Chapter 24 #2
The question hits harder than the wind coming off the water. “I’m not afraid. I’m—”
“You’re terrified,” he interrupts, but his voice is gentle. “You’ve been dating Drew for what? A month? And instead of taking advantage of the situation, you’re hiding in our room, conducting a one-man production of Masturbation: The Musical.”
“That’s not—it’s complicated.”
“Most things involving human emotions are. That’s why I prefer the stars.” He gestures upward. “They’re predictable. Quantifiable. A star’s life cycle follows specific patterns based on mass and composition. No surprises.”
“Must be nice.”
He points to a section of the blackened sky. “See that bright star? That’s Betelgeuse, in Orion’s shoulder.”
I follow his finger, finding the reddish star after a couple of seconds. “Okay?”
“It’s dying. A red supergiant in its final stages. It could go supernova tomorrow, or in a hundred thousand years. We don’t know.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“Is it?” He turns the telescope toward Orion, making tiny adjustments. “It’s already dead, most likely. We’re seeing light that left the star 650 years ago. But look—”
He gestures for me to peer through the eyepiece. I lean in, and my breath catches. Through the telescope, Betelgeuse isn’t a dot of light—it’s a living thing, pulsing with color, surrounded by the faint wisps of gas it’s shedding into space.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
“Exactly. Even dying, it’s magnificent. And when it finally goes supernova, it’ll be visible during the day.
Brighter than the full moon.” Ryan’s getting excited now, hands moving as he talks.
“The star’s death will create elements that couldn’t exist otherwise.
Gold, uranium, all the heavy elements that make up our world—they’re born in that kind of violence. ”
“So you’re saying death leads to creation?”
“I’m saying that endings aren’t always endings.” He takes the telescope back, swinging it toward another section of sky. “Take a look at the Pleiades. What do you see?”
I gaze through the eyepiece again. “Stars. Lots of them. Blue ones?”
“Seven sisters, though most people can only see six with the naked eye.” Ryan’s in full professor mode now. “They’re young, only about 100 million years old. Babies, astronomically speaking. Still wrapped in the gas cloud that birthed them.”
“They’re beautiful too.”
“Now, here’s the thing—they’re moving apart.
The cluster is dissolving. In another 250 million years, they’ll be scattered across the sky, no longer sisters, just random stars with a shared origin.
” He pauses. “But right now, in this moment, they’re a family of stars dancing together before the universe pulls them apart. ”
“That’s even more depressing than the dying star.”
“Or it’s a reminder that nothing lasts forever, so you’d better appreciate what you have while you have it.
” Ryan’s staring at me now, not the stars.
“Jackson, you’re so terrified of this thing with Drew that you’re not allowing your relationship to flourish.
” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his notes app.
“Drew has texted you 847 times over the last three weeks. That’s an average of 40.
3 texts per day, with peak activity between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m.”
“How do you…”
“You leave your phone face-up. I have pattern recognition skills.” He continues scrolling.
“He’s liked every single one of your Instagram posts within three minutes of posting.
He brought you soup when you had a cold last semester, before this relationship.
He stares at you as though you personally hung every star in the sky. ”
“He stares at everyone. He’s Drew.”
“No,” Ryan says firmly. “He doesn’t. I’ve been observing—”
“Stalking.”
“—observing Drew for three years. He’s charming with everyone, yes. Flirtatious, absolutely. But with you, he’s different. Like a star and a supernova. Both are bright, but one’s light, and the other’s an explosion.”
I lie back on the blanket, staring up at the vast expanse of stars. They’re impossibly far away and intimately close to us at the same time. “When did you get so wise about relationships?”
“I’m not wise about relationships. I’m wise about patterns. And the pattern here is clear. You’re both idiots who are too scared to admit that you’re in love with each other.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
Ryan’s quiet for a moment, adjusting the telescope again. “Then you’ll hurt. You’ll masturbate even more for a while—which, frankly, seems impossible, but I’m sure you’ll find a way. You’ll avoid him and pretend you’re fine, and eventually, slowly, you’ll actually be fine.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Yes. But you’ll survive it. Humans are remarkably resilient.” He gestures for me to look through the telescope again. “See that fuzzy patch?”
I find what appears to be a smudge of light. “Yeah?”
“Andromeda Galaxy. It’s 2.5 million light-years away, containing a trillion stars. In about four billion years, it’s going to collide with our galaxy.”
“Okay, now you’re trying to give me existential dread.”
“I’m trying to scare you to the point that you won’t have the urge to masturbate when we get back home.”
My jaw pops open, and I flip Ryan the bird with both hands, holding them up high enough to be seen clearly in the starlight. “You’re such an asshole.”
Ryan snickers, not even bothering to be offended. He begins packing everything up, confusing me since we onlyjust arrived. Noticing my furrowed brow, he explains, “I’m cold and tired. Give me a piggyback ride to the car.”
My furrowed brow turns into a scowl. “Ryan, you’re not five years old.”
“No, but I am someone who is trying to save you from death by masturbation.” He’s already moving behind me, clearly expecting compliance. “Consider it payment for my therapeutic services.”
I should argue. Ryan’s perfectly capable of walking the quarter mile back to the car.
But there’s something about the absurdity of the request—my usually dignified roommate wanting a piggyback ride—that makes me laugh.
Plus, he’s right. He did just freeze his ass off to help me work through my Drew-related crisis.
“Fine,” I sigh, getting to my knees. “Hop on.”
Ryan climbs onto my back with surprising agility, his arms wrapping around my shoulders. He’s lighter than I expected, thanks to his sharp angles and bony limbs.
“Mush,” he says solemnly.
“I will drop you in the ocean.”
“You won’t. You love me too much.”
He’s right, but I grumble anyway as I stand, adjusting him.
The walk back to the car is slower than usual, partly because of the extra passenger with a telescope case hitting me in the chest, and partly because the sand makes every step twice as difficult.
Ryan, naturally, provides commentary the entire way.
“You know, this is quite comfortable. I can see why people enjoyed sedan chairs in ancient times.”
“Four people carried those.”
“Details.” His chin rests on top of my head. “Oh, look, Cassiopeia is particularly clear tonight.”
“Ryan, I swear to God.”
“I’m just saying, if you need a break, we could stop, and I could show you.”
“We’re twenty feet from my car.”
“Distance is relative. Einstein proved that.”
Despite my complaining, there’s something oddly comforting about Ryan’s weight on my back, his ridiculous commentary, and the rhythm of walking across familiar sand. It’s normal in a way that nothing has been since the roller rink.
Maybe I can figure this out and find a way forward that doesn’t involve hiding in my dorm room with a bottle of lube and my shame.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as we reach the car.
Ryan slides off my back. “For the impromptu astronomy lesson?”
“For caring enough to intervene.”
He pauses, hand halfway to the door handle, and glances at me over the roof. “Jackson, you’re one of my favorite people on this planet. Of course, I care. Even if your recent habits have turned our room into a fertility clinic.”
“And you ruined it.”
“I’m gifted like that.” He opens the car door and slides into the passenger seat. “Now get in before we both freeze to death and become cautionary tales about the dangers of stargazing in the middle of winter.”
I climb into the driver’s seat. “If you ever need an intervention, I’m taking you to a football game.”
He groans. “God help us all.”