"I know how to spell it," I say. "What I meant was, uh, is there any relation to Sam Fields?"
Noah's gaze ricochets around the lobby area, mostly keeping his focus on the painting of Northwood, but it settles back on me instantly. "Oh. Sometimes I forget how small this town is. How do you know him?"
"We're in the same grade."
Noah nods, like he was expecting more from my explanation. And I might be falling into the thinking traps of my anxiety again, but I can't help but try to read his mind. It's clear that Noah doesn't recognize me—and why would he?
"I'm inviting Sam over," he says, "so we can talk. Is there a quiet place where we can..." He stops himself as the sounds of shuffling from the second floor continue.
I hand him the key card. "The lobby is probably quietest. Sorry about the maintenance. We try to do it during the off-season."
The room is only three doors down from where Evan is staying, so I dial the number for his phone.
He picks up on the first ring. "Hey."
"Hey. You'll never guess who just checked into the hotel." My voice wavers a bit, and I wonder if he notices.
Static echoes on the other end of the line. "You sound nervous. Who?"
"Sam's brother," I whisper, so low that I can pretend Evan might not hear me. "Of course, I'm nervous. He's coming. Here."
Evan falls silent; I can only hear him breathing. It rises and falls in unison with my erratic heartbeat. After all this time, I might find out the truth. Between the facts that I've half-patched together, I've never been able to determine Sam's motives.
I don't know why it terrifies me. I think I've gotten used to the feeling. It's like losing one piece from a pair. I made my explanation out of what Sam left. I might get back what I had, but I don't know if I should do it. Maybe what I have now—this disassembled mess—is better.
"Now? I can come down. I can tell them both to leave," Evan says.
"I can handle this on my own, Éric. I can save myself."
Softly, he says, "I know."
We stay on the phone line until a slick black truck turns into the hotel parking lot. I recognize the figure that exits as Sam, and I have to hold my breath. To distract me, Evan pretends to give me his order for catering tomorrow, and I tell him that when she has time, my mother plans on making blueberry pancakes Nicole has deemed worth committing a crime for.
Sam enters the hotel. I don't look at him at first. Into the phone, I say, "I'll place an order for you." Technically, what I want to say is this: Please don't hang up yet.
"That would be good," he answers. "I'll be here if you need me."
I set the phone upright against my desk, hoping Evan can hear.
Sam doesn't say a word to me while he waits in the lobby for his brother. He doesn't make eye contact, though I'm sure he can feel me staring. I should have moved out of the room while I still could. I should run like I did back in September. Pinpricks build on my neck. My legs are rooted to the floor, and I'm not moving.
I sit there as the elevator doors open, pressing my hands against the desk to keep them from shaking.
I have too much to say to him—to both of them. I won't let myself be frozen this time.
Sam says to Noah, "We should talk outside."
"I'm okay with staying here. Did you bring Dad with you?" Noah stands a distance away from him with his arms crossed. Although he tries to make it seem like he doesn't care, his eyes are glistening. I know that emotion—it's hope. And it might be misplaced hope, but it's there all the same.
"Of course not. He cares about you, and he wants to see you," Sam says.
"Yeah, sure. He wants to see me when I'm alone. When I'm with someone he approves of."
I gather that he must be referring to his boyfriend, though I don't know his name—the one that visited with him over the summer. The moment which caused a chain of dominoes to fall, taking me down with it.
Sam replies, "It's not about that. It's about this town. Everyone in Northwood would—"
"You think I care about what this town thinks of me?" Noah interrupts. He grasps at the collar of his sweater like he's struggling to take in enough air to breathe. And I understand why, as I've been repeating the same motion. Thinking that maybe if I have enough air, I won't stay silent when it matters.
Noah continues, "If I did that, I'd probably never leave my house again. It's too much weight for one person to carry. Do you think I don't notice when my family is embarrassed to be seen with me?"
"Noah—" Sam's face falls. He can't seem to find the words to argue. I don't know why, but I can't look away. I've never seen him stumble like this before. He's never been on the defence, and maybe he doesn't know where to begin.
Perhaps this goes back further than I thought.
"I don't need you to convince Dad. You won't do that, no matter how hard you try. But I thought... I thought you might understand," Noah tells him. He holds out his hands, pleading. "I'm begging you. Dad has it twisted, don't you see? It's not me he should be embarrassed about. It's his lack of acceptance. A lack of empathy—a lack of love. And this is it. This is your last chance. I will not carry your guilt anymore."
A pause. My ears start ringing in the silence. The sounds of hammering and drilling from above have stopped, leaving the emptiness behind it. I pretend to glance at the computer in front of me, if only to appear preoccupied.
"I care about you. That's why I wanted you to visit again. Things have changed since last summer," Sam says, at last.
"I know about September," Noah answers. "I have Instagram, you know. I saw it when it happened. Why the hell would you do that?"
My hand stops in midair. I slink deeper into my seat, wishing I had left earlier.
"That's different. It has nothing to do with this. I..." Sam's eyes cut to mine. "I don't want to talk about this here."
Noah whirls towards me, and he says over his shoulder, "We don't have to do this at all." He stops in front of my desk. "I'm checking out. I'm a bit late, so I can pay for the day if—"
"Do you have your key card?" I say.
He slides it over to me. From behind him, Sam calls, "Aren't you going to say something, Peter? I mean, you were there. You know it was a mistake."
I was there. Like I was spectating; not an active participant. "Yeah, I was there. You'd think if it was a mistake, you'd have apologized for it. People usually apologize when they say things they don't mean."
"Sorry," Sam says, and it sounds like a void. As if it's inconsequential, and we're bickering over a stolen pencil in middle school. "I should have said that before." He approaches Noah and stands beside him, continuing, "And I'm sorry, Noah. You shouldn't have to plead for me to understand what went wrong. It's not easy, okay? It's not easy to be constantly told that what you're doing isn't right. I know you love Adair. I think Dad—and me—we're just worried that you might get hurt for being so open."
"Yeah, sure," Noah repeats, softer this time. "Sure. You apologize now, when all the eyes are on you. I don't know why I believed things were different. I think you know that you messed up, but you don't want to change. The apology is not a bad thing. It's just... it's not true. Not when you haven't acted any different."
I hand Noah his receipt. He rips it from my hand and trudges away. The door swings open. Sam doesn't follow him immediately, and he stays standing in front of me, frozen in place.
He says, "Why did you do that? You heard him. You fucked up my last chance at having someone I care about back in my life. I'm fucking sorry, okay? I only wanted to prove to Noah that I'd changed. I wanted to understand. You—you're the one that misinterpreted it—who took it and turned it into love."
"None of this is my fault." I wish I could yell at him. I could scream it, but what would that accomplish? My hands are shaking. I need to breathe. Silently counting to five, I wonder how many days are left in Evan's countdown. "You did this to yourself. Why don't you deal with the consequences?"
He scoffs under his breath and stomps after Noah. They argue under the overhang for a while longer before I head upstairs to fetch Noah's luggage. I leave it in the lobby for him, so that I don't have to listen to them. But the walls are thin, and I catch the occasional word bleeding through. I don't know what they're fighting about anymore. I don't know that it matters.
I take the elevator to the top floor. Evan steps out of his room and joins me in the silence of the hall. The installation of the vending machine is finished, so we head to the second floor.
The machine sits in the corner of the small room, with the ice dispenser humming next to it. Dust hangs in the air and gathers in a thin layer on the floor. It smells of freshly cut wood and the faint tang of iron. I feed my spare change into the machine and key in the code for a chocolate bar with caramel.
"Want anything?" I ask Evan.
He shakes his head. And without thinking, I unwrap it and give him half.