As Far as the Stars

When the tow-truck guy finishes giving us a lecture on not parking illegally, he gets out one of those wireless credit card terminals and holds it out to me.

And I freeze.

I’ve spent all my cash on gas, having my nails done, and getting the sun filter for my telescope. And using the emergency credit card is out: first, because I already pulled out a large sum paying for Blake’s flight and second, because Mom will get an email alert. And she’s smart: she’ll notice that the transaction was made to some parking fine business in DC.

‘We take credit or debit,’ the guy says.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

I’m hoping that if I act surprised enough, he might change his mind. It’s a trick Blake taught me.

Except the guy looks at me like I’m an idiot. I should have learnt this lesson already: Blake’s tricks minus his charm don’t work.

‘No, I’m not kidding,’ he says, his voice deadpan.

‘You’re seriously making me pay a fine?’

‘Yeah. It’s policy,’ the guy says.

I consider pointing out that it’s not policy to drive a car back to its owner once it’s been towed. And that policies don’t really count when it comes to our particular situation. But he’s been pretty accommodating up to now and I don’t want him to take the car away again.

‘I can’t afford that,’ I say, staring at the $200 displayed on his terminal.

The parking control officer rolls his eyes.

‘I could lend you some money,’ Christopher says.

My first instinct is to say no.

Mom and Dad have raised us never to borrow money from anyone. Well, they’ve raised me and Jude not to borrow money from anyone. Blake does his own thing. Plus, I feel bad – I don’t even know Christopher. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay him back or how.

But I can’t stop thinking about how, if I leave now, I can still make it to the rehearsal dinner.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

When the guy drives back off, I put Leda in the back and get into the driver’s seat.

Then I sit there, the door open, staring at the silver guitar pendant hanging from the rear-view mirror; I gave it to Blake for his eighteenth birthday, three years ago. I can’t believe he’s actually twenty-one. You’re meant to be a proper grown-up by then, aren’t you? But Blake has this Peter Pan thing going on. He’ll never really be old.

In the rear-view mirror, I see my two dresses and Blake’s suit and hat box, laid out on the back.

And then I look at the rest of the car, like it’s the first time I see it. The scuffed leather bench seats in the front and back. The beige top, folded down. It’s awesome. Old and kind of rusty and it rattles whenever you go over sixty mph. But it’s totally awesome. Like Blake.

A hard lump forms at the back of my throat.

I close the car door, put my left hand on the steering wheel and I’m about to switch on the ignition when I notice something else: the photograph taped to the dashboard. I’m ten years old, standing on this tall rock above a swimming hole. Blake’s holding my hand. We’re about to jump.

Jude must have taken the picture. It was the first time Blake took us there – Blue Springs in the Cherokee National Forest, Tennessee.

I switch on the ignition.

And then I realise that he’s still standing there.

‘Do you have someone?’ I ask.

He looks at me, his grey eyes wide. ‘Someone?’

‘Someone you can call – or go to?’

He looks back at the arrivals lounge and then back at me like he’s struggling to make up his mind about something.

‘Where were you meant to go?’ I prompt. ‘After you picked up your dad—’ Then I stall.

I grip the steering wheel harder. ‘Well, where were you and your dad meant to stay? When he got here, I mean?’

Please may he have someone. A friend. A relative. A contact from his dad. He can’t stay here alone.

‘Oregon,’ he says. ‘A connecting flight. To see the eclipse.’

‘Wow, Oregon,’ I say. ‘That’s cool.’ Because Oregon’s where I would have chosen to be – if it weren’t for the wedding. I mean, Nashville’s a cool place to see the totality, but Oregon is where it all starts.

I wonder whether, in a different lifetime, without the wedding and without the plane going missing, Christopher and I might have met out there, at the beginning of the eclipse. And then I think about how we might have crossed walking around the Sculpture Garden in DC. Blake wrote this song, ages ago, about how when you’re meant to be meet someone, you get loads of chances – you brush past them over and over until BAM! you finally notice each other. I’d always thought that was a bit slushy and romantic – and too superstitious for my scientific world view. But maybe there’s something in it.

‘So, you have someone you know in Oregon?’ I ask. And then I feel stupid. They’re going on a holiday, why would they know anyone there? And even if they did know someone there, it’s miles away – it’s not like a friend in Oregon is going to help Christopher with what he’s going through here in DC.

‘No, we were going to stay in a hotel.’ His eyes go far away, like he’s trying to picture being there. ‘And Dad booked us a place on a sailing boat,’ Christopher says. ‘He wanted to see the eclipse from the water.’

A silence hangs between us: the silence of what was meant to happen if his life hadn’t just been turned upside down.

‘What about your mom?’ I ask.

He stares at me and blinks.

‘Was she meant to come with you – to see the eclipse?’ I ask.

And I know it’s overstepping. And that he would have mentioned his mom already if she were in his life. But I can’t drive away thinking that he’s going to be here on his own. There has to be someone he can call.

He shakes his head.

‘Is she back in England?’

He shakes his head again. ‘Atlanta.’

‘Your mom lives in Atlanta?’

He nods.

‘I’ve got a parent from each side of the pond – like you. Only the other way around. Mum’s American, Dad’s English.’