The Brightest Star in a Constellation

44: Facts I Learned at Midnight, Number One

☽ Peter ☽

The hotel's computer is stuck in a cycle of updating on a bright navy blue screen with a percentage that won't budge past eighty-nine, so I take my break early.

Outside the lobby doorway, Elaine is getting ready to leave. Her backpack is stuffed full; the straps are bottle green, like the shell of a turtle. She ambushes Evan before he can move away, and her arms wrap around him.

I approach like a tentative whisper. I don't wish to disturb them, but Elaine notices me regardless. She says, "Do you want a hug, too?"

I tell her yes, and at that moment, she reminds me of Evan.

Once she's pulled back, she tells the two of us, "I'll be back to sing more songs. Promise."

Around the curb of Daybreak street, Elaine's father's car comes into view. As she walks towards it, she shoves Evan and laughs. I watch her get into the passenger seat, and I allow myself a reserved smile.

Elaine's father gets out of the car. He nods once at Evan, and I look at them. Based on Evan's description of Randall, I expected he would have nothing in common with him. But it's in the way Evan moves; angling his feet in the same stance as Randall. And like Randall, Evan hangs on to the little time he has left with Elaine before they're gone again.

I think when someone leaves like that; it doesn't matter how much advance notice is given. Until I see Evan's face—the way he tries to form a smile, but he drops it when it doesn't work—I don't realize what it must feel like to be left with nothing but memories. He is left with the minuscule fragments and mannerisms that he's taken from Randall without noticing. Just like I am an amalgamation of people I have met, people who have left, Evan has these same traces. He listens to the music his sister gave to him. He asks questions like she does.

He is not a puzzle with a piece missing.

We are just two entities, with iron in his blood—the iron that stars are made of. With cells that replenish on an average of seven years, and skin that regenerates approximately once a month, and ninety-eight percent of atoms that are replaced every year.

Before Randall leaves, he says, "Evan, we should talk."

"I'm fine," Evan assures him. "Really. You should go. I don't want you to miss the boat."

"You're a good kid. Do you know that? You can call me if you want to talk. Anytime."

Like it doesn't matter, Evan scoffs. And the car peels away. He stands there, in front of me, and I realize I don't know what to do. Nobody has left my life like this—like without waiting to look back. I wonder if this is why Evan is so afraid to speak; it's like a trust fall in gym class. It's like falling backwards and having no idea of where I'm going to land.

"So," Evan says, slipping his hands into his pockets, "do you want to go get coffee? I owe you one."

I wonder if he's afraid of falling. "I was only partly joking about that."

I direct him to my car, and he offers to drive. On the way, he says, "You didn't have to do that for my application, you know."

He glances at me, and the road charges past beyond my nose. Wet grass smudges into the black asphalt of the road, and the sky is muted. The sun dissolves through the heavy sky like a worn, knitted coat, with the clouds as sleeves and the warm, curved edge of the sun's neckline wearing it.