The Brightest Star in a Constellation

20: Merci Dieu, C'est Vendredi

☽ Peter ☽

The first indication that my day is going to be terrible is directly after my alarm rings, and I can't find my glasses. My wrist hits the wall, and the shelf beside me shakes like it's about to fall over and crash into my face. My room is decidedly blurry, and even when I squint, I can't see anything.

I rub my eyes. It serves nothing to clear my vision; without them, Nicole says I could wake up in a parallel universe and I wouldn't notice a difference.

And my alarm is still ringing. I move to shut it off and realize the notification bar is clogged with messages from the group chat. Based on the amount of texts, Nicole woke up before me, and early morning I haven't had my coffee yet Nicole is not in her best state.

I finally locate my glasses a few minutes later, and once I have them on, I step into my bathroom. Since it's spirit week, and despite my initial reluctance to participate, eventually Nicole and I agreed that we'd have less of a chance of embarrassing ourselves if we teamed up. It's pyjama day, so I keep my sweatshirt on and put on a pair of flannel pants that could pass for regular clothes—in case I'm the only person in my classes who looks out of place.

Finished, I make my way downstairs to the living room. Mom has just finished making breakfast—beignets—so I take my seat at the kitchen table. The granite countertop is covered in powdered sugar, dyeing the apron my mother is wearing.

"I hope I didn't wake you," she says by way of greeting. "Your father is across the street, fixing all the rooms on the third floor. The water isn't working. I thought I'd bring them something to eat while they wait."

"Shouldn't Lotus do that?" I ask.

She shakes her head at me. "It's not the same. We need to make a good impression."

I eat my breakfast and hold myself back from rolling my eyes. Of course, we're the only hotel in town. I don't think they have much choice.

My mother's pager sticks out from under the apron, permanently attached to her. I wait for it to beep, but she simply continues humming as she waits for the breakfast to finish. "Pierre, don't you have a meeting with your psychiatrist today?"

I should have known she would bring it up. It's like clockwork, and so I say, "Yes."

"How's it going?" she asks.

I don't think I know what to say to that. It isn't like therapy is a ladder where the only direction to go is upwards. It's more like a sliding scale, a game of snakes and ladders where some days I can forge ahead as if nothing is wrong, and other days I backslide to the beginning. "It's fine."

I know what she wants me to say. That I'm done with needing my brain power-washed, that I can function without intervention. But I also suspect she's still thinking about what little she knows about Sam; I never told my parents about him, and maybe that was my best defence.

Once breakfast is finished, I step outside and drive the fresh beignets to the hotel. The lights on the third floor are illuminated in a row, and through the open curtains, I spot my father's shadow, nervously pacing back and forth. Outside, the sign is flipped to closed, and upon entering, the lobby is strangely silent. Typically, I can hear the pipes groaning at odd intervals, or the sounds of guests travelling through the hallways.