The Brightest Star

by B. Cranford

  “Why?” Brighton asked, considering what, if anything, to tell her. She wanted to tell Jade everything, to get another woman’s opinion, but she really didn’t know this particular woman hardly at all.

  “Because I like you. Look, I know we only met the one time, and then talked after the accident, but I could use some new friends, and I kinda get the impression you could too. So . . .” It was Jade’s turn to shrug, as if to say what other choice do we have?

  Brighton could admit it was as good a reason as any to become friends, and since she was working on trust—specifically learning to trust again—she figured this might be a good crash course. “So, friends?”

  “Friends,” Jade agreed, breaking into a smile, her first real one of the night. “Now spill.”

  Brighton returned the smile. “Where should I start?”

  The question earned her a laugh, the mood changing from man-hating to jovial in the blink of an eye. Jade was clearly enjoying herself now she wasn’t thinking about her own problems anymore. “At the beginning, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Brighton responded, before launching into her tale.

  By the time she was done explaining everything from how she and Sebastian met-cute in a library to the latest text exchange from that morning—he’d told her she was beautiful, she’d sent him a terrible joke one of her young readers had shared with her—she was in need of another drink. Jade gestured to the bartender to let him know they were wanting another, then rested her chin on the palm of her hand, her elbow propped up on the bar top. “Can I ask you something?”

  A shallow nod was all the response that Brighton gave, so Jade forged on. “Why didn't you get over him?”

  Why didn’t I? It was a question Brighton had asked herself a million times. She should have, but . . . “I couldn’t. In between all the shit, all the bad, these thoughts would crash into my mind and remind me of him. Someone wearing the same cologne. Our song playing on the radio. A copy of Patrick the Panda on the shelf—the second one, which I dedicated to him. He was there for so much, for so long.” She bit her lip, wishing she could explain it better. “Maybe if I’d met someone who could compare. But no-one I ever came across did. And maybe that’s because I barely leave the house, but I don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t either, so the way I see it, which I suspect you know already, is that you two are either going to end up fucking like rabbits—” She stopped talking as Brighton choked out a laugh, and gave her a pat on the back before continuing, “or fighting to the death. And sweetie, given what you just told me, and the fact that you do not look like the to the death type . . .” She sat up straight and waved her hand in a rolling motion, indicating to Brighton to continue the train of thought.

  “We’re gonna end up fucking like rabbits.” Because Brighton had the worst timing in the world—or maybe the worst karma, though what she could have done to earn it she didn't hardly know—the bartender chose that moment to arrive with fresh drinks.

  He opened his mouth to say something, the look on his handsome face more than a little sleazy, undoubtedly taking Brighton’s words to be about her and Jade, but Jade stopped him before he had the chance to offer his opinion—or an inane come-on. “If you make a comment right now to, or about, my girlfriend,”—she tilted her head to the side to show she meant Brighton—“then no tip for you. And buddy, I am a very generous tipper.”

  He nodded and walked away without a word, while Brighton nudged Jade’s shoulder. “Girlfriend? You weren’t kidding about the lesbian thing, huh?”

  “What can I say? We’re both hot, I’m off men, and you’re at a crossroads. Maybe a little Taco Tuesday is what we both need, ya know?”

  Brighton’s green eyes widened before she nearly doubled over in laughter at Jade’s innuendo. “Maybe let’s wait until our second date to decide.”

  “Well, our second date came a lot sooner than I expected, I'll be honest,” Brighton spoke with a smile, giving Jade a long hug of thanks. “Thank you for . . .” She trailed off, accepting Jade’s murmured “no problemo, girlfriend.” After all, how could she possibly thank her new friend for the last two days? For listening to her. For drinks the night before. For lunch that day—an impromptu sushi date that occurred when they encountered one another in Madison. And for helping her see through something . . . special.

  Something important.

  Something she didn't expect and couldn't have done alone.

  Something she hoped told Sebastian that regardless of what was to come, he was still important to her.

  Arriving home after another long, tiring day—but a monumental one, in a lot of ways—Brighton was ready for an early night. What she'd done with Jade was out of character for her and, still a little sore from their adventure, she happily changed from favorite jeans into favorite yoga pants.

  Collapsing into her rocking chair, Brighton looked around her living room, which now bore evidence of Sebastian’s return to her life. Fox in Socks was still sitting in the easel she’d placed it after she’d received it. Another beautiful bunch of flowers sat in the middle of her small kitchen table, delivered by the same kind man who’d bragged about his talented wife. She smiled at the memory of that, wondering if someday it would be Sebastian bragging over her books.

  He had in the past. Would he again in the future?

  With him on her mind—not for the first time that day, certainly—and reminders of him everywhere she looked, she decided to do something she hadn’t yet done.

  She was going to send him an unsolicited message. Not a thank you that he could, he would, spin into a longer conversation. Not a response to one of his many for-no-reason messages.

  A message she was initiating, because she wanted to. Because he’d earned it.

  Bright Star: So, I ran into Jade today.

  Sebastian: . . .

  Bright Star: Hello?

  Sebastian: Sorry, I was recovering from the shock of you sending me a message, my brain scrambled.

  Sebastian: Are you okay? Has something happened?

  Sebastian: IS THE WORLD ABOUT TO END?!?

  Bright Star: Settle down, funny guy.

  Sebastian: I don’t know if I can.

  Sebastian: I know I said you could drown me in messages, but I have to ask . . .

  Bright Star: Don’t say it.

  Sebastian: Why are you so obsessed with me?

  Bright Star: You said it.

  Sebastian: Yeah, I did. I don’t regret it.

  Bright Star: I can make you regret it.

  Sebastian: Are you aware of the fact that you are the ONLY person on the planet that doesn’t love that movie?

  Bright Star: Are you aware of the fact that if you start quoting that movie to me, I’m going to leave you to drown?

  Sebastian: Drown?

  Bright Star: From my messages?

  Sebastian: That could only be a good thing, Bright.

  Bright Star: I was trying to say I wouldn’t rescue you.

  Bright Star: I was being funny.

  Sebastian: One, if the danger is you talking to me, contacting me, sending me fucking smoke signals, then I don’t want to be rescued.

  Sebastian: And two, you don’t need to try to be funny. You are funny.

  Bright Star: Don’t say it.

  Sebastian: FUNNY SMELLING.

  Bright Star: OMG, you said it too!

  Sebastian: My dad would never forgive me if I let that one past.

  Bright Star: I’m sure.

  Sebastian: Are you being sarcastic? I feel like you’re being sarcastic and I don’t know if I appreciate that.

  Sebastian: You still there?

  Sebastian: Brighton, where’d you go?

  Sebastian: Brighton, I was only kidding.

  Sebastian: You smell delicious.

  Sebastian: And you’re funny.

  Sebastian: So funny. The funniest. And the smelly delicioushiest (sp?)

  Bright Star: Since delicioushiest isn’t a word, you can’t
really ask me to correct your spelling.

  Bright Star: And I was there the whole time, I was just letting you stew.

  Sebastian: WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?

  Bright Star: So you know what it’s like when I don’t save you from drowning . . .

  Sebastian: Touché, Bright. Tou-fucking-ché.

  Brighton laid her phone down, a smile pulling at her lips, her fingers resting just above her left hip. She touched the skin there gingerly, Sebastian still on her mind even though she’d just texted with him, and hoped that she’d made the right choice. That Jade had led her down the right path.

  That when the time came—and Brighton was sure it was coming soon—Sebastian would know that he’d invaded not just her thoughts, but that he’d started to invade her heart, too.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, as he was seated in his office having just seen off a client, that Sebastian realized that Brighton hadn’t mentioned Jade again. Their conversation had veered off course, as it so often did.

  He couldn’t resist the urge to play with her sometimes.

  He’d known that Brighton and Jade were getting drinks, his office manager telling him in no uncertain terms earlier in the week that she was meeting Brighton and he wasn’t to bother them, but using his powers of deduction and a heaping dose of logic, he came to the conclusion that wherever they’d seen each other yesterday, it wasn’t the catch-up Jade had first mentioned.

  His curiosity was piqued. After all, Brighton had reached out to him, so it must have been something important. And there was only one way to find out . . .

  . . . and to make sure she was still thinking about him.

  Sebastian: Bright Star, you never did tell me about Jade yesterday.

  Sebastian: Did she make you do something crazy?

  Bright Star: Shouldn’t you be working?

  Sebastian: I’m the boss. And I can multitask.

  Bright Star: Technically, you’re the boss’s son, so . . .

  Sebastian: So what?

  Bright Star: Nothing.

  Sebastian: :/

  Bright Star: :D

  Bright Star: It’s nothing. I was in Madison for a meeting and I saw her there. We had lunch, and she took me to a favorite place of hers.

  Sebastian: Where?

  Bright Star: What happens in Fight Club stays in Fight Club.

  Sebastian: LOL, it’s what happens in Vegas, not Fight Club.

  Bright Star: Well, what am I thinking of then?

  Sebastian: The first rule of Fight Club is don’t talk about Fight Club.

  Bright Star: Whatever, it’s the same thing.

  Sebastian was smiling like an idiot at his phone, enjoying the back-and-forth with his girl, the freeness that came with talking to her.

  When she was playing with him, he felt all the worries slip away. All the anxiety. The urges—the need to recite numbers, the compulsive straightening of the things on his desk, playing with the button in his pocket—faded into the background.

  It was the best therapy he could have asked for, and she didn’t even know she was giving it to him.

  His phone beeped again, letting him know Brighton was still on the other end.

  Bright Star: Can I ask you something?

  Sebastian: No, I didn’t guess that twist at the end of Fight Club.

  Sebastian: Or the Sixth Sense, come to think of it.

  Bright Star: LOL.

  Bright Star: But seriously . . .

  Sebastian: Anything, you can ask me anything. You know that.

  Bright Star: Will you tell me about rehab?

  Bright Star: Or . . . about how it started?

  She didn’t need to elaborate for Sebastian to know what she was talking about. It. The gambling.

  He took a moment to think about what he wanted to say. He had no problem telling her what she wanted to know—she deserved it—but it wasn’t something so easily spoken about. He wasn’t about to do her a disservice and not be completely honest.

  Sebastian: Can I come to you?

  Bright Star: No. I’m sorry, I just don’t think that’s a good idea.

  Sebastian: Okay.

  Bright Star: I think if you come here, we won’t talk about it, and we need to.

  Sebastian: Can I call you then?

  Bright Star: Yes.

  Relieved that they could have this conversation over the phone, if not in person, he wasted no time in dialing her number.

  It wasn’t a discussion that could be done via text, though Brighton clearly preferred that as their method of communication. The things he had to say wouldn’t be easy—for either of them—but maybe finally clearing the air would help.

  It can’t hurt. Can it?

  Brighton answered on the second ring, her voice serious as befit the coming talk. “Seb.”

  “Bright Star,” he practically breathed out her name, the relief at hearing her immediate. It had always been this way but, now, it was tenfold. Because he knew what it was like to be without her. “I’m just going to tell you everything, okay? But if it’s too much, tell me.”

  She murmured her agreement, and he began to talk.

  “I always liked to play cards. Always. And then one weekend we—Declan and I—went to a bachelor party for a friend of ours from college. It was a poker night, and I did well. Really well.” He cleared his throat, needing a moment before he could continue. “It was heady, and I walked away that night with five grand.”

  Brighton’s surprise was audible, her gasp at the sum an echo in his ear.

  “I realized that I could contribute more to the house fund, as long as I kept winning. And at first, I did. I won so much, I began to think we wouldn’t need the loan. I’d just buy us the damn house.” He shook his head at his naïveté, wishing he’d known then what he knew now.

  Gambling wasn’t the fastest way to win money, it was the fastest way to lose it.

  His pause was so long, Brighton felt the need to urge him on. “Please, Seb. Keep going.”

  She knew it must have been hard for him to talk about it. It was certainly hard to hear that her need for a house, her need for them to do it without the aid of his parents, contributed to his problem.

  But she didn’t say that. Or anything. Instead, she listened.

  “I set the money aside in a different account, an old one that was just in my name, figuring I’d surprise you with this huge lump sum. I just needed to add a little more, you know?”

  Brighton nodded, though Sebastian couldn’t see her, and waited for him to continue. “It got out of control, I don’t know what else to say. I couldn’t stop, I had this idea in my mind of you being so happy, so excited. And then . . .”

  Silence, followed by a deep breath. Brighton could feel her every heartbeat, had never been so aware of every moment of her body or every breath she took.

  Did I push him too far?

  “I want you to know, before I say anything else, that none of this is your fault. I know it sounds like I’m saying it is, but it isn’t. It isn’t. I just want you know what I was thinking—nothing else.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in, and then, “Do you understand that? I need you to tell me you understand that.”

  “Sebastian . . .” Brighton couldn’t get the words out. She did understand, but she also couldn’t help thinking of what else she could have said or done.

  But . . .

  “Nothing, Brighton. There was nothing you could have done.” It was like he was reading her mind, and Brighton struggled with what to say next.

  It didn’t matter, because Sebastian started talking again. “The last day—I’d ask if you remember, but I know you do—I got a call from a friend of a friend. I’d lost all the money I’d hidden away a couple of weeks earlier—”

  “How?” Brighton hadn’t intended to interrupt but now he was talking, she wanted to know more. She was greedy for the knowledge, for answers. “How did you lose it?”

  “One big hand. I had a good one, a straight flush, and I tho
ught I’d win, so I went all in. And when I say all in, I mean I’d cleared out that account before I’d headed to the casino, determined to go for one last push. We were so close to closing on the house, and . . .” He trailed off and Brighton bit back tears. The pain she could hear in his voice, the shame.

  It was killing her.

  She wanted to tell him to stop now, suddenly feeling like she couldn’t listen anymore. But, he kept going, so she kept listening, kept feeling her heart pounding in her chest.

  “I’d done well that day, until that stupid fucking hand. I pushed all the money in, every last chip, and I lost. I lost it all, because his straight flush was one card higher than mine. One card, Brighton.”

  “Seb, I don’t know what to say.” Her voice sounded wobbly to her own ears, and she knew her hurt must be hurting him. She knew, because she would feel the same if it was her in that position.

  “Don’t say anything. I fucked it all up that day. And then I thought if I used the money from our account, I could win back what I’d lost. I was desperate and stupid and impulsive. I didn’t win it back, and I didn’t know what to do. That last day, the friend? He was going to loan me the money, to put back in the account. Buy me some time to win it back again, but . . .”

  “But what?” Brighton’s response was but a whisper, so quiet she wasn’t sure that Sebastian would even hear her.

  He did, or he just kept talking. Either way, what he said next would shatter her control. “I was halfway there, to meet the guy, and all I could think was I’d let you down. That if I replaced the money but couldn’t repay it, you’d lose. Either way, you were going to lose and it was all my fault. I thought about running my car off the road, but leaving you like that, so final, without saying sorry. Without trying to fix it somehow . . . I couldn’t do it. I turned around and spent the entire drive thinking about how to tell you, how to explain, but in the end . . .”

  “You couldn’t,” she finished for him. “You let me find out over the phone from the bank, and I hated you for that. I think I hated you for that most of all.” And she did. As much as she was angry at him for leaving, and she was, “Why didn’t he tell me?” still circled her mind.