From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Thirteen

Gracie's cardiologist insists she's just gotten too worked up, and needs some rest, but he still orders a couple of the more standard tests, just in case. Just as the nurse is readying to chase out everyone besides Mom, my phone buzzes in my pocket; Bronwyn has texted to let me know she's waiting outside on a bench up-wind of the smoker's lawn. When I spot her I note she's brought tricks (notes from the classes I'm missing), and treats (coffee, sub sandwiches, cookies).

"You didn't have to do this, but thanks a lot," I say, lifting an insulated cup filled with super-sugary goodness, and gripping the waxy sandwich paper so hard it crackles. I swallow a big swig of the coffee and smile tiredly. "Less so for the homework."

Bryn simply nods. "Jules and Drew wanted to come, but they would've been late getting back to class. I told them I could swing it because I have free period next. Drew made sure I knew you'd want extra mayo though, so I guess that's a pretty decent show of support by itself?"

I nod with mock solemnity. "Yes. A dry sandwich is a sin the Oliviero household."

Coffee in hand, I vaguely salute the banks of reflective windows along the upper floors of the building, toward the Peds ward. "You wanna come back up with me, after? They're just confirming some test results before they discharge her, so it's fine."

She pulls a wry expression and shakes her head. "I'd love to give the little bit some snuggles, but 'fine' isn't really a word that goes well with 'Dionadair' and 'human hospitals'. Half the machines in there would short out from the energy interference. It's isn't a problem, really. Tristan, Seb, and I can wait until she's settled in back at home."

I shrug. "Suit your electromagnetic--or whatever--selves."

"Irradiated. Dionadair energy is something of a cross between gamma radiation and photon waves."

"Hold it there," I say, putting up my hand in warning. "I am perfectly happy with my 'B' average understanding of Earth sciences, thankyouverymuch.

"So . . . ," I muffle around a bite of Turkey Ranch, "Guess who got a visit from your mom today."

Bronwyn's eyes widen the tiniest bit, but her tone stays level when she asks, "Stimulating conversation?"

"Oh, you know. Normal stuff. Fairytales, authors, frustratingly vague profile of a girl over whom your baby bro has lost his head."

"Oh. That kind of talk." She sighs. "Mother tends to run with her suspicions before getting her facts straight, especially if it's something she wishes were true,"--

"Then Seb isn't all angsting over some girl he hasn't bothered mentioning to his full mortal bestie? Because that was the message I got, and if so, said FMB is seriously offended."

"Well, I kind of don't think of Seb's love life is my business, and I know speculating about it isn't, so all I can say is that it's more complicated than Mother made it sound, but that she didn't lie, per se."

"Complicated," I echo. I've set down my coffee to free one hand to pry out a pebble stuck in the waffle grating of the bench. I pick at it absently, until it pops loose, and then kick it toward the parking lot. The rock skips a few feet and pings to a stop against the hubcap of a rusty Taurus.

Bronwyn's eyes follow the projectile, her gaze expanding beyond to some elsewhere beyond the junker car. "If you think about it," she says, "you probably already understand some of it from all the letters the two of you sent to one another. Aside from his connection with you, Sebastien's always had difficulties reaching out to others—sometimes literally, sometimes emotionally. At first Tristan and I just thought he preferred being alone, but as we got older, we felt it, too. Between Tristan and me, mental communication is as easy as pouring water back and forth between glasses, but with Sebastien . . . it's an effort. I think he just got so used to having to try harder than we did that he unconsciously began complicating things, because to him, the more difficult something is, the safer it is. Do you understand? With a mindset like that, if he thinks he has to walk on eggshells, be perfect, struggle, then he can do it. That's familiar. But something as simple as making a friend, it's too easy, so it must be wrong somehow. Something as out of his control as falling in love? Forget about it. That's why he uses his sense of humor to hold others at arm's length. Better to make jokes, pretend it isn't happening until it goes away.

"Except this time it isn't, is it? 'She's' don't go away just because you say so."

"How do yo . . . Joss why are you crying?"

"Huh . . . ?" I blink hard a couple times, and feel the hot-then-cool of new tears branch down my cheeks. I swipe a finger beneath my eye; it comes back wet. "Oh, this," I say, laughing in a hiccupy kind of way. "De nada. This happens to me all the time when Gracie gets sick or something really scary happens. I've got, like, this weird 'solid until the crises ends' thing, and then after things are okay again a day or two will go by, and then some totally random thing makes me bawl like a baby. Now that Gracie's officially fine, I'm due to nest in my room with a really sappy movie to force it outta my system. I didn't have the chance soon enough, so sympathy for Sebastien gets all mixed up with the fall-out from Gracie's episode, and there you have it. Sob fest; just add tissues. Don't worry, you'll learn to ignore it—nay, expect it-- like everyone else does," Bronwyn doesn't seem convinced. "I scrabble for the paper napkins in the sandwich bag, and grin sheepishly. I wipe down my face--which has silently become a landscape of snot and saline—even though my eyes are already welling up again.

"This is just some stolen grief, is all," I promise. "Secondhand heartbreak to clean out the pipes. Go on with what you were saying."

"Ooookay. But there's not much more to it. Sebastien loves someone, yes. Does he know how to handle it? In my opinion, the only kind of way he knows how to handle it is badly."

"Because he won't talk to anyone about it?"

"Because he won't talk to her about it, period, the noble idiot. I think he's trying to spare her all the drama that comes with being romatically involved with a Solis, not to mention him being the angstiest Solis. All of which is moronic, because Sebastien is a wonderful person for all that his introversion might make it seem like he's cold, or apathetic. Honestly, he might be the deepest feeling person I know. Every day, every moment, he experiences things he'd never admit to, because to him, it would only be a burden to anyone else. If everything is so difficult for him, who's used to it, how much more unfair would it be for some poor girl, uninitiated to all the responsibility? You think Duchess Kate has it rough? Nothing compared to dating a Solis."

Bronwyn's eyes flicker, like her attention falls away for just a moment before she returns to the present. "Tristan's worried about you, says he has plans to cheer you up," she says.

I tap my temple. "This just in?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, before Tristan tries to whisk me off somewhere, I wanted to ask you something about your telepathy."

"Sure. It's not exactly fair to expect you to take the risks you're taking without opening up ourselves."

"Thank goodness," I say, expelling a breath. "I was worried it might be some sort of secret of the universe, or something."

"Not at all. Ask away.'

"Okay, here goes. Does . . . do Sebastien and Tristan hear all your thoughts, or . . . ?"

Bronwyn's laughter peals loudly across the tiny courtyard, disturbing some birds into a flutter of escape. "Heaven forbid!" she snorts, far from ladylike. "No honey. We have an ability we simply refer to as filtering. That just means we know how to guard our thoughts, and how to drown out those of our siblings. We learn how instinctively as infants."

"Oh, good!" I sink down on the bench, unaware I'd even been tense until I relaxed. "That's really good," I add. "Because I have a kind of big favor to ask, and if Sebastien knew about it, I'm pretty sure he'd be pissed."

*****