The Brightest Star in a Constellation

52: Little Gestures

☽ Peter ☽

My boots sink into a puddle as I dodge through the street, headed to work for a few hours after school. Relentless droplets of rain pour onto the ground and breezes down the streets, and when I finally reach the overhang, my clothes are soaked.

The door seals shut behind me. I grab a towel from the back room to sponge the water from my shirt. The air is mild, and the weather has bounced between sunshine poking through the charcoal clouds and an intermittent downpour a few times already. The next time I glance out the window, the sun will have returned with a vengeance once more.

I busy myself with cleaning rooms and changing the sheets, and when I'm almost halfway done, my vision swims. I press my hand against the floor and massage my temples.

My head pulses with a headache. Lowering myself to the floor, I take a deep breath before I dial the phone number for the clinic. I was planning to cancel my appointment today, regardless; I'm not in the mood for analyzing my emotions today, and I've been feeling strange since this morning.

Suzanna picks up quickly. "How are you, Peter?"

"I have to cancel," I say, between blinking to clear the spots in my vision, and taking in another breath. "Sorry. I think I'm sick."

"Oh. You've caught a cold? Or is this just an unproductive mental health day?" she asks. "We can certainly reschedule, and you just let me know when you want to come in."

"It's just a cold," I admit under my breath. I get to my feet and halfheartedly finish tidying the room before I exit, fumbling with the key card. "And thanks. I'll call when I feel better."

After letting my parents know I'm taking a break, I descend on the stairway and head to the master suite. It's on the first floor, tucked away in the far corner, and consists of a wide bed pushed against the wall, heavy curtains that block out the light, and a plush carpet. Since the room is occupied solely by staff, it has its own ghosts. My father's toolkit stands by the bedside, left propped open from the last time he was here.

I climb into bed, grasping the sheets over my head. It doesn't take me long to drift into a hazy nap.

When I wake up, my eyes are glued shut. I pry them open, groaning. My phone screen hurts to look at. At some point, my glasses have slipped off my nose, and I can't tell where they've gone.

I squint, reading Nicole's name at the top of my notifications. I tap her contact to call her, and the photo of her pops into view. In it, she's fifteen. Wearing my glasses, she flashes a peace sign at the camera. If I remember correctly, my contact photo on her phone matches; the one where I have her heart-shaped glasses on my head.

"Pierre!" she cries as she answers. "I texted you, like, ten quadrillion times. What's up?"

Ignoring the obvious hyperbole, I sniffle, fumbling to the ensuite bathroom for a box of tissues. "I took a nap. I feel like..."

"Well, you sound like crap," she interrupts, without waiting for me to finish. I'm used to it, by now; it's just the way we communicate. Through the phone line, I can hear the feedback of her shuffling around.

I set my phone down against the mattress and lay down next to it. "Thank you."

"I love you, you know?" Nicole says to me, and there's no irony in her voice. "This is about the eclipse, I'm guessing. What happened?"