Summer of Supernovas

by Darcy Woods

  Has he noticed I’m holding my breath? I exhale in a jittery laugh. Now my right boob is completely squashed against him. He has to notice that. Seth relaxes his head against the worn burgundy fabric of the seat, but doesn’t break our gaze.

  It’s my move. Right? Wait, what’s my move? “Seth, I—”

  At that moment, the door bangs and the house lights come on, bleaching away our summer sky.

  I push myself upright.

  A janitor wheels in a trash bin and a vacuum cleaner larger than Gram’s Buick. Unaware of our presence, he plugs in the extension cord while whistling an off-key rendition of “Hello, Dolly!”

  The machine fires up and I can no longer hear my own jumbled thoughts. Seth grabs my hand and we laugh, racing out of the planetarium.

  Seth has picked an adorable French place—La Petite Plat—on the east side for dinner. It’s a gorgeous evening, so we dine outside under twinkle lights and umbrellas. I can’t pronounce a thing on the menu. And I almost lose my appetite when I see the prices. Good thing, given the minuscule portions.

  Do the French just have really small stomachs? Uh-oh. I might’ve said that last part aloud, because suddenly Seth is laughing. He then goes on to explain La Petite Plat means “little plate.” Oh.

  At least my starvation will be entertaining.

  We talk about things that matter and things that don’t. I learn that Seth loves to travel and, at the ripe age of seventeen, has seen more places than Gram has flavors of cupcakes. Which is really saying something. He also has a killer comic-book collection, and as a kid dressed as Batman for Halloween. Four years in a row.

  He, in turn, is curious about my fixation on vintage clothes and hairstyles. I’m used to this question. I try to explain the timeless allure of forties fashion. How people were forced to do more with less because of war rationing. It’s why so many incredible hairstyles were born from the era, because hair was the one thing they had that was changeable.

  I don’t mention that many of the forties-style dresses I wear are from my mother’s collection.

  When I return from the restroom, I find Seth doodling on the back of his receipt.

  “What are you drawing?” I ask, peering over his shoulder. But I don’t get to see.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” He quickly crumples up the paper. “Just…scribbles. Stupid really. You ready to go?”

  “Sure.”

  We decide to take a stroll along the boardwalk. It’s June, so the Opal River has yet to take up the sweltering stink of August.

  “You do that a lot,” Seth says, with a squeeze of my hand.

  I drag my gaze from above and back to the boy at my side. “What?”

  He points up to the glittering sky.

  “Oh, sorry. Habit, I guess.” We veer around a tree branch jutting into our path.

  “This would be a habit you got from…” He pushes his free hand through his hair. “Give me something at least. You barely told me anything about yourself the whole night.”

  I draw in a breath to argue.

  “Besides the planetarium narration and love of retro fashion.”

  “My mother,” I supply, forcing a grin. The wind rustles my dark hair—black as the gaps between the stars, she used to say. “Astrology, stargazing, it’s something we always shared.”

  “Cool.” When my speech stalls, Seth offers an encouraging grin. “Anything else?”

  Happy memories bubble to the surface of my mind. I catch one, careful not to break it, careful to extract every exquisite detail. “Well, when I was little she’d wake me up—often in the middle of the night—and we’d sneak out to the backyard. God, I loved that. Just us and the sky rolled out like a huge movie screen.”

  My face splits into a smile as I relive the memory. How the smell of cut grass mingled with the sweetness of Gram’s blossoming moonflowers. How my heart beat a little quicker at the prospect of doing something a bit forbidden. And getting away with it.

  “So we’d lie there in our pajamas on this old peach-colored blanket that smelled like cedar while my mom pointed out all the planets and constellations we could see. Then I’d usually fall asleep to the sound of her voice, like she was telling me a bedtime story. Those were my first lessons in the language of the sky—that’s what she called it.”

  “And that’s why the sign thing is so important, huh?” His brow furrows. He plucks a leaf from a shrub. “I get it. Astrology is your Batman.”

  “My Batman?”

  “Yeah, that magical thing you believe in, even if other people don’t.”

  I chuckle. “Mm-hmm.” We pause and stare out at the water rippling like black satin over river rock.

  Seth leans against the wooden rail, etched with promises of love and forever, then tosses the leaf into the current. “Well, your mom sounds great. I’d love to meet her sometime. Assuming you’re game for another date?”

  My bubble of happiness pops. “No.”

  “Oh,” he chokes. “Um, I thought you were having fun tonight, but if you wanna leave, I’ll take you back—”

  “No! Jeez, I meant…” I seize his hands; they’re so soft and warm. “Let me try again. I would love to go on another date with you.”

  His relief is palpable.

  “But I can’t introduce you to my mom. She…” Instinctively my head tips to the stars; I force it down. Just get it over with, Wil. Say it and be done. “When I was six, my mom left to get syrup for pancakes and never made it home. Another car swerved into her lane going pretty fast—ended up hitting her head-on, so…”

  So she died within minutes. The accident was fatal for both drivers. And even though I’ve repeated this story countless times with dry eyes, this time—it’s a little too raw. Too real. As if I feel the crushing impact of the collision, my own heart rate dropping, my own body shutting down. I close my eyes, willing myself not to go there. Because the destination is pointless and changes nothing.

  Seth’s thumbs glide back and forth over the backs of my hands. The silence stretches. “So now she’s up there,” he finishes softly, tilting his face up before gazing back to me. “I’m sorry, Wil. I didn’t know—”

  “Hey,” I cut in, giving his hands a final squeeze and then letting go. “It was a long time ago, Seth. I mean, I miss her—of course I miss her. But I always know where to find her, you know?”

  He folds his arms in a quiet contemplation that I suspect won’t last. Because in my experience, once you’ve answered one question, it opens the floodgates to a whole lot more. “Still, must’ve been hell on your dad and—”

  “I wouldn’t know. Never met him.” My fingers trace the groove of a heart carved in the wood rail. “And please don’t do that, Seth. Don’t look at me with pity. Gram is more than most people will get in a lifetime.”

  Seth stands there, mute and unmoving. Can I blame him? What could he really say after I dropped a bomb like that?

  Bending to scoop up a handful of pebbles, I sigh. “I think this is what is referred to as a buzzkill. I’ve officially killed this date. At least your nose is intact.” I chuck the pebbles one by one in the river. They break the surface with faint bloops.

  “You didn’t kill anything,” Seth murmurs, coming to stand beside me. “And I can’t argue about your grandma, cause…well, I have a feeling she’d whoop my ass for talking back anyway.”

  I sniff. “She would.” My lips form a shadow of a grin.

  “You gonna hog all those?” He nods at the pebbles.

  And just like that, his simple boyish gesture…makes me feel like a simple girl again.

  I tilt my head as I regard him. “I like you, too, Seth Walker.” I offer my handful of pebbles. My face warms and my heart thumps in double time as the atmosphere charges with my admission. Suddenly I can’t meet his gaze anymore and become absurdly fascinated with the Snickers wrapper on the ground.

  Seth’s hand curls around my wrist, reeling me toward him. He bends until our lips almost touch. “I really want to kiss you, Wil
Carlisle.”

  “O-okay.” I lick my lips. “So, you don’t want the pebbles, then?”

  “No,” he whispers. “I’d rather have you.” And Seth presses his lips to mine.

  The heat slowly creeps through my body.

  I welcome it. No more cold, or fear, or isolation. This is meant to be. I have never been so sure of anything.

  Somewhere I register the clatter of those little stones. But I’m just so damn elated by the feel of his lips, I don’t recall how my hand finds its way to his neck, or how it knows to go there in the first place.

  My back presses against the wooden rail as he presses his body to mine. Seth’s mouth is even softer than his hands, and has the lingering flavor of chocolate and custard from the éclair we shared. I taste France and fantasize—it is not the Opal, it is the River Seine that rushes along the bank. And before I can imagine the drab yellow streetlights of Carlisle as ornate Parisian gaslit ones…the kiss is over.

  He pulls back, but doesn’t let me move away. “You know what I’m thinking?”

  “I…I taste like éclairs?” I ask. Which is quite possibly the world’s dumbest question. I blame it wholly on France.

  He laughs. “No. Better.” I shiver at his uneven breath at my ear, shivering more when he kisses the hollow beneath it. “But I’m stopping.” He takes a step back.

  I close my eyes. If I’m better than dessert, why doesn’t he kiss me a little longer? It’s me. It must be me.

  When I reopen my eyes, he’s frowning.

  “You think I stopped because I wanted to, don’t you?”

  My lips still tingle. “Well, I thought maybe it was…”

  Seth shakes his head, placing his hands on either side of my face. “I stopped because I wanted more, Wil. Too much more.” The last words are emphasized in a way I can’t mistake.

  My mouth goes slack, forming an O, but no sound comes out.

  “But I wanna do this right with you.” His hands slide away, much to my disappointment. “Come on.” He drapes his arm over my bare shoulders. “You feel cold.” He briskly rubs my arm to work up the circulation. “You should definitely bring a sweater on Friday.”

  “Why, what are we doing?”

  “It’s a surprise.” He glances at me, then does a double take. “Hey, no pouting or I might say to hell with taking it slow.”

  I grin. “Not even a hint?”

  “It’ll be unforgettable.”

  Later that night, I fall asleep replaying my kiss with Seth. I dissect the details—the softness of his lips, the scent of his skin, the husky way he said he wanted much more. I loop it over and over. And wonder what Friday will bring.

  One perk of astrological know-how is that you never have to wonder for very long. The generosity of Jupiter lingers for the month of June—assuring me that my happily-ever-after is all but a planetary promise.

  Which makes the ambiguity of Friday’s horoscope extra annoying.

  Expect the unexpected. Today will bring a curious turn of events.

  So, basically, I can expect…anything to happen tonight. “Anything” seems broad, even by horoscope standards. My eyes catch on the wall calendar, where bold Sharpie Xs count down to June’s end. I am seventeen days ahead of schedule. I should be jumping for joy, right?

  “Hey, quit blinking or I’ll poke out your eyes,” Irina scolds, poising the eyelash curler. She crashed here last night and conveniently packed her extensive makeup collection so we could get ready for our dates together.

  “Look down,” she commands. “No, too far. There! Whatever you’re looking at, keep your eyes there.”

  I train my stare on the dermal piercing at the center of her chest. The tiny silver disk must have hurt like hell, although Irina assures me it didn’t. But I’m not sure I trust the pain assessment abilities of anyone who regularly punctures their own skin for sport.

  “I still can’t believe you’re dating an eastsider,” Iri grumbles. “I mean, take away the money, good looks, and charisma—what’s even left?”

  “Yeah, Seth’s an absolute loser. I should be setting my sights a lot higher.” I roll my eyes.

  My night out with Seth was the topic of conversation over Gram’s famous meat loaf and mashed potatoes last night. Gram seemed pleased enough with my recap. Iri, however, has remained skeptical. But that’s a Leo thing—it’s in her nature to constantly challenge.

  Just like it’s in my nature to see this truth and not take it personally.

  Irina shakes her head before pumping the mascara wand in the tube. “But how do you even know he’s the Sagittarius you’re looking for?”

  “Because he told me his birthday is December fifth. The exact date on Mr. Right’s chart. If that’s coincidence, then it’s extraordinary.”

  “Look up,” Iri instructs, putting a coat on my lower lashes. “So, what’s the plan again for tonight?”

  “Dinner at…um, well, he didn’t say. Followed by something I’ll find ‘mind-blowingly awesome and unforgettable.’ ”

  “Huh. So, you know nothing about what you’re doing.” Disapproval overshadows the sarcasm in her tone. Now she’s making the face I normally reserve for choking down her tetya’s borscht.

  “As a matter of fact I do, KGB operative. Grant’s band is playing at Absinthe, and since I missed them last Sunday, I asked Seth if he’d be up for going. Want to meet up with us? You and…” I make a suggestive waggle of my eyebrows.

  “Not sure. I’ll text if we do.” Iri’s been tight-lipped about the mysterious suit-wearing cactus guy—Jordan Lockwood. The more I ask, the less she says. Also true to her word, she pokes my eye.

  “Ow! Okay, okay, enough mascara.” I wrench away to change the playlist and turn up the volume.

  “So, what’re you wearing on your date with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” I ask, before disappearing into my closet, flicking through the hangers.

  “His name is Jordan, not what’s-his-name—Valdyvort.”

  “Voldemort,” I correct.

  “Whatever. I’m wearing snakeskin pants and a silver tube top.” She winks. “Maximum shock value.”

  I giggle. “What, is he a mutual-fund salesman? An Amish wood whittler? Ooh, is he a manager at that fancy mattress store at the mall with those adjustable beds?

  “Iri, I can do this all night,” I warn. I pull out a dress that feels all wrong and shove it back.

  “Mmm. Not telling till I know if it’s anything worth telling. Dorogaya, wear the blue dress with the belt,” she hollers over the music and screeching hangers. “It’ll be perfect with your eyes.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that one.” I find the belted, off-the-shoulder dress and slip off my robe. “Hey, Iri?”

  “Yeah?”

  I pause for several beats. “What’s the rumor about Grant Walker?”

  “Grant…what?” She chuckles. “Oh, I think the more pressing question is why are you still so obsessed with knowing?”

  I venture out of the closet, dress half on. “Will you zip me?” I turn my back to her. “The only reason I’m curious is because you won’t tell me.”

  Irina jiggles the old zipper to get it working as she releases a long, theatrical sigh. “Okay, fine. I’ll put you out of your misery. Here it is: Grant Walker’s said to have mad skills in the sack, like the kind that spawn urban legends. Maybe it’s because he’s got that sensitive-musician thing happening, or could be his dexterity that makes him so—”

  I cough.

  She gives my back a few hearty slaps. “Hey, you were the one who had to know.”

  I clear my throat. “So, does he have a girlfriend, then?”

  She fastens the pearl button above the zipper. “How would I know?”

  “W-well, what do you think makes someone skilled? Is it sheer numbers or the size of—”

  “Oh no!” Irina cries. I turn to find her scrounging through her bag. “I forgot shoes. How could I forget shoes?”

  “You can borrow a pair of mine. You might feel sorta g
eisha-like since they’re a size smaller, but you’re welcome to—”

  “Excellent!” She pops up to forage my closet. “An accomplished lover isn’t really about size or experience, well, maybe a little about that. Mainly, it boils down to whether or not he’s a ‘ladies first’ kind of guy.”

  “Ladies first?” I echo.

  “Yeah, meaning the girl’s pleasure is primary. If he’s concerned about her satisfaction in bed, stands to reason he’ll be tuned in to the other stuff.” She chuckles. “And believe me, any guy who unlocks another woman’s passion will forever be legendary.” Irina struts out. “These good?”

  My head bobs, but I’ve totally checked out. Images of Grant mingle with the words “pleasure” and “legendary,” until there’s no room for anything else.

  She fans my face. “Whoa, you’re burning up, Wil. Hey”—she lifts my chin—“is it possible that it’s more than curiosity? Maybe you feel something for Grant and that’s what’s really behind the questions?”

  “No! That’s crazy. I mean”—I shake my head vehemently—“he’s completely wrong. Good God, he’s a Pisces! It doesn’t get more wrong. And anyway, why would I want Grant when Seth is my ideal?” I cinch the belt, ignoring the junkie-like tremor of my hands.

  Iri shrugs. “You tell me.” She shucks off her jeans and shirt, and lays her “shock factor” outfit on the bed. “Look, I wasn’t going to say anything.” She chews the inside of her cheek before continuing. “But I saw you and Grant together that night when you danced.” Iri lets out a low whistle. “Serious chemistry, Wil.”

  Irina’s standing there in her bra and see-through undies, so why am I the one who feels naked? I go to my dresser and open the jewelry box, rummaging through my accessories. “It was nothing.”

  “Yeah. Well, the Land of Denial can be fun to visit, but you shouldn’t build a house there.”

  “Crap! Tell me I haven’t lost one of my favorites!” I scoop up a handful of earrings and dig for the missing two-tier, faux sapphire clip-on. They had been a fourteenth-birthday present from Gram. She’d gone to several antique flea markets to find them. If I lost one, I’d be—Aha!