In Sight of Stars(52)

She doesn’t wait, but walks ahead of me, close enough to hear me talk but far enough ahead to give me space to gather my courage.

*

“Saturday, I don’t call Sarah. I spend the afternoon working on portfolio pieces. Maybe I want to make her sweat some,” I say, laughing a little at the admission, “or maybe I’m panicked about how far behind I am. I should be. I have to get this last piece in pretty soon or I’m going to be doomed. They’re waiting on me and I’ve been slacking. There are no more extensions they’ll give me due to ‘circumstances.’

“Late afternoon, Sarah texts. Something like, ‘You should come, Alden. If you want to.’ It doesn’t read like she means it. More like she feels sorry for me, and obligated. The truth is, she’s never really wanted me to blend with her Northhollow friends, which, as I said, was fine by me.”

“Until it wasn’t,” Dr. Alvarez says.

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess. Anyway, at some point later that afternoon, or maybe early evening, another text comes: ‘44 Pine. L past 7-11. Trees section off Main if you do want to come…’”

I wince at the sound of the address that’s now burned into my brain at the thought of Dunn’s house, the pouring rain. But I manage to plow forward.

“Sarah doesn’t usually work that hard to convince me, so I’m thinking, okay, maybe she does want me to come. I guess I felt confused,” I say to Dr. Alvarez.

“I get that,” she answers. “Maybe Sarah did, too.”

I nod, and swallow hard. I’m not sure which parts of the story are important and which parts aren’t. But suddenly, I get it. Sarah did feel something for me, maybe even loved me, through it all. At least, I’m pretty sure she did.

“I didn’t want to be a pity project. I didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. So, I convince myself I’m not in the mood to go to a party, to hang out with those assholes, even if I should try for Sarah’s sake. Maybe she sees something in them I don’t, but the fact is, I don’t, and unlike them, I’m not a phony, so I’m not going to be an asshole and pretend.

“It’s funny, because I remember thinking then how badly I missed Cleto and Dan. Especially Cleto. He’s more like a brother than a friend. If I had called Cleto that night, then maybe none of this would have happened.”

“Maybe not,” Dr. Alvarez says, “or maybe he wouldn’t have been home. Or maybe that wouldn’t have gone well, and something else would have gone wrong. We can’t go back. You can’t change what’s behind you. Only what’s waiting ahead.”

I squeeze the stress ball in my pocket. “I guess,” I finally say. “But I keep wishing I wasn’t the one who dropped the ball.”

“You don’t have to be. You can still pick it up,” she says. “But, first, take me back there.”

“It’s so stupid,” I say. “Stupid and awful and dumb. So, Sarah texts me with the address, and for a second I think about going, but instead I think about texting Cleto and Dan. Heading into the city to see my friends, you know? But it’s already after seven, and starting to pour. And, even if they were around, by the time we got our shit together and I made it into the city, it would be close to ten.”

“So you went to the party instead?”

I shudder. “Not at first. Not like you think,” I say. “I ignore the text, turn on the television, because, like I said, I decide I should make her sweat. But even with nine thousand channels, there’s not a single thing on. I’m feeling anxious and bored, so I wander to the front of the house, but my mother is out—again, like always—not that I’d even want her there if she was.

“At like eight o’clock, I text Sarah back—‘I’m gonna stay here. Headache. Portfolio. Talk tomorrow’—and I walk to the spare bedroom.

“I don’t know what I’m planning to do in there. Go through some things, maybe. There’s so much we haven’t unpacked. We still haven’t touched most of my father’s things since he died.

“The room is a mess, a sea of unpacked crates and cartons. Our apartment in the city wasn’t small. All of Dad’s stuff, still in boxes, on the floor, on the dresser, on the perfectly made-up guest bed. Like guests will ever come. Several of my father’s larger canvases that couldn’t fit in boxes are propped against walls, some wrapped in brown paper, others not. It makes me sad to see them there like that, uncared for.

“I walk around looking through them, like I’m in some sort of morbid museum. They move me to tears. Honestly, I’d forgotten how beautiful they are. Sunflowers and seascapes and still lifes. Each one worthy of a gallery wall. In the back corner, I come across a large wrapped one and peel back the corner of the paper. Not his. Ugly. It’s Icarus’s Flight Plan. I remember.”

“Icarus falling,” Dr. Alvarez says. I think she just wants me to know that she’s listening.

“I start to feel dizzy, off balance. I can’t catch my breath. I remember wondering if someone my age can have a heart attack. I swear I thought that,” I say, turning to her. ‘Maybe I’m having a heart attack.’ Anyway, I know I need to stop the thoughts from coming because they’re making me angry. Filling me with rage: He stopped painting for Mom, because of money. If he hadn’t stopped painting, he’d still be alive.