Brighter Than the Stars

Nicole - Atala

Clara ran a comb through my hair before she started to braid. I'd never really done anything–ever–with my hair besides the occasional ponytail, because it was short and thin and I'd never seen the point. It wasn't like I went anywhere. The last time I'd done anything had been for the tower heist–and then Annabelle had done it. But Clara had begged, and so I'd relented. The good thing was that Annabelle wasn't awake yet–or I'd never get to leave.

Clara tied off one braid, and I recognized it as the more Itarise style–the braid starting up near my forehead and working its way all the way down my head, before ending in a normal braid. She was good at it and I wondered if her mom had taught her, or if she'd figured it out on her own. My mom had done my hair when I'd been little, and, when she'd been sick, I'd sat in her room while she braided or twisted or curled. I'd been six, maybe, at the end of it–almost seven. I hadn't ever really tried to do my own, and once she'd died, I hadn't seen the point.

Leo rapped on the door. "Hey. If you don't mind, I'd like to steal your doll so I can go to breakfast with her."

"I mind," Clara said.

He came in and sat across from me on the floor. "Well, I'm taking her from you, anyway." He added, "You look pretty like that, by the way. You always do, I mean, but you've never worn it that way, and it looks good."

"Mm. Actually, I think I look more like I got hit by about five storms in anything and everything, but–"

"Hey, that's my girlfriend you're talking about. Who, by the way, always looks gorgeous." He leaned over and kissed me, and Clara groaned.

"You can leave now," she told him.

"I'm good."

She tied off the braid and set it down on my shoulder. "I better be invited to whatever you're doing, because I'm starving."

He flicked one of her own braids. "I would, but you already begged Madeline for hours to sit in that meeting she has today–the one no one else is invited to, that she had to get special permission for. And, seeing as you've been a pain about it for weeks, I suggest you go."

"Oh. Right." She paused for a second, before she jumped up and ran towards the door, presumably to find Madeline. "You better be back at lunch for me!"

"We'll see," Leo called after her. He turned back towards me and offered me his hand. "Come on. I was asking Annabelle last night, and she said there's this cafe that has really good breakfast. Of course, she's Annabelle, so her directions were vague and will probably get us hopelessly lost."

I smiled. "Probably. But that also means she probably does know the best places to eat."

...

She did. Leo ate a baguette with jam and fruit, while I tried a pastry I didn't think I'd heard of, until the server set it down on the table. My mom had made them all the time, because my dad had loved them–or he'd used to. It was pretty much butter and sugar, and definitely not healthy, but I loved them. I'd watched her make them–and plenty of other Atalese treats–all the time when I was little, with the promise that one day she would teach me, too. She'd never gotten that chance, and I hadn't taken her recipe cards with me when I'd run. By that time, any interest I may have had in cooking had been ruined, and I was deathly afraid of the stove–or, more accurately, being near the stove when my father got angry.

Out on the streets, I stared at everything, my hand in Leo's. It was weird to think that, a long time ago, my mom had walked here at the capital, Alana, maybe down the same streets I was. She had been a music teacher, and had met my father when he'd come from Aeloni on business. I couldn't imagine wanting to leave here for Aeloni, which was hot and dry and filled with nothing but farms. I'd liked the farm when I was little, though, and so had my mom. She'd learned to ride, and that was one of the things she'd actually gotten to teach me–even though I'd been too young to really do any sort of jumps.

Most of my memories of my mom were of her being sick, not healthy. She'd tried for so long to seem okay, to keep doing everything she used to do. Even before she'd gotten sick, my dad had no longer really been my dad–he'd been replaced by some sort of monster. So had many of my friends' fathers, as they all headed off to bars together, drinking to forget everything that was wrong, and then coming home angry and taking it out on everyone else. I had been six. I hadn't understood any of it. I had thought it was my fault–that I had done something wrong, that he was right to punish me for it. Sometimes, I still did.

"What are you thinking about?" I jumped, and Leo squeezed my hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, you're fine. I don't know. Nothing. Everything." I shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." We stepped into one of the shops on the street, ribbons and jewelry in the window. "I like to know what you're thinking." He picked up a packet of ribbons and held them up to me questioningly. "For Clara."

I nodded. "Definitely. Also," I picked up a tiny bottle of perfume with a flowery scent. "She was asking Annabelle for some of hers."

He raised his eyebrows at me. "Are you sure?"

"She's fourteen. Whether you like it or not, she's grown up." I handed him the bottle. "And if she wants to wear it, I say at least let her experiment with it."

He took the bottle. "You sound like Annabelle. But okay. Do you want anything?"

"I'm good. But I could buy it myself, and if I want anything, I will. You're not buying anything else for me."

"I would buy you the world if I could, Nicole Juliette." He kissed the bridge of freckles on my nose. "Even if you'd never let me."

"I wouldn't. But I love you."

"And I love you." 

Word Count: 1,081

These have all been super short, but writer's block is a curse.