The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 61: Chapter 61

☽ Peter ☽
"Sorry for bothering you—again—but did you take the protocols with you when you left? I can't seem to find them, and we've run out of ethyl alcohol," Dr. Power says through the crackling phone line.
I ease the car door shut behind me, scratching the back of my neck. The craggy grey sky shields the zigzagging sunlight above the parking lot. A golden strip of colour decorates the curb-stop alongside flat, hand-painted rocks showcasing the vast ocean outside of Northwood. The drive from my university took barely half an hour; Dr. Power, my boss, was nice enough to give me a week off.
"It should be in the notebook where I left it," I answer, kicking a pebble with the toe of my shoe. It scatters across the street, making a sound like water dripping into a bottle, and lands in the grass. "You can dilute more with a bottle of absolute, right?"
"Yes, I'm making sure the other notes are still here somewhere—I can teach you how to do it when you return. It's fairly simple," Dr. Power says. "Have you arrived at home yet?"
I twirl the cord of my headphones between my fingertips. "I just got back."
"I won't keep you, then, Dr. Delacroix."
A cloud drifts across the sky. I say, "I haven't even graduated yet. The only doctor in the family right now is my mother."
"I'm just teasing! Don't worry so much about getting back to work. Take a vacation, okay? The lab will still be here when you come back," she promises, and we hang up.
Taking a deep breath, I make my way towards the store. The signage has been renovated to a brighter shade of green and upon entering the automatic doors, I find the layout has shifted.
It has been three years since I graduated high school—sometimes, I almost forget, on the account that it doesn't feel distant. But now that I'm back, with the occasional teenager milling in the aisles and a myriad of faces I don't recognize, I can't help but remember.
I grab the grocery list from my pocket and set a course to find what my father needs for the hotel. The bottom floor needs to be completely cleaned and renovated after it flooded over the weekend. He called me about it yesterday, just to talk, and reminded me that I was busy—I didn't have to come—but I offered.
It takes me a few minutes to find what I need before checking out. On my way back to my car, I pass a billboard filled with advertisements. I tear off a coupon for three dollars off cereal, and underneath it is a violet-rimmed flier. The drawing plastered on its surface is laminated and shows a navy blue star joined by the half-circle of a planet. It reads:
Live Concert!
Sunday, September 22 at 6:30 P.M.
See the local cover band, Spica, opening before the matinee with original music!
Tickets can be purchased upon entry.
I pause for a moment before peeling the flier off. The address is a restaurant a few hours away from Northwood, and my heart flutters like a songbird in a cage.
I haven't seen Evan since he left for college. I called him by accident, once—and I hadn't stopped it. I was stuck by morbid curiosity to see if anyone answered. A voicemail message played on the other end in his groggy voice, as if he'd just awoken. I'm sorry. You have reached Evan McKenna's phone number. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.
But as the months tumbled past, his phone number was disconnected. Mine has changed, too, so he didn't return the call. I talk to Nicole almost every day, maybe even more than we did in high school.
Sometimes, she calls me while at the gym, or just to study together, to tell me all about the coding she works on. She shares her apartment in Toronto with a roommate and their fluffy Samoyed puppy—which is technically against the tenant agreement, (but Nicole has never been one for rules).
I slide into Europa's driver's side, with my hands against the steering wheel. I've been sitting in the parking lot for about five minutes, or maybe more. I can't tell anymore.
I steady my breathing and clench my hands together to form a fist.
Breathe. Folding the flier into a square, I shove it into my pocket to clear my thoughts and drive to the hotel.
My mother and father are in the lobby when I arrive. The door opens as soon as I reverse into a spot near the front.
"Pierre!" Mom shouts and rushes towards me. She wraps me in a tight hug, joined by my dad on the other side. "I missed you. This is the longest you've ever been away."
I smile; my parents help me unload the truck while my mother tells me what happened over the summer while I was gone. When she's finished catching me up on the tsunami of events, she asks, "How is school?"
"It's pretty good. It's nice to be back, though." I carry my backpack into the lobby. The carpet is damp under my shoes. "Did you figure out what caused the flood?"
"It was the weather. A few of the other houses close to the bay got flash floods. Nothing was damaged above the first floor, and the pipes are fine—we're lucky it wasn't worse," my father explains. He leads me to the desk, which is stacked full of cleaning supplies, articles of clothing and bedsheets hanging on a clothesline to dry.
Mom says, "I found this while cleaning the other day. It's yours, isn't it?" She holds out a key ring and a tiny hourglass filled with scarlet sand.
"It's not mine, but I... I know who it belongs to." My voice comes in feebly, and the paper folded in my pocket is like a boulder against my side. "Do you mind if I—"
"You can go for a drive, Pierre," my mother interrupts me and smiles. Her eyes crease. "There will be time for you to help us tomorrow. Right now, if this is what you have to do, then do it."
☆ ☽ ☆
The strokes of bright blue and white are stained by a downpour that sheds droplets of freezing rain onto my bare arms. An aurora of light surrounds the sun, which has gotten consumed by the thunderous clouds. In the vast sheet of grey, a plane flickers as it arcs across the landscape like a comet.
I find the restaurant with relative ease, although I'm a few minutes behind schedule. Grabbing my umbrella from the backseat, I dart across the road and under the cover of the overhang.
The sound of the rain hitting the roof falls like the melody that carries through the room. I'm standing behind a row of booths, facing the stage lifted a few inches from the ground. A cord from the microphone jostles back and forth as the familiar face of Elaine Vincent moves across the stage. Her voice—sweet and high-pitched—floats through the room. It sounds nothing like how I remember it, and yet I am struck by the feeling of homesickness.
She's accompanied by Tyler Yang on the electric guitar. I know this song—it's a cover of the one I requested back when she first played for me.
She bounces on her feet as she sings, her cheeks rosy and her natural black hair hanging above her shoulders. The shirt tucked into her the lace of her jeans has the same logo from the flier—except it's drawn in a distinct style. The letters forming the band name are bubbly and backed by spiralling fire. If it has a signature, I can't read it, but I don't have to. I would recognize Evan McKenna's art anywhere.
When the song finishes, Elaine holds the microphone in both hands and speaks. "Okay, we're about halfway through my set for tonight, so it's time for my obligatory advertisement. I know, I know—but seriously though, Spica has a new album release! And I also know that he's going to hate me for this, but I have to mention it every time because it's the coolest thing ever"—she points to her right—"the cover art for our debut album was drawn by my lovely brother, Evan. Everyone clap before he remembers I promised not to embarrass him anymore."
She continues talking, but I don't hear it. My eyes follow her hand and trace across the unfamiliar sea of faces.
When I see him, I feel like I'm eighteen again. I feel like I've never left the confines of North High—and I have wanted this for so long. I find myself holding my breath, and I have to remind myself to move out of the way so that I'm not blocking the entryway.
Three years apart has changed him. His arms ripple with muscles under the bulk of his sweater. His hair is dyed purple instead of the dark black it once was. It's longer, parted slightly to the left side of his face and curling out underneath his ears. The beginnings of unshaven stubble run across his chin.
I slip into a seat at the corner and listen to Elaine's singing behind the table. I don't intend on speaking to him—I know he doesn't want to talk to me.
I take Evan's hourglass out of my pocket and flip it upside down. The sand dances across the broken fault lines in the plastic as it slides to the bottom.
For about a minute, I duck into the bathroom. I want to leave the hourglass behind, thinking maybe if I put it somewhere—he might find it again. We can miss each other by a millisecond, if it would make it easier.
But I should know by now that nothing is ever plain and simple, and especially not when it comes to Evan McKenna.
He steps into the hallway as I am about to exit. The restaurant kitchen is beside me, and the clink of plates and rustle of chatter fills the silence between us.
Evan turns to me, and I can't meet his eyes. Something about looking at him—something about seeing him here, like this—terrifies me more than I care to admit.
"Peter," he says softly. "What are you doing here? It's been so long since I've seen you."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Evan. You... you look... taller." I have no idea why this escapes from my mouth, but I attempt to ease the darkness residing in my heart, clawing for me.
"Do I?" He forces himself to laugh. "Maybe you've gotten shorter."
I can't bring myself to say anything else. I stay silent as Evan touches a hand to his neck. It's a nervous habit, I know—and I don't know why I remember that.
Rather feebly, he asks, "Should we sit down?"
The air around us turns stagnant as I take him to my booth. My silence extends into an infinity of thoughts I should have said, but I never got the chance. And I sit, even though I don't know what to do. I wanted to understand every inch of him and craved to learn more. But we shattered.
He tilts his head, as if asking me an inaudible question. A million answers swirl through my mind. I hesitate. The silence echoes—and it's the kind that he doesn't break, at first.
"I am so sorry," he says.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Emotions hit me like a wave, and I'm pulled into the current. My throat catches when he looks up. When he flattens the stub of his ticket on the table and slides it into his pocket for safekeeping.
"I didn't think you would be here," I say, and the truth stings. "You know, considering the circumstances."
"I should have called. I should have... I don't know. I was such an asshole, Peter. Why did you put up with me?"
I shake my head. "Because I wanted to."
His fingers tap against the table to the beat of his sister's song. "I'm not staying for long. My... um, Elaine convinced me to come, and my therapist wanted it. I haven't made peace with what happened between us, and that I needed to atone. And apologize. And try to stop being so stuck in the past."
"You don't have to atone," I say. A server from the restaurant breaks my focus as he asks if we want a drink, and I order two glasses of water. It arrives within a few seconds.
The ice spins in my cup. It has the tinge of lemon to it. I can see my distorted reflection in the clear glass—my new square-framed glasses, thin shoulders, and lanky frame.
"We were bad together," he tells me.
The air in my lungs squeezes out like a candle in the wind.
He continues, "I think we both need this. It's something about closure—something to heal burns. I can't fix the mistakes, though. Does that make any sense?"
"Not really. I think the distance between us... that broke me."
"You don't have to explain that." He leans back, unable to continue for a while. Nothing seems to fit.
I ask, "Do you think I shouldn't have come?"
Evan shakes his head, and his eyes rest on the table. He drags his finger across the wooden grooves like forming a pattern—an imaginary constellation—from nothing at all. "No, I don't think that. I wanted you to be here so badly that it hurt. I still think about it—about everything you gave to me—like Elaine's band name. It's hard not to dwell on it. I wrecked the only good thing I've ever had."
I don't know what to do. I want to say the right thing—but I never know what that is. "Are you... um... what are you doing, now? You're still in college, right?"
"I transferred. I'm going to be teaching a painting class when I'm done studying. I was an intern there last year, and I kind of... I liked it," he replies, and for the first time in a while, Evan McKenna smiles. I've missed seeing it—the way his shoulders relax and his cheeks pinch together. "What about you?"
"I'm still at the same university, doing my bachelor's of science. After that, I don't know."
Elaine's last song comes to an end. "Thank you!" she shouts to the crowd as she jumps off the stage, with Tyler close behind her. He packs the guitar into its case as the restaurant staff prepares for the afternoon show—the main event of the night.
She weaves through the crowd in the search of Evan, who beckons her towards the table. Her eyes widen as she spots me sitting across from him.
"Peter, hi!" Elaine shouts and leans over the booth to extend her hand in a fist bump. "My very first fan."
"I think I was there before—" Evan starts, but Elaine rolls her eyes and groans to cut him off.
"We're going to load my truck with the band equipment. Are you coming outside?" Tyler says, shifting the strap of his guitar case over his shoulder.
Evan nods and motions for me to walk with him. We fall into step behind Tyler and Elaine.
"It sounds like you've been busy," Evan says and drags a hand through a strand of violet hair.
"I'm in Northwood to help at the hotel for about a week. I'm going back to work after that," I reply, following him outside.
The rain sheds onto the four of us as Tyler makes a dash for his truck. He opens the backseat and loads his equipment into it.
"Oh, so you're leaving." Evan pauses. "I see."
I hand him the hourglass. "I wanted to give this to you. It must have gotten lost again, I think. It belongs to you."
He stares down at my clasped hands and reaches for it. The touch elicits a current of electricity to race down my neck. "I don't think I need to count down to something anymore. I... had a lot to deal with, and apparently, some of it was depression... um, and that will always be a part of my life, but I'm trying to figure it all out."
"I get it," I say, and I don't have to explain.
Evan crosses his arms over his chest, and I open my umbrella, holding it over his head. He takes a step towards me, and then another. "Did you ever go travelling?"
"Hmm?"
"To Europe," he says, and glances up at me. His eyelashes are wet from the rain. "You said you wanted to go find orange sea glass. Did you ever find any?"
"I did? To be honest, I don't remember that."
He nods and chuckles, lightly punching my chest. My heartbeat increases and almost drowns out the sound of the rain for something close to a second. "Yes, you did. I always wanted to come with you. Travelling, I mean. I've been focused on school that I can only get out of the city over summer break. But I don't know—maybe when I graduate? Do you think you'd mind if I came with you?"
"You should come." I pause, and the droplets of rain drum against my shoes. "I wouldn't mind having someone come with me so that I don't get lost."
He laughs again, and it's such a sweet, harmonious sound. As he moves towards Tyler's truck, the light from the moon sparkles into view above my head.
I gaze at it, and from a few feet away, Evan looks up. From a new direction, we watch the sky together.