The Sun Is Also a Star

“Daniel,” she says, using the stern voice she’s sure to use on our future children (she’ll definitely be the disciplinarian). “You have an interview and I have this…thing. This is where we say goodbye.”

She’s right. I may not want the future my parents have planned for me, but I don’t have any better ideas. If I stay here much longer, my train will derail from its track.

It occurs to me that maybe that’s what I want. Maybe all the things I’m feeling for Natasha are just excuses to make it derail. After all, my parents would never approve. Not only is she not Korean, she is black. There’s no future here.

That and the fact that my extreme like for her is clearly unrequited. And love is not love if it’s not requited, right?

I should go.

I’m going to go.

I’m getting gone.

“You’re right,” I say.

She’s surprised, and maybe even a little disappointed, but what difference does that make? She has to want this, and clearly she does not.

I WASN’T EXPECTING HIM to say that, and I didn’t expect to feel disappointed, but I do. Why am I thinking about romance with a boy I’ll never see again? My future gets decided in five minutes.

We’re standing close enough to the building’s sliding glass doors that the cool of the air-conditioning washes over my skin as people enter and exit.

He sticks out his hand for a shake but quickly pulls it back. “Sorry,” he says, and blushes. He folds his arms across his chest.

“Well, I’m going,” I say.

“You’re going,” he says, and then neither of us moves.

We stand there not saying anything for another few seconds until I remember I still have his jacket in my backpack. I take it out and watch as he shrugs it back on.

“In that suit, you look like you should work in this building,” I say to him.

I mean it as a compliment, but he doesn’t take it as one.

He tugs at his tie and grimaces. “Maybe I will one day.”

“Well,” I say after more staring-and-not-talking. “This is getting awkward.”

“Should we just hug?”

“I thought you suits only shook hands.” I’m trying to keep my tone light, but my vocal cords go all husky and weird.

He smiles and doesn’t try to keep any of the sadness off his face. How can he be so okay with showing off his heart?

I have to look away from him. I don’t want whatever is happening between us to happen, but it feels like trying to stop the weather from happening.

The doors open and the cool air washes over my skin again. I’m hot and cold at the same time. I open my arms for a hug at the same moment he does. We try to hug each other from the same side and end up bumping chests instead. We laugh awkwardly and stop moving.

“I’m going to go right,” he says. “You go left.”

“Okay,” I say, and go left. He holds me, and since we’re both about the same height my face brushes against his cheek, which is soft and smooth and warm. I let my head drop onto his shoulder and my body relaxes in his arms. For a minute, I let myself feel how tired I am. It’s hard trying to hold on to a place that doesn’t want you. But Daniel does want me. I feel it in the way he holds me tight.

I pull out of his arms and don’t meet his eyes.

He decides not to say whatever he was going to say.

I get out my phone and check the time.

“Time to go,” he says, before I can say it first.

I turn and walk into the cold building.

I think about him as I sign in with security. I think about him as I cross the lobby floor. I think about him in the elevator and down the long hallway and every moment until the moment that I have to stop thinking about him, when I enter the office.

The construction noises I heard over the phone earlier were actually due to construction, because the office is only halfway built. The walls are partly painted, and bare bulbs hang from the ceiling. Sawdust and paint splotches cover the tarped floor. Behind the desk, a woman sits with both hands resting on her office phone, as if she’s willing it to ring. Despite her bright red lipstick and rose-rouged cheeks, she’s very pale. Her hair is deep black and perfectly styled. Something about her doesn’t seem quite real. She seems like she’s playing a part—an extra from an old-school Disney cartoon or from a period movie set in the 1950s that called for secretaries. Her desk is neat, with color-coded stacks of files. There’s a mug that says PARALEGALS DO IT CHEAPER.

She smiles a sad, trembling smile as I approach.

“Do I have the right place?” I ask out loud.

She stares at me mutely.

“Is this Attorney Fitzgerald’s office?” I prompt.

“You’re Natasha,” she says.

She must be the person I spoke with earlier. I approach the desk.

“I have some bad news,” she says. My stomach clenches. I’m not ready for what she’s going to say. Is it over before it’s even begun? Has my fate already been decided? Am I really being deported tonight?

A man in paint-splattered overalls walks in and starts drilling. Someone else I can’t see begins hammering. She doesn’t change her volume to adjust for the noise. I move even closer to the desk.

“Jeremy—Attorney Fitzgerald—was in a car accident an hour ago. He’s still in the hospital. His wife says he’s fine, just a few bruises. But he won’t be back until late this afternoon.”