Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I tell him, “Okay.”
His head snaps up, eyes locking on mine. He looks suspicious. “You’re not going to bicker with me about this? Give me hell? Throw a bizarre anecdote in my face and try to talk me out of it?”
“Nope.”
His hand wraps tight around his fork. He realizes what he’s doing, stares down at his hand, and seems to have to will it to loosen, then let go. “Right,” he says, frowning at his food. “Well. That’s…refreshing.”
I force a smile, even though inside it feels like my heart’s blistered and breaking. “See? I can be agreeable.”
“Sure, you can.” He eyes me sharply, takes a bite of bacon. “I’ll just be waiting for a water balloon to explode over my head. Another glitter bomb in my car.”
He’s so quick to fall back on who we were. On what we’ve been. A part of me wants to grip his shirt and shake him and make him tell me what this means. But the bigger part of me knows that I’m scared to hear his answer, that he’s hurting and vulnerable and pushing him right now is unwise.
My heart hurts. I peer up at the stars, swallowing around that lump in my throat again, hiding my face so I don’t risk giving myself away. I take a deep breath and do what I’ve done for years—wrap my sadness in the blanket of cheerfulness, force the topic toward an easier, happier place.
I’ve always loved stargazing. Being reminded how vast the world is, how small I am in its grand scheme, yet how inextricably linked I am to those stars, being made of the very thing burning in the sky—bright, beautiful stardust.
“Ursa Major.” I point. “Ursa Minor. The Big and Little Dippers.”
“I’m familiar,” he says dryly without looking up, having another bite of food.
“Do you know their story, those constellations?”
He watches me warily, chewing coming to a stop. “No, I don’t.”
I nod, looking back at the sky. “So, the story goes, Zeus—who really did not keep it in his pants—and Callisto got down to business, had a kid named Arcas. Hera, Zeus’s main squeeze, who allegedly had a fierce jealous streak, got wind of this and was not pleased. Though, I’m not exactly sure why we act like that’s some kind of character flaw, jealousy, when her husband was about as faithful to her as I am to my commitment to go easy on the dairy.”
Gavin rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks in amusement.
“Anyway,” I tell him, studying the stars, which, with the city’s light pollution, twinkle only faintly in the night sky. “Zeus decided that in order to protect Callisto and Arcas, he was going to change them into bears, grab them by their nubby little tails, and chuck them up into the night sky. That’s why their tails are stretched out.” I point to the row of stars, one after the other. “See?”
Gavin doesn’t answer me. He’s looking at me with this blank expression. His throat works in a swallow. “What the hell is the point of this?”
I glance back up at the stars, lacing my hands together behind my head. “I’m getting there. These ancient stories—myths—have lasted so long, these bizarre explanations for burning balls of gas, because there’s something that resonates. Maybe they don’t make much sense, in literal terms. They’re definitely far-fetched efforts to understand our existence, our surroundings, when none of what we know now existed to demystify the vast, complicated workings of the world, but I do think there’s still some nugget of wisdom in them.”
“And what nugget is that?” Gavin asks.
“That sometimes life takes a turn we didn’t see coming. That a single choice can irrevocably alter the path of our lives, and we have no idea what choice that might be and where it might take us. I mean, I’m pretty sure Callisto didn’t think her life would end up how it did simply because of her choice to be with Zeus. And poor Arcas, that kid was born into this world, at the whim of a whole family drama that completely upturned his life. Zeus, I’m gonna hazard a guess here, his ‘let’s make them bears to keep them safe’ was a fairly impulsive solution, because it protected his lover and son, but at what cost? They were lost to him forever, their lives irrevocably altered, likely not in any way they’d have wanted or hoped.
“So, I think…” I tip my head, examining the constellations stretched across the sky. “I think it’s a reminder, that there’s a lot we can’t control in life, that sometimes we get dealt a real shit-kicker, but…in ending up where we never meant to, even in bodies we don’t recognize, situations we didn’t ask for, there’s still a little beauty to be found. Purpose. Meaning.” I point to the bears, side by side. “Maybe even love.”
Gavin stares at me, throat working roughly. “I think that’s easy for the bystanders to say. That there’s a redeeming significance to be found in others’ suffering.”
Tearing my gaze from the stars, I search his eyes. “But we all take turns, don’t we? Being the bystanders and the ones who suffer. What if we’re meant to be counterpoints to each other—not to diminish each other’s pain, not to overstate the silver linings of hardship, but instead to stand in witness to it, to help each other see that little bit of light and hope that keeps us going, that reminds us life is some hard shit, but the people who love us through it…they make it bearable?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Bearable?”
I grin. “Pun intended.”
Our gazes hold as his sardonic expression softens, as my grin begins to slip. Gavin swallows and stares down at his plate, pushing his food around. “Well, when you get too old for footie, be sure to call American Greetings. They can put you to work.”
I throw a piece of bacon at him. “Shut up.”
He grins down at his plate, but hides it quickly. After a heavy exhale, he says, “Oliver…”
My heartbeat slows with dread. I feel my hands clasp beneath the table until my knuckles ache.
“I…” He lets out another slow breath, scoots his food across it. “I know I said it already, but…thank you.”
I don’t know what he’s thanking me for. The shower. This meal. Being here with him. Understanding his need to step back. Again.
I don’t know. And I’m so tired of not knowing. But I’ve been the one so many times, showing up at his door, barging my way in, and look where it’s got me. This time, I can’t chase him down. I can’t shoulder my way in. Much as I hate it, it’s my turn to wait. To see if he thinks I’m someone worth chasing down, too.
“You’re welcome,” I finally manage.
Gavin meets my eyes, but only briefly, like he won’t allow his gaze to linger. Glancing up at the stars, he’s quiet for a while before he says, “Dammit. Now every time I look up at night, all I’m going to be able to think about are bears with stretched-out tails and…” His voice dies off. He peers down, spears his food, then fills his mouth as if to shut himself up.
He doesn’t finish that sentence, doesn’t say what else he’ll think about, looking up into a sparkling nighttime sky. But foolishly, I let myself finish that sentence, let hope glitter, like a star in my heart.