The Brightest Star

by B. Cranford

  And in this moment, he wasn’t the Sebastian who had gambled away their money, their love, their future, but the Sebastian who’d tickled her until she couldn’t breathe on their first anniversary and the one who called her his North Star, his Bright Star.

  He laughed along with her, before a sharp inhale caught her attention. The sight of him holding the back of his neck sobered the light moment in an instant, and Brighton immediately slipped back into the role of caring ex-girlfriend.

  Ex-girlfriend.

  It felt wrong to call herself that. For her to be that. They’d never truly broken up—not really. One minute, she’d been trying to wrap her mind around his lies, and what it meant for them both, and the next . . .

  He was gone.

  No goodbye. No wait for me, I’ll be back. Just an empty spot in the bed beside her and a couch that no longer bore the imprint of his body. She breathed in deeply as a flash of betrayal rocketed through her body. Just minutes after kissing him, her mind reminded her of all she’d been through with him, reminded her that she still wasn’t there.

  Not yet. Maybe not ever?

  “Come on, Seb. Let’s get you settled.” She tried to shake off her questioning thoughts and stood, holding out a hand, but her mind and body were still so confused, so unsure about everything that was happening in his apartment. Kisses, concerns, jokes, memories of her parents and of her past with Sebastian and, now, her shock at being left behind momentarily resurfacing.

  She’d hated him. Hated him. In the days after he left and she’d moved, she’d sat alone staring at the walls of her itty-bitty new home and wondered how it was so easy for him to walk away from three years of love and sharing and commitment.

  How was it so easy to lie to her about what he was doing, how he was suffering?

  And again, how did she miss the signs?

  The idea plagued her still. And now that her hate—which she could admit was born of hurt feelings and confusion, and not of any genuine dislike for this man who’d been her everything—had melted away, she was left wondering how she could move forward when she couldn’t trust.

  Not him. Not herself.

  He took her waiting hand and let her lead him first to the bathroom to wash up and take some more of the good meds to ease the pain, and then into his bedroom where he began to remove his shirt before she could avert her eyes.

  Inch by inch, the firm muscle of his stomach was revealed to her as he slowly lifted his worn-out tee and it took all of her self-control to drag her eyes away. She wasn’t sure if he was torturing her, or if the pain from his accident made it harder for him to undress.

  She could offer to help him, but she didn’t trust herself. Their problem wasn’t physical, that much was clear. She could look and look and look. She could touch and touch and touch some more. But trust? No, she couldn’t do that.

  Yet.

  Her eyes skirted around the room, taking in the plain off-white walls, unembellished by photographs or artwork or mirrors. She looked at the small but sturdy looking dresser, placed next to a door that she presumed led into the closet, which was also bare but for a handful of change and a watch she recognized as the one he’d been given by his parents on his birthday one year.

  A pain formed in her chest as she looked at how bare his life had become. She didn’t love her place, small as it was, but it was comforting; full of things that reminded her of better times, furniture that had special memories, and the mess that came with day-to-day life.

  She turned her whole body away from Sebastian when it became apparent that he was going to remove all his clothes and that’s when she saw it. On the single bedside table—a table, she noted, that sat next to what would have been his side of the bed were they still together—was a digital photo frame.

  It was a gift from her to him, though she couldn’t remember when exactly she’d bought it and given it to him. She herself had never been one for cycling photos through a frame, preferring to choose one moment to lock in time forever—moments like the one of her with her mother that currently sat in her work space. But Sebastian? Sebastian had always said that there were too many good and great photographs to be able to settle on just one.

  Thus, the digital frame. “Now, you don’t have to choose,” she’d told him proudly, knowing he’d love it.

  She crossed the distance to the little table and dropped to her knees in front of it, her eyes never leaving the frame as it cycled through picture after picture of her, and of both of them together.

  Her face looked younger, even though it had been only a handful of years since the photos had been captured. Her eyes shone bright green as she reached out to touch her own face, as if she could go back in time by making contact.

  She watched one image bleed into the next, marveling at the collection Sebastian had gathered of her, of their time together. It was like a moving time capsule; a tribute to a love that was supposed to last forever but fell short.

  “Seb,” her whisper crossed the room and touched him, and she felt rather than saw him move towards her. “Wha—” She stood and turned as he approached, the drawstring on his sweats loose, the waistband pushed precariously low, his shirt now a bundle of maroon on the floor behind him.

  She couldn’t breathe. The sight of his bare chest alone was enough to stop her heart but the tattoo over his heart that she’d never before seen, coupled with the photos that made her long for days past, made her lungs freeze.

  She stared.

  And stared.

  And stared some more.

  Slowly, she watched from outside herself as her hand took on a life of its own, reaching up to bridge the one foot of distance Sebastian had left between them, and touching the constellation of stars and the compass pointing due north inked to his skin.

  He groaned as her fingers brushed across every detail of the intricate artwork, stepping further into her touch and raising his hand to her cheek. “Bright.”

  “What is it?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it from him, this man who confused her and set her soul to rights at the same time.

  “Ursa Minor.” He pointed to one star, made to look bigger and brighter than the rest. “The North Star.” He closed his eyes, the look on his face telling her that he was savoring the feel of her touching him. “It’s you, Bright Star.”

  In her mind, an echo of his voice repeated the words, I love you, you’re not just my Bright Star, you’re my North Star over and over again. Under the tips of her fingers, his heart pounded, telling her that she wasn’t the only one affected—nearly brought to her very knees in front of him—by this moment.

  She couldn't stop staring at the artwork. Or stop touching it. She felt hypnotized by the beauty and the significance of it.

  Lord, but she had so many questions. And mixed in with all the questions were those pesky what ifs, crowding her mind and silencing the voice that was telling her it was okay.

  Okay to love him again. Still.

  Okay to believe in him. In them.

  Okay to give him a second chance. Them a second chance.

  As his voice and the what ifs whispered in her mind, she continued to explore the stars, the compass. It was obvious that he was trying hard to hold his body still for her examination, though she could feel the tremor and tensing of his muscles as her fingertips slipped over and over and over the warmth of his skin. Just when she thought they would stay locked in his room, in the moment forever, the what ifs overcame her.

  She moved quickly, withdrawing her hand before pressing a kiss directly over his heart and the tattoo. No words were exchanged, and she didn’t look back as she walked from his room to the makeshift coffee table where she’d left her purse and the still unopened vodka, and out the front door.

  Her phone was in her hand before she knew what she was doing, Declan’s voice a calming presence in her ear. “You need to come stay with Sebastian tonight, Dec.” She didn’t elaborate, knowing that the wobble in her voice was enough for her friend t
o recognize she was serious, before hanging up and making her way to her car.

  She didn’t stop to think on the drive home. She didn’t consider what the photos meant or the tattoo or the fact that after two years, Sebastian was back and making a play for her heart in a very big way.

  She didn’t give in to the urge to cry, because she’d cried so many tears over this whole mess she was sure her tear ducts had gone out of business, but she did do what she wished she could do for real.

  She sat at her desk, vodka now open, the photo of her mother in front of her, the old copy of Fox in Socks in her hand—a copy that had belonged to her dad and was given back to her by the man who was responsible for the storm in her mind—and spilled her secrets to the only people she’d ever missed more than she’d missed Sebastian for the past two years.

  The knock at the door was loud and insistent, and that was clue enough for Sebastian that Brighton hadn’t returned.

  She’d sent reinforcements.

  “What did you do?” Declan’s words weren’t gentle. Like the knock that signaled his arrival, they were sharp. Brighton had called him here to watch over a possibly-concussed and definitely drugged Sebastian, but she hadn’t told him anything else.

  “Nothing, man.” He shook his head as he tried to work out the best way to explain what had happened. “She came over to help out tonight since,” he gestured down his body in an awkward maneuver that earned him a smirk from Declan, “well, anyway. We talked some, and she was helping me . . .”

  Declan took in his half-dressed state and raised a hand. “Stop right there and think hard about what you’re about to say.”

  Sebastian cocked an eyebrow and scoffed, but kept it brief by tapping a finger on his tattoo. “She saw it. And the photos. It was—”

  “Too much.” Declan finished his thought because he’d been with Sebastian when the tattoo was inked permanently to his skin, so he was well aware of the meaning behind it. “Got it.”

  It had been one of the few times they'd spent any time together, in that window between Sebastian leaving rehab and setting up a half-life near the Morning Star facility where he continued to get outpatient therapy. But it was the most important—his closest friend, closest connection to Brighton, seeing him add her to his heart officially.

  Not saying another word, Declan brushed past his friend and strode into the kitchen, helping himself to the fridge. Sebastian closed the still-open front door and followed, hoping to . . . Well, he didn’t know. He felt unsettled. Lost.

  Like he’d been given a reason to hope, but the hope had slipped through his fingers like so much sand.

  He leaned in as he listened to Declan muttering, catching half-words, watching him make his every movement jerky. “You okay, bro?”

  “What?” Declan’s response was distracted, as though now he knew Bright was okay, just processing, he could go back to whatever had his attention in the first place. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” He raised his chin in a reverse nod to the bathroom that lay beyond Sebastian. “You need anything?”

  “Nah, Bright got me my meds. I was gonna just turn in.” His head was starting to swim, whether it was from the accident, the medication or the events of earlier, and he needed sleep. Desperately.

  “Don’t let me stop you, but don’t expect me to help you get your jammies on either.” Declan joked, but Sebastian could tell his heart wasn't in it. He didn't know where his friend had been before coming over, or with whom, but it was clearly enough to ensure his mind didn't make the trip with him.

  Deciding to try and keep it light, knowing he was ill-equipped to battle his own problems, including a possible concussion, let alone Declan’s, Sebastian pretended to be put out. “The fuck kind of friend are you that you wouldn’t help me out?”

  “The kind of friend who knows you sleep buck-ass naked and has no desire to see that. Again.” Declan looked pointedly down, reminding Sebastian of the time he'd incorrectly assumed his friend wasn't around and strode out of his bedroom naked as the day he was born.

  Sebastian let out a huff of laughter before grabbing his aching side. “One time. One time, I walked out without realizing you were home and you’re never gonna let me forget, are you?”

  “Why should I? It’s burned on my retinas.”

  “If you wanted to forget, you could. That’s your problem, not mine.” They’d had this conversation before, many times, where Declan complained and Sebastian taunted, but in the end, Seb knew that if he really needed a hand, his best friend wouldn’t let him down.

  He’d been there through thick and thin. Through painfully thin, as a matter of fact.

  Sebastian thought back to all the times he’d seen Declan waiting in the visitors lounge at the rehab center once he’d been allowed to have visitors. He recalled the promise to make sure Brighton was okay so Sebastian could focus on getting better. He remembered the emails, text messages and phone calls, just checking in.

  That’s what he needed to do for Brighton. He needed to be as constant and consistent and present as she’d always been for him—until he’d stopped letting her do that—and as Declan was still. He could wow her with thoughtful gifts, funny gifts or flowers, but that wouldn’t make her trust magically appear.

  He couldn’t win her trust like he could win a hand of poker or with the press of a button on a slot machine, with a little luck and timing. He had to earn it, and that took consistency. Persistency.

  Luckily, he thought, with a smile on his face and the picture of her perched on his lap where she belonged, their lips pressed together, the sparks flying harder and brighter and more electric than ever before, he had all the time in the world for the brightest star in his sky.

  Chapter Eleven

  The feel of her phone buzzing inside the pocket of her jeans as she hurried along the sidewalk brought Brighton to a stop. With Sebastian’s phone out of commission—not to mention her abrupt departure the night before—she couldn’t quite work out who was texting her.

  Declan had sent her a brief message earlier that morning, telling her that Seb had made it through the night with no nudity and no outward signs of permanent brain damage. Not only that, she’d exchanged emails with her editor and her agent only minutes earlier when she’d been working on her laptop at the Starbucks near her apartment.

  After all, it’s not like she could show her face in Panera again, not after showing her ass instead, and that was usually where she went for coffee, food and free Wi-Fi. Though, she did have that gift card to use . . .

  Intrigued, confused and, yes, a little bummed given the small number of people who might be texting her, she drew the phone out of her pocket, careful to not drop her to-go latte or her laptop bag. Both of which she’d done before, and which she never wanted to repeat.

  Sebastian’s name flashed on her phone, his brief message framed in the preview box making her smile.

  Sebastian: New phone. Same number.

  Bright Star: Okay

  Sebastian: Are we?

  Bright Star: Are we what?

  Bright Star: Are we okay? Yes, of course. Why?

  Sebastian: You left so suddenly, I just wanted to be sure.

  Bright Star: I’m sorry, I was just . . .

  Sebastian: Overwhelmed?

  Bright Star: A little, yeah.

  Sebastian: You don’t have to apologize. I get it.

  Bright Star: The tattoo, Seb. It’s beautiful.

  Sebastian: No, YOU are beautiful. The tattoo is artistic, which, TBH, you are not.

  Bright Star: Hey!

  Sebastian: Bright, I’ve seen the first drawings of Patrick the Panda and he was . . . crude.

  Bright Star: Crude like dirty?

  Sebastian: NO. Crude like simple. Incomplete. Unpolished.

  Bright Star: Fucking terrible?

  Sebastian: Well, I wasn’t going to say it, but . . .

  Bright Star: I’d be mad but you’re right, so I guess you’re off the hook.

  Sebastian: You’re the fi
rst person I wanted to text. Today.

  Sebastian: When I got the new phone.

  Sebastian: I wanted you to be the one to take its virginity.

  Bright Star: Huh?

  Sebastian: I knew you’d be gentle.

  Bright Star: Are you high?

  Sebastian: I’m high on you.

  Bright Star: Wow, you’re as bad at pick-up lines as I am at drawing.

  Sebastian: LOL.

  Bright Star: So, new phone. That means I can start texting you again, huh?

  Sebastian: Yes, please, continue to drown me with your texts.

  Bright Star: Will do.

  Sebastian: You know . . . if you ever wanted to text me first, I wouldn’t mind.

  Sebastian: Like, I wouldn’t be emasculated or anything.

  Sebastian: In case you were worrying about that.

  Bright Star: Emasculated? Big word, my friend.

  Sebastian: Going to ignore the use of both *friend* and you questioning my intelligence.

  Bright Star: Are we not friends?

  Sebastian: No, no, we are. But . . .

  Bright Star: But what?

  Sebastian: That’s not all we are. Right?

  Bright Star: Seb . . .

  Sebastian: I know. I won’t push.

  Bright Star: Thank you.

  Sebastian: Do you remember that day we went to the lake near Declan’s parents’ place?

  Bright Star: I think so, yeah.

  Bright Star: Why?

  Sebastian: We took a picnic, went swimming.

  Sebastian: Got wet ;)

  Bright Star: LOL.

  Bright Star: We had fun.

  Bright Star: Not as much fun as Dec did though. Didn’t he disappear into the bushes with Sophia . . . What was her last name again?

  Sebastian: Summers.

  Sebastian: And yes. He got poison oak on his back.

  Bright Star: Whoa, wait. He did? I didn’t know that!

  Sebastian: He was embarrassed, I think.

  Bright Star: Dec embarrassed about getting laid? Come on.

  Sebastian: No, not about that.