The Brightest Star

by B. Cranford

  Keeping it light was key, he’d decided. Making her laugh and remember the best things about their relationship. Making her smile and remember how he always knew the right words to say—something she’d once told him was part of the reason she loved him.

  Of course, she’d followed it up by saying that his package was an even bigger part and between her lecherous tone of voice and crazily wiggling eyebrows, he’d known then and there that no other woman on Earth would ever understand him as well as Brighton did.

  Which was why he had to win her back.

  Giving in to the urge to contact his girl, he grabbed his phone and tried to come up with something to send. Knock-knock jokes and puns were on the list of possibles but, in the end, he decided to go with the truth.

  Sebastian: I’ve spent all day thinking about you.

  Sebastian: File tax return, think about Brighton.

  Sebastian: Listen in on conference call, think about Brighton.

  Sebastian: Eat lunch, think about Brighton.

  Sebastian: It’s becoming a problem.

  Bright Star: And you expect me to do what about it?

  Sebastian: Tell me you think about me too?

  Bright Star: Seb.

  Bright Star: I do think about you. A lot.

  Bright Star: But that’s not new. That’s been every day for two years.

  Sebastian: Bright, I . . .

  Sebastian: Shit, I don’t know what to say. I thought about you every day too.

  Bright Star: I told myself I wasn’t thinking about you. That I *shouldn’t* be thinking about you.

  Bright Star: Didn’t work.

  Bright Star: Why am I telling you this?

  Sebastian: I’m glad you are.

  Bright Star: I’m not.

  Sebastian: Why?

  Bright Star: I don’t need to give you any more ammo.

  Sebastian: Ammo? Brighton, what do you think is happening here?

  Bright Star: I don’t know.

  Sebastian: I’m not using your past, or our past, against you. I would never do that.

  Sebastian: You know that, right? I don’t want you to feel under siege. I just want . . .

  Bright Star: . . .

  Sebastian: You. I want you, and I want you to remember us and how good it could be. But not to hurt you. Or worry you.

  Bright Star: You’re not.

  Bright Star: Hurting me. I’m sorry I said that.

  Bright Star: I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just . . . I feel silly admitting that I never stopped thinking about you *to* you.

  Sebastian: Why? I love hearing that.

  Sebastian: And it was the same for me, I told you that.

  Bright Star: *shrugs* I don’t know. I should have gotten over you. Properly over you.

  Sebastian: I’m glad you didn’t.

  Sebastian fought back the urge to leave work early, to go to Brighton. He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but she’d just admitted something that she hadn’t intended to.

  Something that told him he had a better chance of success than he had any right to. Because she’d thought about him, too. She hadn’t cast him aside after a few days or weeks or even months; instead, she’d kept him in her mind, and, if he was interpreting her text correctly—and he fucking prayed that he was—she’d kept him in her heart as well.

  I should have gotten over you.

  What if she had, he wondered. What if she’d forgotten him and moved on, finding a man that would love her and care for her and never let her down. Shit, he thought, his heart beginning to pound hard and fast, just the thought of losing her for good getting his blood pumping.

  And not in a good way.

  He couldn’t stand it. He had one more thing he wanted to say.

  Sebastian: I’m selfish, for being glad that you didn’t get over me. Because I *do* want you to be happy, Bright Star. I hope you know that. But, and this is the selfish part . . .

  Sebastian: I want you to be happy with me.

  He watched his phone for the rest of the afternoon, but a reply never came. He expected that. He deserved that. He was being honest when he’d told her he was being selfish in his pursuit of her happiness with him.

  But that didn’t mean he was going to give it up.

  Chapter Nine

  Sometimes the messages Brighton received from Sebastian were as little as a star emoji in a text, something that had somehow become their “thing,” and sometimes they were longer—confessions, truths, teases and jokes.

  Just like sometimes the gifts were as small as a deck of cards from Niagara Falls—which she distinctly remembered telling Sebastian he wasn’t supposed to liberate from their hotel room—or as stupid as a poo-shaped pillow. She still hadn’t worked out what that was about.

  But, after three weeks and two days of daily messages and gifts, Brighton had begun to think he wouldn’t be able to surprise her anymore. And then she opened the package he’d left at her doorstep that morning.

  She looked down at the book she was holding, not surprised to see it shaking, the tremors from her nervous hands making it impossible to keep still.

  The familiar, friendly font, the colorful cover, the aged edges of a dust jacket worn out from use, from being taken down and replaced on bookshelves throughout multiple childhoods. Running the tips of her fingers gently over the smiling Seussian fox on the cover, Brighton tried to hold back her tears while giving her memory free rein over a conversation three years old.

  A conversation had when she and Sebastian had first decided to start looking at houses.

  A conversation about the last book she remembered her dad reading to her, and about how she wanted it to be the favorite book of her children as they grew to love reading as much as she did.

  “Fox in Socks.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You asked me what one thing our house needs, and that’s my answer.”

  “Fox in Socks is your answer? The kid’s book?”

  “Yes, it’s my favorite.” He tilted his head at her, encouraging her to continue.

  She smiled. “I had a copy that used to be Dad’s when he was little.” She paused, in contemplation. “I think, like, everyone, had a copy when they were a kid, right?”

  He nodded, and gestured for her to continue. “Well, it was my favorite book to read with my dad at night. Bedtime. He’d get me a glass of water while I picked the book and, nine times out of ten, Fox in Socks was the book.”

  She laughed, a distant look appearing in her eyes as she thought about her dad asking if she was sure she didn’t want to choose something else. She was always sure.

  “Anyway, we read it pretty much every night he was home, and it was the last book he ever read me.”

  “Weren’t you fifteen when he died?”

  She punched his shoulder, partly mad that he was making light of her story, mostly relieved that he found a way to put a spark back in the conversation. “Seriously, Seb? All that, and you ask me my age? He stopped reading to me when I got older but, for whatever reason, we read it a few nights before he died. Luck, maybe? Fate? Whatever it was, where’s the sensitivity, you ass?”

  He smirked at her, rubbing his shoulder, pretending it hurt way more than it possibly could have. But then . . .

  Then, he leaned in and with one hand around the back of her neck, drew her forward, resting his forehead against hers. His minty breath warmed her lips as he spoke quietly, a private promise from someone she loved more than life itself. “Then I’ll find you a copy, Bright.”

  He hadn’t said get, or give. He’d said find, and she’d always wondered why. After all, she thought, it’s not like you couldn’t easily find a copy of one of the most popular books by one of the most popular authors of all time at the local bookstore.

  But this wasn’t just any copy. It was a 1965 First Edition. A collector’s item, and a gift that wouldn’t have come cheap.

  Sebastian hadn’t added a note to the gift. Like most of t
he others, it came in a box wrapped in white paper adorned with silver stars and tied with a storm grey bow. She had several of them now, the ribbons laying in various spots around her apartment. One on her bedside table, one in the paperback she’d been reading, serving as a bookmark, one tied around a bottle of wine the same brand as they’d drunk at dinner on their first date—a bottle that was still full, as she waited to share it with someone. If she was honest, with him. There were more, just sitting where they’d landed, not to be discarded like the paper, but serving no true purpose except to remind her that he was working hard on his pledge.

  To win back her trust. And her heart.

  She had to admit, he was doing a good job of it. The gifts were thoughtful reminders of the good times, replicas and echoes of things they’d done, talked about, seen and eaten and drunk together. It was a walk down a memory lane scattered with laughter and happiness and love.

  And the messages that accompanied them? Like little oases of water to a thirsty traveler, they sated her need for him, for their connection. But they were also reminders of his absence. Of their two years apart—and the reason for it.

  Every day, she thought less about it—about the fact he’d been gone so long, and that he’d left her wrecked when he’d walked away. But she still thought of it and when she did, the hurt became fresh. Like a wound scabbed over and re-opened, she felt pain and betrayal and anger.

  And until she could look back without those negative emotions, she couldn’t trust him. More importantly, she couldn’t trust herself.

  Because she wanted him back, she could admit that. She wanted him as badly, as desperately, as he seemed to want her. If she could, she’d open her arms and her heart to him, and let the past slide while she lost herself in him.

  Until something happened and it all came rearing up again. The resentment would resurface, she was as sure of it as she was of her own name. As she was that if she and Sebastian came together once again, it would be for always. Forever. The way they were meant to be.

  And that could be a disaster.

  So, she continued to hold a piece of herself back from him. He’d asked her a handful of times in the three weeks since his re-appearance in her life to allow him to take her out. A date.

  A date that, she was sure, would end in their lips meeting. Because that’s what she’d want. That’s what she’d always wanted when they were together.

  Her denials were always met with a star in place of an acceptance, a silent message that he wasn’t giving up, and every time she saw it, she felt a little piece of her wall break off.

  Crumble away.

  Placing the book on the shelf, face out on a small decorative easel that doubled as a photo holder for a picture of Brighton with friends from school, and setting the old photo aside to be re-homed later, she picked up her phone to send Sebastian a message saying thank you.

  She didn’t trust herself to say more than that. Their previous exchanges had been playful, mostly. But the weight of this gift—the meaning behind it—felt deeper, and the emotions surrounding it more raw.

  She wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  As she began to type, her phone rang, an unfamiliar number showing on the screen. Curiosity got the best of her, as it often did when it came to private numbers, and she swiped her thumb across the screen to answer the call.

  “This is Brighton.” She spoke in her most professional voice, never knowing who might be at the end. It only took one time answering the phone “Joe’s Crematorium, you kill ‘em, we grill ‘em” to a potential employer to ensure she was always interview-ready when she answered a call.

  “Hi, Brighton, it’s Jade,” the voice on the other end of the line was shaky, an upset tone that made worst-case-scenarios play out like bad movies in Brighton’s head. “I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from Declan.”

  Declan is handing out people’s phone numbers like candy these days.

  Brighton shook her head and smothered a giggle at her runaway thoughts. “No—no, that’s fine. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, yes. For the most part.” Jade cleared her throat. “Sorry, that’s not helpful. Sebastian had some trouble today and wanted to make sure you knew.”

  Brighton’s mind continued coming up with disaster after disaster. Despite Jade’s reassurance that everything was okay, she couldn’t stop the images of Sebastian broke and beaten somewhere. Sitting handcuffed in a police station for God only knows what. Bruised. Drunk. Hurt.

  Gambling.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she mentally prepared to hear the worst, hating herself a little for assuming that, when it came to Sebastian, trouble equaled a lapse. Not even shaking her head to remind herself that if it was that bad, Jade wouldn’t be the one calling her. No, she was sure that Declan would be on hand, in person, to deliver the information. And since Jade had said Declan had given her Brighton’s number, he couldn’t be dead. Or in a coma. Or maimed in some way.

  Wow, I really need to lay off the true crime documentaries at night time, she thought wryly, appreciating the levity in a moment when she wasn’t feeling quite so light.

  “What happened?” Brighton made sure to keep her voice controlled. Calm. No evidence that mentally she was adding him to the list of victims from the area’s most lethal, and as yet undiscovered, serial killer. Who hadn't left a victim behind in a dozen years or more.

  “He had a car accident. A few minor bumps and bruises, though . . . you could have led with that.” The tail-end of Jade’s sentence seemed to be directed elsewhere, as if she was speaking to someone in front of her, and not to Brighton.

  “I—” Brighton started to speak before the sound of Declan’s voice in the background stopped her.

  “Come on, Freckles. I didn’t mean to upset you.” There was amusement in his tone, which further reassured Brighton.

  Although . . . Freckles?

  “Whatever.” In her head, Brighton saw the pink-haired woman throwing a hand in the air, dismissing Declan, why, she had no idea. She’d met Jade all of once and had never seen her with Dec, though Sebastian had mentioned that Jade had referred to Declan as his “hot friend” more than once. “Anyway, Brighton, he got back to the office, and wanted me to let you know. His phone got broken and his dad insisted he go see his mom immediately for a check-up.”

  Brighton sighed in relief, knowing that Sebastian’s mother, a doctor, would go above and way, way beyond to ensure he was okay. She’d been ready to send him a message but with a broken phone he wouldn’t have seen it and, given their topsy-turvy history—and the fact that her mind spiraled into serial killers and blackjack tables upon hearing he had trouble—the likelihood is that she would have worried. One question remained, though. “Why didn’t Declan just call me?”

  A long-suffering sigh echoed in her ear, Jade’s frustration with the man painfully clear. “Why does Declan do and not do a lot of things,” she replied, pointedly. “Because he’s a jackass.”

  A choked laugh flew from Brighton’s mouth before she had the chance to stop it. There was something going on that she wasn’t privy to, but whatever it was, it was making the woman on the other end of the phone angry.

  After hanging up, and taking another minute to ponder what had taken Declan from hot friend to jackass in Jade’s mind, Brighton did something she hadn’t done in a long time.

  She called Sebastian’s parents.

  The gentle knock on the door of Sebastian’s apartment was enough to rouse him from that place halfway between asleep and awake. His head pounded from the accident, his ribs ached from trying to nap on his shitty, saggy couch, and he was pissed off that his phone was shattered, leaving him with no way of contacting Brighton.

  He shook his head. He'd asked that the message be passed on that he was out of communication until he could replace his phone—which wouldn't be until morning at least, since his father had insisted he be looked over by his mother. She was a pediatrician, and a damn good one at that, an
d to her, he'd always be her baby. If he'd been more injured, no doubt she'd have sent him along to the emergency room, in an ambulance probably. For someone so calm, she enjoyed a certain . . . protective streak when it came to him. Thankfully, he was just a little banged up, so she'd him fixed him up as best she could, medicated him and sent him home.

  Without a lollipop. He might be a baby in her eyes, but she still claimed big boys didn't need suckers. He was more put out by that than he had any right to be. But maybe that was the drugs talking.

  The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. Either his mom, dad or Declan was here to check on him, he assumed. Though Declan, who had a successful trip down to Atlanta and had inexplicably returned to town instead of heading to his main office in nearby Madison, had mentioned plans for the evening.

  Sebastian rose gingerly from where he'd been resting on his awful couch, calling out “one sec,” to whoever was at the door, lest they think he wasn't home or non-responsive.

  He didn't bother with the peephole, instead just turning the knob and pulling the door open. Surprise washed over him at the beautiful woman standing at his door, a Tupperware container in one hand and the bottle of Grey Goose he'd sent as his first gift when he'd returned.

  Brighton.

  Her chocolate-colored hair was pulled into one of the smallest ponytails he'd ever seen, wisps bracketing her face where they weren't long enough to be pulled back. Her eyes, always so expressive, were wrinkled at the corners, worry hidden within.

  She looked him up and down, presumably to check for injuries, and he returned the gesture. Not looking for injuries, however. Just . . . looking.

  Fuck, she was beautiful. Where he was dressed way down in grey sweatpants and a ratty maroon T-shirt from college that had holes along the collar and a stain that looked suspiciously like chocolate—or something he’d rather not name—she wore a simple white v-neck tee and a denim mini-skirt, black flip flops on her feet. She was dressed casually and looked perfect, though admittedly he was biased.