☆ Evan ☆

"Surprise!" Elaine calls as she bursts into the room. I crack the hotel door open to let her inside. "It's me. I'm back in town!"

This isn't news to either of us, but I grin and reply, "Really?"

She leans over to hug me and skips into the room. A pile of clothes on the desk chair rivals the height of the bed. Elaine kicks her shoes off in the entryway and leaps onto the bed. She jumps once; her hands graze the ceiling. Like a kid on a trampoline, she jumps again, this time beckoning me to join in on the fun.

I huff a bit, then climb up. And for the few seconds that I hang in midair, I almost feel like I could forget.

Laughing, Elaine collapses into a heap. For a few seconds, there's a silence that we let hang. She's finally back in Northwood. But she's going back after this weekend, and my life is awfully boring without her.

It might be bitter of me, but in my head, that bitterness isn't a bad thing at all. I was fine with the way we were before, when I could predict what would happen. When I didn't have to talk about my fucking emotions. And I keep looking at the door instead of the television screen in front of me. Looking at Elaine, knowing that when she leaves, we'll be back to talking over the phone again.

"How are you doing with staying at the hotel?" Elaine asks as she leans against the bed frame. She turns on the TV, aimlessly scrolling through the channels, and when she blinks, her eyes refuse to open for a long moment, as though she doesn't want to look around again and face my new reality.

"Fine, I guess. It's only temporary. At least until Carolyn has calmed down."

She frowns, turning to me. "It's almost like we're running and hiding from her."

I bite my lip before settling back with her, crossing my arms against my chest. I'll only be here for a few months. Just a few months before I can leave, and before I can stop hiding.

Another few months before I can leave and never look back.

"How is Randall?" I ask. "And your time in Newfoundland—have you become a different person yet?"

Elaine laughs. "He seems fine."

The two of us joke around together. We watch the television screen together. It cycles between commercials advertising dairy farmers and a bunch of PSAs, and the news—broadcasting the weather for next week. Elaine makes an offhand comment about how it's going to rain on Wednesday—like she'll be there to see it.

She takes the hotel phone and orders food for herself and me, grinning conspicuously the entire time.

Eventually, Elaine challenges me to a game of tic-tac-toe using the hotel's complimentary stationary, and she wins the majority of the rounds. Sitting there on the bed, crumpling the bed runner draped on top of the white sheets. I've kept Peter from taking them down to the laundry, and have told him no less than five times that I can clean sheets myself, regardless of that it's his job.

Sitting there with Elaine, I find it difficult to remember any of the games we played as kids. We used to play pretend at escaping, when our phones became flashlights and towels became a house. Sometimes, I would bring snacks, and we'd have to keep our voices down, to make sure nobody could hear us. But it wasn't the darkness I was worried about.

The darkness, with its canopy of stars and the cold, fresh air, were all that I had. Sometimes, when we had nothing better to do, when we could get outside, Elaine would grab a mason jar and chase fireflies in the ebbing of moonlight. And like a kite, she would run amongst the trees, catching the fireflies in her cupped hands.

And then she'd set them free, and they'd fly off like paper lanterns, like moths following the light.

She would tell me it would be cruel to keep the fireflies in jars.

I would tell her I understood, and maybe I did. Maybe too much.

"I learned some new slang, the other day," Elaine tells me. "Mint. I guess it means, 'cool,' according to Dad. Grandmom and grandad say it a lot."

"And school?" I ask. "Have you made any new friends?"

When she doesn't answer, I realize how odd that question sounds. It hasn't been very long, and Elaine has never had a large circle of friends. Like me, she's used to having stability. We've been side-by-side in life forever. She doesn't remember what things used to be, but I remember what my pre-Randall life was like.

"Yeah," she says, "I'm still talking with Tyler. We try to text and stuff. He calls me now and then. I'm not really used to it, yet. We've gone from seeing each other every day to... this."

I nod, covering my smile. "Oh, right. Tyler." She turns back to the notepad and etches an O into the box in the upper corner. She picks this spot, or the one in the middle, as her first move every time. I think there's a strategy for it, but I haven't figured out what it is. "You're the new girl. Maybe everyone is just worried because you're so mint."

"Ugh, you need a lesson on how to be cool," she says with a scoff. "Is the food ready yet, do you think?"

I nod. "It should be."

☆ ☽ ☆

We head down to the hotel lobby. Elaine is grinning that constant conspiratorial smile again, and I immediately turn to the front desk.

Peter stands with Dina at his side. He smiles softly, and his eyes linger on the sweater he gave to me. The sleeves flap past my hands, and I disappear into the fabric. I force myself to swallow my unease, and I grit my teeth before asking him, "What's going on?"

"Surprise," Elaine repeats under her breath. "I am a genius. Remember when I was supposed to play a recital for school? Well, I transferred, so... I know you wanted to come."

I stare blankly at her. My eyes flicker automatically back to Peter. He tilts his head towards the restaurant within the hotel—Lotus, it's called, based on the menu.

Elaine leads me to the restaurant. Near the front, the tables have been pushed together to form a section separated from the rest. Light pours in from the windows, and Elaine's cheeks grow rosy as she steps over to the microphone. I choose a seat closest to her and settle in.

Feedback whistles. Her steps falter, but she grabs the microphone and says, as cool as ever, "Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm Elaine!" Although besides myself, Peter, and Dina, the restaurant is empty, she pretends to bask in the applause. "My band doesn't have a name yet, but here goes nothing."

She starts with a song I don't recognize. And even though Elaine doesn't have the perfect singing voice, she also doesn't seem bothered by it. She uses the lyrics on her phone for safety, and her voice carries through the room, filling it with the echo. It sounds like it could be a concert, like if I focus for long enough, I can transport her onto a stage.

My focus is broken from the music when my eyes flit to the back corner of Lotus, where Peter is watching.

My heart leaps, and I turn away before he can notice me looking at him.

Elaine's next song, however, I know off by heart. It's Castle of Glass, and just hearing it pulls me back to the day she left.

One step at a time, Peter comes closer. Elaine continues playing, but Peter doesn't talk to me. He doesn't break the silence. He leans on the table and listens to the song, but he looks so serious. So very serious, compared to the grin he had before.

The tune of the music floats through the tiny room. Peter's fingers drum idly on the table.

His eyes blink at me. I know exactly what he's going to do before he even says it. "So, are you open to letting me sit, or is this more of an alone thing?"

"Very funny, you idiot," I say, scoffing. "Fine, you can sit."

He takes his seat. Elaine starts her next song in the background, punctuating every glance I take at Peter.

"You're wearing the sweater," he points out in a low tone.

"It's very comfortable, you know. You should get one."

His lips quirk an inch, just enough that I notice it. "Very funny."

He doesn't say anything further until Elaine has finished her next song, and then he asks her, "You're looking for a band name?"

"Well," Elaine says, "I'd have to ask Tyler. Why, have you got a suggestion?"

Peter grins. "Yes. Spica—it's a binary star. Because there are two of you."

"That's a stupid name," I joke, punching him on the arm. His eyes are shining, though, and Elaine sets the microphone down to scamper towards us.

"It's the perfect name, Evan! It was better than Cherry, which was Tyler's suggestion... or, what was even worse"—she rolls her eyes—"ET the band. Honestly, Spica is cute!"

Afterward, Peter requests for her to sing something from the same band he played on our trip to the ski place.

(Which is what I'm thinking about, right now, as he sits next to me and I allow myself to wonder, What would happen if I just reached out and took his hand? But I'm not going to do that. I held his hand, briefly, on the playground near the hotel. Trying again would be stupid, so stupid.)

As Elaine manages to convince Dina to join her on the makeshift stage, I think about how I would paint this scene. The backdrop would be black, like Carolyn's kitchen. I can envision a logo for Spica, like two burning suns linked by the interlocked ring of a planet. I wouldn't colour it with orange, though that would be the obvious choice—I'd pick something closer to a blue-grey. And on the dark, almost invisible stage, Elaine would float in midair like those fireflies in jars, and with any luck, she'd never touch the ground.

Maybe we've both been wanting the same thing.

I set my head against the back of my chair. Gradually, as the day marches onward, I nestle further into my sweater.

(Peter's sweater. Stupid.)

I say to him, "You had something to do with this."

Peter shrugs as he shifts in his chair. "It wasn't all my idea. Elaine came up with it. I just tagged along. I think you needed to be there—for Elaine—because you knew nobody else would be."

It's not like Carolyn shows up to Elaine's piano recitals. It's not like she watches my sports games. She influences, quietly, where nobody can see her. She boasts about it, loudly, where everyone can see her accomplishments.

I think she used to play basketball in high school. I think she used to care. But those days are long gone.

When Dina's shift is over and Elaine is getting tired, I sit up and stretch. I help Peter return the tables back into their regular position and while we work, he says, "By the way, you got a letter."

"A what?" I say, whirling around. He lifts an eyebrow as if to tell me he knows I heard him, so I explain, "Why would a letter come for me? Nobody knows I'm..."

His eyebrow lifts a bit further. "Are you certain about that?"

"Shit, my portfolio! They sent me a stupid letter, didn't they?"

Still grinning, he fetches the envelope from the desk and hands it to me. Elaine rushes over to see what we're talking about. "Are you going to open it?"

"No, it's just for him to stare at," Peter replies and points at the letter. "Go on. Seriously, I've been waiting to see what it says all day. Open it."

I go still. I stay in place for a minute and five seconds before my thumb slides underneath the flap and tears the letter open. I unfold it, and my eyes scan the page.

The first word is, Congratulations.

Everything after that becomes irrelevant.

Tentatively, and a bit stuck for words, I say, "I... got in?"

"Why does that sound like a question?" Elaine leans over to look at the paper in my hands. Her smile is probably wider than my own, judging by how bright her eyes are glowing. "Why didn't you tell me about this before! I mean, come on. That is not fair. You applied for college—away from home—and you didn't think they'd accept you?"

She takes the acceptance letter from me to read the rest. The envelope stays in my hands. A speck of white peeks out from underneath the glue, and my eyebrows furrow.

It's one of my drawings, only I don't remember including it with my portfolio. The drawing of my room—it disappeared like my hourglass did, not long after I tossed my application into the unknown.

I look up to see Peter grinning back at me.

I whisper, "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he tells me. "I liked that one. I thought a bunch of college bureaucrats would want to see it, too."

I scoff and tell him to shut up, even though I know he's right. He laughs and tells me I'm an idiot, and I am.

Wrangling me into a hug, Elaine skips to the elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

She asks, "So, you're running?"

"I have to," I answer, and the truth breathes through me. "I want to. In one-hundred and forty-four days, I need to have nothing left to regret."

I am getting out now, like a moth soaring out of the darkness—it's finally going to happen.