The Path Between the Stars

Chapter One

~1~
2018
Brooke

Skipping down the hall on one foot, I shove on a black Chanel flat with a gold buckle and wince. The shoes are at least a size too small, but the sale had been impossible to pass up at sixty percent off. It was a point of bitterness for me—that I'd gotten so caught up in the frenzy of the 'once a year' sales event that I'd purchased something that didn't fit. That was easy to do downtown though, lose yourself among all the people and the craziness.

People are so rude in the city. Everyone is always rushing about, faces lowered, eyes staring at cell phone screens. They are all but oblivious to the world—except for when they want something.

Like the correct size of a petite, darling pair of flats that would go with nearly all of my office clothes, I muse wistfully, thinking back to the woman with comically long, bright red nails who had pushed right in front of me and snatched the last pair of Chanel eights. She'd been beyond rude, right down to the self-satisfied smile she'd worn as she'd checked out.
Of course, I'd made the choice to buy the sevens. That was on me.

Glancing out the hallway window, wiggling my toes a moment to ease them into the uncomfortable pinch they'd suffer the entire day, I smile at the chubby chickadee seated on a thin branch. It was preening itself, enjoying the morning air immensely. I couldn't get these little glimpses of nature living downtown. It makes me glad that I chose to move beyond the city limits, out to the relative country, even if it meant my commute was an hour long and I was often on the verge of tardiness. And, apart from trees and birds and fresh air, the people here were polite.

Nearly to the kitchen now, I look at my knock-off wristwatch. It was a gift from my mother, so I cherish it despite the faux diamonds and weak clasp. My brain wants to drift off into random thoughts, but I forcibly focus back on the clock, the numbers and long hand ticking by too quickly. The time registers in my coffee-deprived brain.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Staring forlornly at the boxes of cereal atop the stainless steel fridge, I resign myself to an empty stomach and race back to my room for my lightweight jacket and briefcase. I've got only minutes before the 7:30 bus arrives at the stop.

The weather outside my small home is crisp and lovely. The leaves on the trees are beginning to change, becoming a rich gold-yellow, not unlike the skin of a golden delicious apple. I flip up the collar of my checkered jacket against the light breeze that blows strands of my dark blonde hair from the untidy bun I've secured at the nape of my neck. I move quickly against the nearly-comfortable chill. I always find the half mile walk to the bus stop relaxing. It steeled me so that I could once again stomach the chaotic downtown.

I'd tried to live in the thick of all the craziness. After taking the job and moving, the company had set me up in one of their sky high rentals at the heart of all the buzz. But I couldn't handle it—the noise, the 24-hour activity, being packed in like sardines one on top of the other.

When I walked around feeling the hum of all the people and cars permeating my skin and resonating within my bones, it was like I could not escape it, like I was being absorbed into the fold. One time I'd nearly been run over because I was so busy reading an email on my phone; it was then that I knew I needed to make a change. I wasn't cut out for the city, but I was good at my job and the money was awesome. So the move was worth it.

At least that's what I told myself so I wouldn't go racing home to mom and the comfortable, uneventful life I'd left there.

But I missed home almost to the point of sickness when I was part of the city's body.

As I approach the bus stop, I'm greeted by the old man who lives in the park nearby, Charlie. I wave at him absentmindedly, looking for the other woman who is also usually waiting on the 7:30 bus into the city, but she's not here today. I think this is the first time in four months that she has not stood beside me waiting. She is civil, but also stoic, so we rarely talk about anything at all—except small, insignificant things like the weather report and neighborhood watch. I wonder if I have missed the bus, because she is not here. Maybe I've read my watch wrong and today is the day I will get fired. But, no. My inexpensive watch says it is exactly time.