The Brightest Star in a Constellation

3: Sand Through the Hourglass

☆ Evan ☆

What a fucking day I've had.

I'm driving somewhere, with someone I don't know in the passenger seat. He hasn't spoken in three minutes and thirty-two seconds, so I'm starting to think he's freaking out.

I should probably say something. Plus, I kind of need directions.

"Do you want to talk about it at all, or have you not reached that stage yet?"

And there I go, sounding like an asshole again. Look at him. His eyes are rooted to the floor, and he glances back to the window. Hands balled into a fist, his fingertips dig into the fabric of his khaki pants. Of course, he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Not quite," he replies. I should have asked his name a long time ago, but now it's far too late to backtrack and admit I don't know it. I could have sworn I've seen him before, but I can't place where. "I think I'm still on the denial stage, to be quite honest."

Each word he speaks sounds like he's taking a hiccuping breath between it. Time keeps ticking, regardless of the fact that neither of us is saying a word. My keys jingle together, and the sand in my tiny hourglass cools to the bottom.

"It's fine," I say. "Where am I driving you?"

"Ah, right," he mutters under his breath. I can't hear his next words for a few seconds, but eventually, he lifts his head. When he speaks, there's the hint of an accent to it. It's faint, but noticeable in the way he rolls the letter r. "It's, uh... Daybreak street. Number seventy-six. I—I'm sorry, my head is just... it's not working right now. My thoughts are scattered."

"It's fine," I repeat.

The boy presses his hand to my heating system. The freezing cold air gently blows against his face. He doesn't complain about the lack of heat, or even point it out. I actually think the air conditioning is helping. "What's with your outfit?" he asks, watching the road as I pick up speed.

Glancing down at myself, I remember I'm still wearing my practice outfit. Once we'd gotten into the house, Claire changed in the bathroom and was incredulous that I didn't have a change of clothes stuffed in my back pocket. What, don't you have a backup outfit?

"Oh, yeah, I'm skipping soccer practice," I answer.

"Soccer practice? You aren't a hockey player?"

I nod weakly. "I play on both teams. Well, only because fucking Hayes won't let me quit."

"I don't think anyone should have that relationship with Coach."

I can't help it. I snort. "I can't tell if you're poking fun at me for swearing or not."

"I'm not making fun, just pointing out how ill-placed it was," he says. I can see the reflection in the window, and I catch the briefest smile cross his face. "Why don't you drink?"

My jaw tenses. He catches it and backtracks by telling me, "Sorry, that was stupid. You don't have to tell me."

"I just don't want to. And... obviously, none of us are nineteen. Maybe I just don't feel like breaking the law," I answer, though it comes out a bit harsher than I intended.