The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

☽ Peter ☽
I sit on the bleachers of the hockey rink, a folded piece of paper in my lap. It's tied with a ribbon to a pouch containing caramels and candy wrapped in bright tinfoil. I received three candy grams this morning; one from Nicole ('Platonic soulmates, forever,' hers had said) and another from Dina. Both are signed, which is what makes the third even more curious; it's completely blank.
"Do you want a drink?" a voice calls, jolting me from my thoughts. I shove the empty paper into my pocket and turn to my side. Lucas Azan is in front of me, hands gesturing towards the exit. "I'm going to get coffee. I thought you might want to come."
"I'm good, thanks. Isn't the game starting soon?" I ask.
It's the semi-finals, which is a pretty big deal for North High. It's been a few years since the hockey team has made it this far, and most of the reason lies with Lucas Azan. He may only have been the temporary team captain, but I wouldn't be surprised if he got scouted to the NHL.
"Yeah," Lucas admits sheepishly. "I've got time. Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"
Oh. He's inviting me to come like he did before. "Ah," I say, out loud this time, "right. Yeah, um, about that..." I've been meaning to talk to him since he confessed, but in all honesty, it caught me off guard. I spent a few weeks debating over whether he'd meant it, and another few days trying to decide when to approach him. But it wasn't the right moment, (not that I knew what the 'right moment' was).
I pat the space next to me, and Lucas sits down. He flattens his silky hair back, hesitating. His smile is uneasy, and his lips press together. I can admit that he's attractive and honest, and he was sweet enough to leave me to figure out my feelings. It's a small liberty, but it can't have been easy.
None of this is easy. "Sorry," I start, not knowing what else to say. "I've left you hanging for a while. You're great, Lucas. Really. I just..."
"You like someone else," he guesses.
I fall silent. It's the same thing he did once before—and I didn't understand it then.
"Well, I mean..." A sigh wrangles from my mouth. "It's not that simple. I just... I like you like a friend. And I should have told you that back when we first spoke, but I couldn't... I couldn't get it out. I needed some time to think. I needed space. Thank you for giving that to me. A lot has happened since then, and I'm still figuring out how I feel about some of it."
Lucas smiles softly. It's a dazzling smile. I want my heart to flip in circles like it does when I grow weak for another person. But it doesn't happen. "I needed space, too. I didn't want to overwhelm you, or make things weird between us."
"It's not like that," I tell him. He stands up and brushes his hand against his pants.
"Cool," he says, and laughs to fill the space between us. "I hope you have fun watching the game, then."
☆ ☽ ☆
The game ends with the opposing team beating North High during overtime. With rapt attention, I follow Evan's movements as he glides back to the bench and disappears. He is surefooted on the ice, but often not the best at scoring goals.
A few minutes later, he emerges onto the bleachers. His hair is swept into a tiny ponytail, and the strands of blond and brown stand out against his jawline. He smiles lazily, and his cheeks flare like a blowfish.
"How are you tired? You barely moved," I tease him.
His eyelashes flutter when he laughs. "I guess I do suck, don't I? When I'm on the ice... and maybe when I'm outside... I can forget, right? It gives me something to focus on."
"I get it," I say, nodding. "But I'm sure you're better at it than I could ever hope to be. I've actually never gone skating."
"What?" he replies. We watch the team milling about and the huddled groups of people as they filter out of the rink. "How have you never... that's unacceptable! You've lived here all your life, and you've never tried skating."
"I much prefer watching. It's less stressful, and I don't have to worry about falling on my face," I admit.
"You won't fall," he promises. "Look, let's wait for the rink to open again. It won't take long."
We end up waiting in the entryway, with Evan balanced on the rubber flooring. I hitch a pair of rented ice skates under my arm, taking care not to scrape the edges against my clothes. I hand him a caramel, and he takes it.
"That's from the candy grams, isn't it?" he asks.
I nod. "I got three. You?"
"Nicole sent me one from the whole club. You didn't have to do that."
I reply, "Yeah, but you've been a good Vice President."
"Better than you expected," he teases with a grin. "Did you say you got three candy grams? From who?"
I pop a caramel into my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. "I don't know. The third one was probably from Lucas." I show him the blank page. He chews on his lip as he turns it over in his hands, flipping it from the front side to the back.
"Weird. Maybe it's written in invisible ink." Once the rink has been smoothed by the Zamboni, we head into the arena. Evan hops onto the ice immediately while he waits for me to get my skates on.
He hangs onto the inner wall and leans over it to talk to me. Behind him, a few families and throngs of people occupy the rink. A distant speaker used during the hockey games plays a muffled acoustic song, and the lights have dimmed to a lower setting.
"How am I supposed to walk with these?" I ask.
Evan gives me his hand and guides me to the edge of the rink. I take a tentative step onto the ice, then another. His skates dig into the ice to keep me upright, his hands connecting us, his smile easy, bordering on taunting.
"When we get back, your mother can show me how to cook."
Ever since my mom heard he wanted to try the fabled pancakes, she's been getting excited about it. Against my attempts to convince her otherwise, she invited Evan to have dinner at the house (since she claims that by now, he must be tired of the hotel food).
"Yeah. My parents are going to be a little nosy, though. It might become a question period. They can be invasive about wanting to know what you'll be doing once you graduate, and then after that—"
My foot slips out from underneath me. Evan reaches his hand out, grazing my side to stop the descent.
I tumble onto the ice before he can catch me. The surface is freezing under my palms; I shiver.
Evan helps me back to my feet, grasping for both of my hands. "Not the first time I've met judgemental parents," he reminds me. "I'll just tell the truth: I don't know what I'm doing. Does anyone?"
Evan smiles. As she skates in front of me, he lowers my hands. "No," I manage to say, agreeing with him, "I definitely don't know what I'm doing."
My feet wobble, trying to copy his actions. But he's effortlessly moving around, circling me like he's worried I'm about to topple over myself.
I look up at him. He's looking right back at me. His eyes soften when I meet his gaze, and he scrapes a strand of his hair away from his forehead. He looks nice with his hair back. It makes the colour of his eyes—with flecks of green and calm, honey brown—stand out.
I almost forget that I'm skating. But then I trip on nothing in particular, and his gaze breaks away from mine.
"You're an idiot," he jokes.
"You don't have to remind me."
He laughs, and we skate beside each other around the rink. Once he's done, we exit the rink and head back to the hotel. By the time we get there, the sun has almost settled down in the sky, casting a shadow over the trees.
I drop Evan off and drive home. While I wait for him to get ready, I join my parents in the kitchen.
My mother takes out a soft green mixing bowl and prepares the ingredients, reading off a recipe book that nearly explodes with the sheer amount of papers.
Evan arrives at the door a few minutes later, having changed his clothes and cleaned up. He crosses his arms over the Astronomy Club sweater I gave to him, though the sleeves hang over his fingertips, and it's like a swath of fabric on him. His dimples flash when he greets my parents.
"Comment ça va?" Dad asks. (How are you?)
"Huh? Oh, I'm good," Evan replies, testing out a smile. "Getting better at my French skills."
Mom pours the pancake batter into a pan. She turns halfway towards Evan, noticing what he's wearing, and says, "I could have sworn you had a sweater like that, Pierre."
"I do. It's too small for me, though," I say.
She glances at me from the corner of her eye, but she doesn't comment on it. The question period begins as I expected, when she asks, "What are you planning to do after graduation?"
Evan shrugs noncommittally. "I have no clue. I got accepted to NSCC though, so I can study art."
"Where is that campus? Somewhere in Halifax, isn't it?" my mother says.
"Downtown, I think. I haven't really thought about where I'm going to go. I'd want to live off-campus, but rent isn't cheap in the city," Evan answers, fiddling with his sleeves.
"You could get a scholarship with your hockey skills," Dad adds as he sets a plate out for my mother. She flips the pancakes while the pan sizzles.
Evan replies, "Probably. I've looked into that, somewhat... the guidance counsellor sent a few to me."
I haven't pried about where he goes during the lunch hour—but I figured it was about his punishment for the hockey game. I ask, "How is that going?"
He blinks at me. "It's basically bargain-bin therapy, so... about as well as you'd expect. It's mostly there for school stuff, and not anything overly personal."
"Ah," I say, pausing. While I search for a response, my mother carries a plate stacked with pancakes. She places a bottle of syrup next to it and grins.
Evan digs into his food, and I follow suit. My mother typically reserves making dinner for special occasions, but this seems to count as one. The blueberries inside of the pancakes explode with flavour when I bite into them. The table is enveloped in silence as we eat. Every few seconds, Evan's eyes find mine. His lips tug into a slight smile. I understand vaguely what he's hinting at; he has something he wants to tell me.
Once Evan is done, he cleans his plate in the sink (though my mother tries to get him to leave it, since he's a guest) and we head up to my room.
Evan glances around my walls, tacked with pictures from years ago. He evaluates a photo of Nicole and me from fifth grade. Her hair had just started to grow past her ears, twirling out at the ends. We're posed with our nails painted; Nicole's are banana yellow, and mine are a pale green.
As Evan casts a glance at another picture, my phone lights up with a text from Nicole.
It reads, Have you searched for your name recently?
My eyebrows furrow. I open a search window and quickly type in my name, although by now, I know what will show up. A link to Sam's Instagram post—or, at least, it used to be.
The search loads in a millisecond. The post is no longer visible.
Instead of connecting to me, the first results are profiles that are not mine, and a connection to a movie character that bears my name.
"Peter?" Evan asks, but his voice is distant. "Are you listening to me?"
"It's gone."
He steps closer to me. "What's gone?"
I turn my phone screen towards him, and he squints at it. "Sam deleted it."
Did he? I hastily search for his account, but I can't find the picture from the party anymore. I notice a new post at the top of his account, and clicking on it reveals a candid picture of Sam and his brother at some sort of family event. In the background sits a smudged figure.
Sam's tagged someone. The name is familiar to me—Adair—Noah's boyfriend.
Evan peeks around me to glance at the caption. "This is the only picture I have of us together," he reads, "but maybe sometime, you can visit again."
"This is his attempt at an apology, I suppose," I say feebly. It's better this way, I tell myself—with the trace of the original post erased. And Noah made himself clear that the apology wasn't accepted. It would take more than that to bridge the gap between them.
"What are you going to do?" Evan asks.
I shake my head, closing the tab with a flick of my finger. "Nothing. I'm leaving it alone."
"Really?" Evan's eyes flicker around my room, settling on my hourglass. On the shelf next to it is a framed collage of pictures; Nicole and I at her apartment for a sleepover, a seventh-grade science project I won third place for, and a grainy picture of me driving my mother's car on the beaten path to the lake house. "I think he deserves worse."
"He does, but that's not my problem anymore," I say and sigh. "Like Noah said."
"Right, about carrying the weight of another person's guilt. I've been thinking about that, too," he agrees. He sits on the edge of the silk bedsheets, stretching and covering a yawn. "Maybe you should forget about what I told you."
"I will only use that ability when it's something worth forgetting," I say, scoffing.
I approach the bedside, and his chin lifts to meet my line of sight.
I realize that Evan McKenna is curled onto my bed, wearing my sweater, and smelling faintly of hotel soap.
I realize I am staring at him, but I can't pull my eyes away. I've noticed before the way the muscles in his chest ripple when he moves, and the way his hands are sturdy, and—for just a single second, I wonder what I'm so worried about.
It's Evan. And he is chaos wrapped in a bottle.
Evan reaches for me as I take a minuscule step forward. There is not much space between us now. His hand touches my wrist, gentle at first. His finger dances up my arm.
"Éric," I say, just to see his eyes widen, the way they always do, when I say that name. "Did you have something to tell me?"
"Right." His jaw clenches. I realize it's been a few days since he's last shaved. My heart wobbles at the thought, and I have to let go of it before it gets out of hand. "Yeah. I did, about that guidance stuff. He wanted me to keep going with it, or get a therapist..."
"Really? I go to the clinic every week. You can tag along," I offer.
Evan's voice is small as he says, "Yeah, yeah, like that wouldn't make me feel stupid."
"It's not stupid."
He lowers his grasp on me, leaning back against my bed. Folding his arms behind his head, he shuts his eyes and pretends like he's going to stay here.
I slip my hands into my pockets. The blank note rustles against my hands. It's about the size of the folded paper that comes in a fortune cookie, only there are no lucky numbers listed at the bottom, and there is no fortune for me to cling onto.
It's funny how a single, empty rectangle of paper can make me feel so baffled. How a single moment can make me question everything.