Made of Stars

by Kelley York

  Chance smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The parents love her. But does he?”

  My face flushes. I shouldn’t have said anything, but then again—why shouldn’t I? Rachael isn’t some fling. They’re serious, and Chance shouldn’t brush it off. For that matter, neither should Hunter. He should have mentioned her. Rachael’s feelings would be hurt. I know mine would be, if I were her.

  Just as we reach the bottom of the steps and before I have time to respond, Hunter shuffles outside, dressed and messy-haired.

  “Sorry,” he says, voice still a little rough from sleep. “What’s going on?”

  All the life seems to rush back into Chance’s face, and his eyes light up. “We can use Mr. J’s truck, right?”

  Hunt runs a hand through his hair. “Uh…yeah.”

  “Super. What about shovels?”

  Hunter and I exchange looks. There’s really no point in questioning Chance. He’ll tell us what we’re doing when he feels like it. That’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Going along for the ride.

  We bundle into the Toyota, and Chance navigates. At first, I think we’re heading in the direction of Chance’s house, but he instructs us to drive right on by. We’re still following the creek; I think I can spot it here and there when the trees are at their thinnest. Eventually, he has Hunt pull over to the side of the road, and we get out.

  “Middle of nowhere.” I zip up my coat. “What are we doing, burying bodies?” Admittedly, this would be a place to do it. Isolated, off any main roads.

  “Nope. We’re going to war.” Chance grabs the shovels from the back of the truck, one for each of us.

  There’s no real discernible path leading through the trees, but Chance seems to know where he’s going, and the truck shouldn’t be hard to spot when we find our way out again. A half a mile into the woods, we come to a clearing. Not just a patch, but a wide stretch of land, maybe forty feet from one side to the other.

  What’s more, the snow has fallen perfectly here with no one to disrupt it. Just a white blanket over the earth. I have to resist the urge to throw myself into it and roll around. We stop on the outskirts of the clearing, each with our shovels in hand. Chance puffs out a breath, exhales on his bare hands, and rubs them together. His face is flushed, but he’s smiling.

  “So, Hunter takes that edge. Ash, you’re here. I’ll be right over there.”

  That’s all the explanation he gives us before circling around the perimeter. Hunter hesitates but eventually makes his way to his assigned spot while I stay put. We watch Chance, curious as to what we’re supposed to be doing. He thrusts the shovel into the snow, starting a pile beside him. It takes a few minutes before we realize he’s constructing some kind of wall. Occasionally taking a handful of snow, packing it neatly, and setting it aside. Snowballs.

  Hunt leans on his shovel, arching an eyebrow. “Really? Aren’t we a little old for this?”

  Chance lifts his head, lips drawn thin. “Says who?”

  “Says…us. And most of the population?” Yet I’m getting started on shoveling some snow into a pile to make my own wall. There’s no point in arguing. We can participate in his game, or we might as well go home and leave him here. He’ll do it with or without us.

  “That’s stupid.” Chance crunches another snowball together, turns, and pitches it at Hunter. It smacks Hunt’s arm, shattering into a mess of white slush and making him yelp in surprise. Chance dusts off his hands. “Get a move on, ’cause there’s more where that came from.”

  Hunter opens his mouth, closes it again, scowls, and starts shoveling.

  Even through the gloves, my fingers are starting to go numb. When we’re done, I’ve built the tallest wall out of the three of us. It circles halfway around me, keeping me safe from the front and both sides if I crouch down a bit. Hunter is fighting with his—I’ve seen it topple over more than once. Chance finishes before we do, and I see him building his collection of snowballs while we struggle to raise our defenses.

  He isn’t nice enough to wait, either. The first snowball zings past my head, startling me into stillness. Chance throws his head back and laughs. Hunter makes a valiant attempt to toss one at Chance, but he doesn’t pack it right and the snow crumbles to pieces halfway through the air. My attempt is a little better; the snowball stays together, but it flies too low and hits Chance’s wall instead.

  Eventually, we get the hang of it. Our aim improves, and we start hitting our marks. Which means Hunter and I turn our sights on each other, too. I have the upper hand. Every time he hits me, all it takes is a whimper and a look and Hunter stops, eyes wide, worried he really hurt me. Just enough time for me to chuck a snowball right at his face.

  My and Hunter’s walls are soon nothing more than mounds of snow around our legs. Only Chance’s remains. He’s an expert wall-builder…which means Hunt and I bring the war right to him so he can’t hide.

  Chance crows in delight, darting from behind his cover and managing to dump an armful of snow over my head. I shriek only because I can feel the cold sliding down the back of my jacket. While I’m dancing around, trying to shake it out, Hunt catches Chance around the waist and hauls him away from me. He loses his footing and they both go down, Chance’s barking laughter filling the clearing.

  My opportunity! I crouch to gather up an armful of snow. They’re too busy wrestling around to notice me. By the time I stand up again, Hunt has Chance pinned to the ground, snow in their hair, in their eyelashes, faces flushed.

  Chance grins in that way of his, breathless. “Is it really okay for you to be panting on top of someone who isn’t your girlfriend?”

  Hunter goes perfectly, deathly still.

  Melted snow trickles down my spine.

  Chance’s expression is tight, conflicted. Like he wants to be smug but is frustrated that his moment of triumph doesn’t feel so great after all. Tension floods the clearing, chasing away every ounce of excitement and fun we’d been building. His jab shouldn’t make me feel guilty for having said anything to him in the first place. If anything, it should make me angry that he’d throw something like that in Hunter’s face. I don’t know why he would care. I don’t know why Hunter having a girlfriend would matter.

  This isn’t how today was supposed to go. We were having fun. I’d dressed nice, did my hair, tried to make myself look nice for Chance. Instead, he’s spent all morning thinking about Hunter and his girlfriend?

  There’s only one thing I can think to do: I dump the armful of snow on them.

  Hunter sucks in a breath. Chance sputters, squirming until Hunt releases his arms so he can wipe the slush from his face. They sit up and stare wordlessly as I shove at Chance’s wall, angry with it for being there. Him and his stupid walls. Some force and it caves and crumbles, nowhere near as well constructed as I thought it was.

  When I’m done I turn back to them, hands on my hips, out of breath, a strained smile in place.

  “I think this means I win. You two can buy me lunch.”

  Hunter

  “Why didn’t you tell him about Rachael?”

  I’ve waited all day for Ash to ask me that question. From the second the mention of my girlfriend spilled from Chance’s lips, I knew she would corner me when we were alone later that night, when she knew I’d be in my room checking e-mails on my laptop. I pretend to be so interested in what I’m reading for an excuse not to look at her. “What?”

  “Don’t what me.” She’s wearing one of her silky tank tops and shorts-that-are-too-short, something Dad would probably have a hernia to see her wandering around in. Being upstairs, though, she’s safe; he won’t venture up here unless he absolutely has to.

  Not that it exactly makes me comfortable, either. The idea that my sister isn’t a little kid anymore doesn’t sit right with me. All the more reason to focus on my computer screen. “I don’t know, Ash. Does it really matter? Obviously, he knows now.”

  “Yeah, and I felt like a jerk for saying anything about it because I thought h
e knew.”

  From my peripheral, I see her shifting her weight from one foot to the other—seriously, her mom buys her those kinds of clothes?—before wandering over to take a seat beside me. Sighing, I shut the laptop and set it aside, head dropping back against the pillows. “It slipped my mind, okay?”

  “He specifically asked what we’d been up to. About school and friends and all that.”

  God, I hate that accusing tone.

  “He asked me if I had a boyfriend. Didn’t he ask you if you had a girlfriend?”

  “No,” I say honestly. He didn’t. I may have kept this nugget of information away from Chance, but only because he hadn’t specifically asked. “I wouldn’t lie to him.”

  “You did lie. Omission of information is lying.” Ash jabs me in the arm. “She’s coming out for Christmas. Were you planning on surprising him with it then?”

  Girls. They have to turn everything into the end of the world. Chance called me out on it, and by lunch he was back to laughing and joking around and stealing my food. Done and over with. “Okay, I’m sorry. What the hell do you want from me? What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s not a big deal to me. But Chance looked really hurt you kept something from him. You and Rachael are a serious thing, aren’t you?”

  I finally look at her. Not because I want to—the way she’s frowning at me, trying to figure me out, leaves me feeling guilty all over again—but because I have nothing to say. I’m not capable of outright lying to my sister any more than I can outright lie to Chance. Ash knows what my relationship with Rachael was like in the beginning. That I loved that she was smart and grounded, and I liked how she had everything in her life figured out. Rachael was safe. Rachael promised security, and that was what I felt confident I needed.

  Coming back here is shaking that confidence.

  From the dresser, my phone rings. There are only three people who would be calling me. One is downstairs, and I’m looking at the other. Which means it’s Rachael. I make no move to get up and answer it.

  Ash’s mouth forms a thin, tight line. “Are you going to get that?”

  I debate whether I’d rather continue this conversation with her or talk to Rachael. I vote for the latter. Ash watches me swing myself off the mattress to grab my phone. I give her a long look until she gets the hint and leaves.

  Oh, she’s not satisfied by my answers. Or lack thereof. And I guess she shouldn’t be. I’m not. I wish I had something more solid to offer, something beyond I didn’t tell Chance because I didn’t want him to know I’m seeing someone. Because that would lead to Why didn’t you want him to know you were seeing someone? and what the hell would I answer to that?

  That it feels wrong?

  That I’m not in love with Rachael and I’m not even sure I want her coming out for Christmas? Because this life and the life I led back home are entirely different and I don’t have a clue how to make those differences mesh.

  “Rach. Hey.”

  “I was starting to think you weren’t going to answer.”

  Every word out of my mouth feels thick. How are you grateful to hear from someone, but dreading it at the same time? “Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Rachael sighs. “Well, you haven’t exactly been responsive since you got to your dad’s. Too busy running around with your friends. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you didn’t miss me at all.”

  To be fair, she called this morning. I stared at the phone. Circled it on my bed. And, eventually, it stopped ringing. If it had been important, she would’ve called back, right? That was the line of thought that ran through my head until halfway through the day, when I started to feel bad about it.

  A pang of guilt buries itself between my ribs. I slump back down into bed, arm draped across my eyes. Because there’s a difference between not caring about someone and not being in love with her. I care about Rachael. I know the things I say, and the things I don’t say, can hurt her as quickly as they can make her smile.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been…distracted. Sort of a big transition and all that. How are you?”

  This seems to placate her. There’s a softer, pleasant tone to her voice. “Don’t worry about it. I miss you, you know. I see Madison and her boyfriend together all the time and it’s just…”

  I’m listening intently, at least at first. But she talks for nearly an hour—with minimal input on my part—about school and her parents and what Florida is like…and someone has started throwing rocks at my window.

  When I get up to look, Chance is on the back porch. In the snow blanketing the deck, he’s traced with his shoe:

  can’t sleep clowns will eat me

  sleepover ?

  I laugh.

  Rachael pauses. “What’re you laughing at?”

  “Nothing, sorry.” I press a hand over my mouth. Rachael takes a breath, holds it a few seconds, and decides to keep talking rather than comment on my slip-up. She’s going on about classes again, giving me enough detail that I could probably do the homework assignment right along with her. (See? I’m paying attention.) Cradling the phone between shoulder and cheek, I grab a sheet of paper, scribble as large as I can with a Sharpie, and press the page to my window:

  One sec

  Chance squints, tosses his arms in the air, and scuffs out his current message to instead write:

  coooooold

  The Os are more random squiggles than actual letters. The way he hugs himself and twirls in circles gets me grinning ear to ear. Given that he’s not wearing gloves or a coat, I need to drag him out of the snow before he catches pneumonia or something.

  “Uh huh.” I tiptoe out of my room and downstairs. “Rach, it’s pretty late. I should probably get some sleep. Talk to you tomorrow?” Or later today, I guess, given it has to be around midnight by now.

  Rachael hmms. We’ve been talking for a while, so at least there’s no frustrated sigh like I’m purposely trying to shuffle her off the phone in favor of doing other things. “Okay. Get some rest; tell Louis and Ashlin I said hello.”

  It sort of weirds me out that Rachael has only talked to Dad on the phone a handful of times and she’s already on a first-name basis with him. Chance has known him for years and still refers to him as Mr. J, even when Dad insists he shouldn’t.

  “Will do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow; sleep well.”

  “Hunter?”

  I stop at the back door, flipping the lock. “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  I’m watching Chance through the glass with his snow-flecked hair, his red cheeks, and long lashes. “Love you, too.”

  I open the door. Chance slips inside.

  It isn’t until I’ve hung up and he’s there grinning and shivering that I realize what I’ve said.

  A year and I’ve managed to avoid saying it because I knew I wouldn’t mean it. A year. And now I’ve screwed it all up.

  Chance hugs himself tightly, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. “Damn, it’s cold. What’s your problem? You look like someone spit in your Cheerios.”

  Feels that way. I shake my head and turn to head back upstairs. Chance follows, not pressing the subject. I wonder what he would say if I told him. Would he be annoyed after what happened earlier today, because I kept her a secret? Would he say I was a moron for letting the words slip out like that? It seemed like reflex. Someone says “I love you” on the phone and you just…say it back. Like every time I talk to Dad or Ash. Sure, love you, talk to you later.

  Rachael’s going to take it in all the wrong ways.

  Do I let it be and hope she’ll forget about it? Be careful not to repeat it again? Do I call her back and verify—hey, I didn’t mean it like that.

  We creep upstairs. I don’t think to wake up Ash. If Chance had come to see her, he would’ve gone to the front of the house and pelted rocks at her window. He’s done it before. Besides, the idea of him seeing her in that sad excuse for a nightgown she’s wearing makes my insides twist all up.

 
No sooner is the bedroom door shut than I toss the phone onto my dresser like it’s burning my fingers to hold it. Way to go, self. Way to make things awkward. Chance latches onto me from behind. His icy arms come around my neck and he hangs there, burrowing his face against my back.

  “Ohhh my God. It’s so cold outside. And you let me sit out there. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  My skin prickles all over from the nearness of the human icicle that is Chance. I manage to twist around to face him while he hangs off me like an overgrown rag doll. Even after all this time, Chance’s tendency to be overly physical doesn’t faze me. If it were any other boy, it would be different, but this is Chance. There are no rules when it comes to him. “Let me get you something to change into. You’re not sleeping in my bed like that.”

  This should be weird, letting some guy sleep in my bed. With me in it. We did it for years as kids because when you’re eight you aren’t thinking anything other than that it’s cool to have the comfort of a friend nearby.

  Then you hit fourteen, fifteen, and you start to realize you’re watching that friend and marveling at how peaceful he is when he sleeps. You’re fascinated by the shape of his mouth and how soft his lips look. You’re wondering what it might be like to play with his hair, or how you could be so in love with the shadows of someone’s cheekbones.

  Suddenly, it isn’t so cool anymore.

  Once he lets go and starts undressing, I get him a flannel button-up shirt and some sweats. Both of which will be too big on him, but it’s better than nothing. I flip on the television, a random channel, for nothing other than the white noise.

  Chance is shirtless, and his dragon tattoo is beautiful. I have the urge to reach out and touch it, to trail my fingers from one star to the next, and the next…creating the image of Draco mapped out on his skin. Without entirely meaning to, my gaze dips lower and catches on his hipbone, a splotch of dark. Mottled black and blue.