As Far as the Stars

‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.

He studies the parking notice and then says, ‘Have you called the number yet?’

I shake my head.

‘The tow truck might not have got very far. We could explain.’

‘Explain?’

‘What’s going on,’ he says. ‘That these are special circumstances.’

Our eyes catch his and, for a beat, we don’t say anything.

‘You think that would work?’

In my experience, traffic enforcement doesn’t do special circumstances, especially for people our age.

‘We could try,’ he says.

Leda gives out a small bark and thumps her tail against the sidewalk, like she’s agreeing with him.

I bite the side of my thumbnail and notice that my sky-blue nail varnish is chipped. I went to have a manicure before I left DC – on instruction from Mom. To match the bridesmaid’s dress I’m meant to wear tomorrow.

Then I get out my phone and dial the number.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_44e2133f-d069-56d1-81df-566be68fa72a)

16.45 EST

I watch Christopher grab a sheet from an old in-flight magazine from his backpack and start folding. I don’t even know what he’s making but I can tell that he’s enjoying it, the feel of the skin of the paper as he rubs it between his fingers. He looks relaxed like he did when he was stroking Leda.

I snatch glances at him through the corner of my eye, hoping that he doesn’t realise that I’m staring. It takes my mind off things, looking at this weird English guy who’s got nothing to do with my life or what’s going on in Nashville or with Blake. How he’s sitting here, folding that bit of paper, as though it’s another ordinary day.

It’s weird that he’s this calm, because as bad as I’ve got it with Blake and the wedding and everything, Christopher has it way worse. Someone he knows was on the plane that’s crashed. God, I haven’t even asked him who he came to meet or why he was here. I’ve been so busy thinking about myself. And he’s the one who must be going through hell. And yet he’s sitting here, like he’s got some special information that no one else does. As if that floating piece of metal doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to the rest of us: that the crash was bad. Really bad. As in, it’s unlikely anyone survived.

Leda puts her muzzle on Christopher’s lap and keeps slobbering on him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

‘I didn’t ask you…’ I stutter.

‘Sorry?’

‘I never asked you, who you came to meet.’ My voice breaks a bit. ‘I mean, who you were collecting at the airport.’

‘Oh.’ He goes quiet for a bit. ‘Dad. I came to collect my dad.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t answer. I guess it’s all too much to take in right now. That’s probably why he came out here, so he could get away from thinking about his dad being on that plane.

‘So, what brought you to DC?’ I ask.

‘I came to do research for a school project. The future of American politics.’ He puts quote marks round his words with his fingers. ‘Dad’s been working for the last week and he knew he was flying into DC so he thought it would make sense for me to come earlier – to do some work – and for him to join me afterwards.’

‘You came all the way to DC for a school project?’

‘Dad gets cheap flights. And he said it would make my project stand out – to do on-the-ground research.’

‘Wow, that’s commitment.’

‘Dad believes in doing things properly.’

‘Sounds like my mom.’

He makes another fold in his paper.

‘You really study American politics in the UK?’

He nods. ‘Dad made me take politics as an A-level. He wants me to understand.’

‘Understand what?’

He looks up at me and smiles. ‘Everything, basically. But the state of the world as it is now, I guess. And America’s kind of central to understanding that.’

‘Central to understanding how we’re fucking up the world, you mean?’

He laughs and his face relaxes for the first time.

‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘I guess we’re all a bit responsible for that.’

I think about the blazing rows Mom and Dad have about politics over dinner and how the one thing they agree on is that our current president is singlehandedly tearing down every good thing about our country. As far as I’m concerned, the mess the world’s in is another reason for going into space.

‘You enjoy that? Studying American politics?’ I ask.

He looks back into his hands. ‘Not really.’ Then he looks up again quickly. ‘I mean, no offence—’

I smile. ‘None taken.’

‘It’s not really my thing.’

‘But you’re doing it anyway?’

He looks back down. ‘Dad’s made a load of sacrifices – for my education. It’s the least I can do.’

‘Studying something you don’t enjoy seems like quite a big price to pay if you ask me.’

He stops folding and stares into his hands.

‘I mean, you should still get to study what you want to study,’ I add. ‘You only live once and all that.’