The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 60: Chapter 60

☆ Evan ☆
Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and eight seconds—that's how much time I have left before the end of my countdown.
I've already returned my textbooks to the library, so I came back from school early. From my position at the window, my eyes train on Peter as he cuts across the street to his hotel.
Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and six seconds.
I sigh, whirling back around. Sliding onto the floor, I start packing my suitcase. I don't have much to bring—just my clothes, my notebook, and Peter's album of ephemera.
I've decided that I'm starting a collection to fill the blank pages.
I hear the elevator door ding in the distance, and I move away from the unfolded mess of my clothes to peer into the hallway.
I open the door at the same second his hand lifts to knock. My heart twirls as he enters, and his eyebrows raise when he takes in the sight.
"When is your flight?"
There's a silence that I barely have the strength to break. He adjusts his glasses with the tip of his finger and places a sweater into the suitcase.
"It's not until six. I couldn't find an earlier one," I answer. I'm staying for three hours longer than I expected, but somehow, I don't feel like counting down the extra time.
"That's, um... that's good."
I finish packing and close the zipper. We turn towards each other, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
I carry my bags down to the lobby. Peter checks me out of the Croix Hotel and we get into his car. I sit in a stripe of darkness on the passenger's side, staring at the waves frothing against the shoreline in the distance. The sky is packed with clouds like the cream-coloured walls that have kept me temporarily enclosed for months.
The words fail me when I need them. I watch Peter slip his sunglasses on, and I know he's waiting for me to speak first.
"I stole a pen and the notepad," I say, like it matters, and show it to him. "Ephemera." I tore off the sheet with our secret code—I am not fine, I had told him that day; underneath it was the sentence I didn't have the courage to say.
I still don't. It would only complicate the situation if I tore my soul open and offered him half. I love you, I want to say, and it sits at the base of my tongue. It tastes like spearmint, and caramel, and pine needles—and everything I can't become. Je t'aime. I love you. I am in love with you.
"You can keep it," he says, and I nod, because I know that already.
For the next few precious hours, I can keep it to myself.
"I've been thinking—"
He starts the car, and it rumbles to life as if predicting the future. "Have you?"
I reach over to shove his arm. "This is serious!" A laugh escapes from me. "I'm going to write Carolyn a letter, and I want you to drive me there."
"Really? Are you sure?" he asks, and lets me decide.
"Yes. I'm sure."
He takes me back to my apartment. I rifle through my bags to find my old set of keys as Peter pulls into a parking spot by the roadside. I set the notepad against my lap and write with the dripping ink.
Dear Carolyn,
I don't hate you. I know you think I do, because I'm pretty sure you hate me. It's easier that way, isn't it?
I have tried so hard to understand what I did wrong. I don't know if there's an answer, though. You had crafted an idea of the life you wanted—the person you wanted me to be. And I wore those personality traits, but they weren't me. I wore them like hand-me-down clothes.
Maybe it's better this way, and maybe once I leave, you'll realize what you did to me. Maybe, maybe.
I have nothing to apologize for. I am giving my apartment key back. I won't be needing it anymore.
— E. V.
The door slams shut behind me as I walk through the hallway. For about eight seconds, I grasp the letter between my clasped fingers.
I lean over and slide it underneath the gap in the door, then turn around and head back to Peter's car.
☆ ☽ ☆
When the clock on the dashboard flickers to three o'clock, I expect to feel different. I blink and try to clear my vision.
I stare at it until another minute passes, and I consider starting another countdown—until the end of the next year, and then the next.
"Jesus Christ," I say, out loud. It comes out of my mouth in a low whisper, but Peter probably hears it. "Have I been wasting my time?"
"Sorry?" He presses a hand to the turn signal and loops around the block.
"My time," I repeat.
The road is a mirage in front of me; the asphalt glistens under the bright sunshine, but the closer we approach, the further it glides away.
I continue, "I've been spending this year counting down to nothing. But it didn't feel like that. All this time—this whole year—I can't get that back, right?"
"I thought that was the whole point." Peter comes to a stop and faces me. He smiles, and it's so much like him, that it hurts. "You're not saying you want to go back, are you?"
I shake my head, and I try to figure out what the hell is wrong with my brain. Here I am, counting in the negative, and it feels like wading through a thick haze. A jolt like icicles hits my chest. "That's... I don't want to build a time machine. I just want to stop being so focused on hoping time will move faster. I don't know why I keep wishing my time away."
Peter pauses. I sigh and keep my hands folded on my lap.
Eventually, I say, "I don't have the words to explain this."
"Some things are not made to be put into words." His face glows in the sun, and I reach for his hand.
I blink. Try to think. Try to focus on the street in front of me. A tiny tree sprouts from the lawn in front of me, held upright by a wooden stake that towers over my head. The house behind it is painted pale blue; its lawn grows wild with neon yellow flowers and dandelions swaying in the slight breeze.
"I don't know what I'm going to do after this," I admit.
I want to tell him I can picture staying—I want to tell him so many things. But I can't manage it. I know he isn't going to ask, and neither will I.
His eyelashes flutter as he blinks at me. I lean forward, silently aching to bridge the gap between us.
Peter kisses me, and his hands anchor against my back. I push myself closer to him, holding his shirt like he's grasping me. I understand what he's trying to tell me—we don't have to say it out loud. If you asked, I would say yes. I would always say yes.
"You haven't thought about it?" he whispers when he pulls away.
I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. "I... don't think I can... when I leave, I'm gone forever."
"Forever is a long time, Éric."
"Yeah." I laugh a little, and it's almost a reflex—a defence I know has been there for a long time. "No shit."
I swallow it and continue, "What I'm trying to say is that I want to figure myself out. I need space. I need... I need a break."
He lifts a hand to his lips. I can still feel the ghost of his kiss against me, and I have to avert my eyes. "You want a break?"
"Pierre—"
"I get it," he interrupts and puts the car back into drive. His expression darkens, but there's no malice in his tone. "You don't have to explain it. We both knew this would happen."
That doesn't mean it hurts any less. He checks the time and drives me half an hour to the airport.
There is nothing for me to say, not anymore.
When we reach the airport, I open the door first. The trunk unlocks before Peter steps out, and I gather my suitcase at my side. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air.
My hands form fists at my sides. I tilt my head to look at him, and our eyes meet. His gaze is soft when it collides with mine, and he touches my shoulder so gently, like he's afraid of breaking me into two hundred tiny fragments.
He pulls back before I can tell him not to leave yet. Before I explode and my emotions spill out of me.
"You don't have anything to hold you back now," he says.
"I fucking wish it was that simple."
A smile forms on his face. I wait, inevitably, for him to say it—to repeat his words from September back to me. "I don't think anyone should have that relationship with wishing."
"I should go inside," I say, and I hope he understands what I mean.
He nods and walks with me to the turnstile. I drag my suitcase behind me. "You don't want to be late for the plane," he replies. "Have you ever been on one before?"
"Never."
"Ah." A long, oddly comfortable pause settles between us. "Don't worry. I hope you get a window seat. That way, you can watch everything fade away."
I step through the turnstile and head towards the escalator. When I reach the centre of the airport, I turn back to wave.
Peter turns back at the same moment. I think I understand it now—sometimes, love is heartbreak.
To be in love is a reckless thing. And I love him so much that I have to break his heart—I love him so much that I have to leave.