The Brightest Star in a Constellation

45: A Face in the Crowd

☆ Evan ☆

"Your total comes to sixty-seven dollars. How will you be paying?"

The older woman standing in front of me rifles through her coin purse. She hands me a wad of crisp twenty dollars bills.

I open the register and hand her the change. Once the receipt has been printed and the woman exits, the line of customers is gone.

I shut the cash register and exhale. My supervisor, Layla, bounds out from the back room. She's probably in her late twenties and greets me and the other cashier with a peppy grin. "I've got to pick up the boxes of new inventory that came in this week." She turns to the cashier next to me and tells him he's in charge in the meantime. To me, she says, "You look like the undead. Have you taken a break yet?"

"No. I've been busy."

"Please, take fifteen minutes," Layla says. "Take sixteen minutes! I won't get on your case about it."

"Okay, okay. Fine," I reply as I key my employee number and password into the system, clocking out for my break.

Once I reach the break room, I check my phone. Lately, after the bullshit with Carolyn died down, I've been getting fewer notifications. I had to secure my bank account and call my phone company to make sure nobody could mess with my bill payments.

The only texts are from the AC group chat, and I smile as I read them. Peter sends a message about the eclipse; apparently, it's happening on the same day as the meteor shower.

The cashier comes into the room, pulling me from my focus. "Someone's here to see you," he says.

I turn, and my fists are clenched. "Who?"

A latent, partial piece of me—wants it to be one person in particular. I allow myself to consider why I care for about ten precious seconds. Why I care about finally holding Peter's hand, and why—recklessly, and specifically—I seek for it to be him.

His hand. I don't know why I can still feel the way his fingers embraced mine. I don't know why I'm still hung up on it.

(I think it would make this day less shit, if it was him, which is strange. Not in the way I expected it would be.)

The other piece of me knows better than to believe that. I clear my throat and repeat, louder, "Who?"

The cashier nods towards the doorway. "I don't know. Said she was your mother."

Oh. I stumble backward. My face contorts, and I can't bother to hide the way it hurts. I guess I should have known this would happen. I knew it.

"Well, tell her I'm not here. And get Layla."

The cashier stares at me. I lift an eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue. And because I have nothing to do in this break room, I start to pace. The walls are decked with white and blue tiles. Cords run across the baseboards. I complete my first loop around the room before I force myself to stop.

"I already told your mother you were on shift. And what do you need Layla for?"

"Go," I urge, and I raise my hand for emphasis. I won't do it—but that doesn't matter. The cashier—who isn't wearing his name tag, so I don't know his name, backs away.