The Brightest Star in a Constellation

60: Some Things

☆ Evan ☆

Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and eight seconds—that's how much time I have left before the end of my countdown.

I've already returned my textbooks to the library, so I came back from school early. From my position at the window, my eyes train on Peter as he cuts across the street to his hotel.

Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and six seconds.

I sigh, whirling back around. Sliding onto the floor, I start packing my suitcase. I don't have much to bring—just my clothes, my notebook, and Peter's album of ephemera.

I've decided that I'm starting a collection to fill the blank pages.

I hear the elevator door ding in the distance, and I move away from the unfolded mess of my clothes to peer into the hallway.

I open the door at the same second his hand lifts to knock. My heart twirls as he enters, and his eyebrows raise when he takes in the sight.

"When is your flight?"

There's a silence that I barely have the strength to break. He adjusts his glasses with the tip of his finger and places a sweater into the suitcase.

"It's not until six. I couldn't find an earlier one," I reply. I'm staying for three hours longer than I expected, but somehow, I don't feel like counting down the extra time.

"That's, um... that's good."

I finish packing and close the zipper. We turn towards each other, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

I carry my bags down to the lobby. Peter checks me out of the Croix Hotel and we get into his car. I sit in a stripe of darkness on the passenger's side, staring at the waves frothing against the shoreline in the distance. The sky is packed with clouds like the cream-coloured walls that have kept me temporarily enclosed for months.

The words fail me when I need them. I watch Peter slip his sunglasses on, and I know he's waiting for me to speak first.

"I stole a pen and the notepad," I say, like it matters, and show it to him. "Ephemera." I tore off the sheet with our secret code—I am not fine, I had told him that day; underneath it was the sentence I didn't have the courage to say.

I still don't. It would only complicate the situation if I tore my soul open and offered him half. I love you, I want to say, and it sits at the base of my tongue. It tastes like spearmint, and caramel, and pine needles—and everything I can't become. Je t'aime. I love you. I am in love with you.

"You can keep it," he says, and I nod, because I know that already.

For the next few precious hours, I can keep it to myself.

"I've been thinking—"

He starts the car, and it rumbles to life as if predicting the future. "Have you?"

I reach over to shove his arm. "This is serious!" A laugh escapes from me. "I'm going to write Carolyn a letter, and I want you to drive me there."

"Really? Are you sure?" he asks and lets me decide.

"Yes. I'm sure."