“Doesn’t hurt,” I promise, closing my eyes and sinking into it a little, Gabe’s hands and his mouth and the now-familiar hum he cranks up in my body. Patrick and I were babies when we started dating, young enough that it didn’t feel like we were in a hurry to do anything, both of us probably shyer than we’d admit even to each other. But we’re older now, we’re at the point where it’s definitely not inconceivable for him and Tess to have moved way faster, for him to be pulling off her T-shirt right now, tugging at the elastic on her underwear and—
“I can’t,” I blurt suddenly, sitting up with such force I pretty much shove Gabe right off me, bolt upright in my half-unzipped sleeping bag with my face flushed sweaty and red. I completely don’t know how to follow it up, how to explain to him that it’s Patrick and Tess one tent over and the two of us in here, and that everything feels connected, too close, terrible, and right this second all I want is for no one to ever touch me again. We’ve done it already, haven’t we? Maybe it shouldn’t be so big of a deal, but it just, it is, I don’t—“I’m sorry,” I try, “I just—”
“Hey, easy,” Gabe says, sitting up and scrubbing his hair out of his face. “You’re okay; we don’t have to do anything. Easy, hey.” He reaches out and laces his fingers through mine, squeezing. “You wanna go for a walk?”
I smile at that, embarrassed and grateful, reaching for my shirt and fussing with the hem for a moment. “Are you, like, perfect or something?” I ask him, shaking my head before pulling the shirt over it. “Is that your superpower?”
“Nah,” Gabe says seriously. “My superpower is X-ray vision.”
I snort. “Oh my God, I take it back.”
Gabe grins. “Come on,” he says, standing up and pulling me to my feet along with him. “Let’s go see some fucking stars.”
I grab some snacks and supplies, and we pick our way across the campground, past parties still going strong and intense late-night conversations happening around dying fires. I shiver as the night air hits my sunburned skin. Gabe’s hand is warm around mine, though, and by the time we reach the clearing where the concert was last night I’ve pushed Patrick and Tess and whatever they might or might not be doing resolutely out of my mind. This is what’s happening, me and Gabe and these fucking stars above us. This is right where I’m supposed to be.
We find a patch of grass mostly clear of garbage and spread the blanket on the damp ground, leaning back to look up at the sky. We’re far enough from any real civilization that the moon looks like a spotlight—there’s Orion, one of the Dippers, Cassiopeia in her upside-down chair. “This is the part where we talk about what specks we are compared to the universe,” I inform Gabe wryly, but the truth is I’m really, really glad we came out here to look. “Here,” I say, pulling a couple of beers out of my backpack. “To being specks.”
Gabe grins at that, surprised. “Look at you, Girl Scout,” he says, twisting the caps off both of them and handing one back to me. “I love you, you know that? You’re something else.”
I blink at him for a moment, Gabe blinking back at me. Then both of us start to laugh. “You know what I mean,” he says, and I do, I think, sitting out here with the bowl-shaped sky above us. I kiss him hard to show I understand.
Day 36
Back at home there’s another email from the dean in my inbox: Dear Incoming Student, please, for the love of all things holy, hurry up and figure out your life.
Or something like that, at least.
I make a snack of apple and peanut butter, shoot Gabe a text to let him know what a good time I had.
You’re okay, too, for a speck, he texts me back, and I giggle. With Gabe I never feel like a walking, talking letdown. With Gabe I just feel like me.
So why can’t I stop thinking about his brother?
I finish my apple and take Oscar out into the yard for a while, pushing the image of Patrick and Tess disappearing into the tent out of my mind and telling myself I’m being melancholy and dumb. I make a list of projects to tackle when I head back to work in the morning. Finally, I dig my phone out of my pocket.
How’s the rash? I text Patrick, just teasing.
He doesn’t text back.
Day 37
He does the next morning, though: itchy, he reports, just the one word and no punctuation. A couple of minutes later, though: how’s the burn?
I grin down at my phone, feeling silly and glad. Burn-y, I reply.
Day 38
My mom’s got an aloe plant, he texts while I’m filing invoices in Penn’s office. Could come by and get some if you still look like a lobster.
I don’t, not really; the worst of the burn’s faded, is beginning to peel away like so many layers of snakeskin, like I’m becoming something entirely new. All I can do is deal with the grossness and wait for whatever’s underneath.
Still: will do, I text him back, no hesitation. When’s good?
Day 39
I don’t know what it means that Patrick tells me to come over at a time I know Gabe’s working at the pizza shop—just that he doesn’t want anything to do with his brother, maybe, or possibly nothing at all.
“Hey,” he says, letting me in the feeble side door—it felt strange to knock on the frame and then wait for him, how I used to barge right in and sneak bites of whatever Chuck was making in the kitchen, usually something with lentils or whole-wheat flour. Patrick’s barefoot in his shredded old jeans. His hair’s grown out a little since he’s been back in Star Lake and he looks a bit more like I remember, some of those sharp edges filed off. “Come on in.”
“Sure,” I say, stepping past him into the dark, empty house, the familiar smells of dust and wood and sunlight. “Hey.” Pilot hauls himself up off the floor and comes across the room to wag his hello. It makes me feel sort of disproportionately happy that he remembers me somewhere at the back of his loyal canine brain, like maybe in some alternate universe I’m still part of this family after all. “Hey, Pilot. Hey, boy.”