Cosmic Joke (But I'm Not Laughing)

Miles has never believed in miracles. He does not search for meaning in tea leaves or surround himself with crystals or polished rocks–he doesn’t believe that rose quartz will bring him love or in the healing energy of amber. He doesn’t believe that a hack in robes can read his fate, his future, or his past simply by tracing a clammy finger across the lines in his palm. He stopped believing, at the tender age of six, that a jolly fat man in a red suit made his way to every single one of the world’s countless children on Christmas night–that he’d expected a birthday card from Santa, as he himself had been born on Christmas Eve, and never received one had nothing to do with it. The reality of finding his nanny, Lydia, placing carefully-wrapped presents for both him and his brother, Matthew, under the tree–that she decorated with them earlier in the week, when their parents had been away–in the wee hours of the night was all the proof he’d needed.

Miles isn’t a superstitious man. There’s order in the world, sure, but chaos too; he’d never been a believer that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes, things happened because they happened, and there was no deeper meaning. Sometimes things fell apart, sometimes things didn’t work out. People connected dots that didn’t need connecting, made meaning where it didn’t exist. He didn’t need to believe that his being a Capricorn, which he’d learned against his will thanks to Chano, had anything to do with his character; he was a hard worker because he believed in doing a good job, he’d learned to be stubborn through years of his needs going unmet and his thoughts unheard. He doesn’t feel that he’s missing anything by acknowledging the fact that, unless it can be proven to him, and that proof can be repeated, it’s not worth consideration. He doesn’t feel that his life is any less meaningful for it.

God, the thought of Chano makes his chest ache. They’d last spoken days before Miles’ thirtieth birthday, a few weeks ago now. They hadn’t done anything special that day, as far as he could remember, and he’d gone over every second in his head over and over again. He’d reviewed the mental footage until the metaphorical film wore out, and nothing extraordinary came to mind. It was, by all accounts, an ordinary day. The only stand-out was that, at the end of it, Chano had walked out of his life and completely failed to walk back in.

Miles stares at the dark sky from his balcony. He can’t see the stars for all of the light pollution in the city. He can’t even see the moon, probably just a hair away from full at this point, hidden away behind him and the apartment building he inhabits. Inside, things are equally dark, though he can hear the occasional bump, sneeze, or scratch of claws on corrugated cardboard that signals LB is near, slinking around in the dim living room. She’d been restless these past few weeks, crying more, looking for someone who wasn’t coming home. This, he thinks, might be the most heartbreaking part of the whole affair.

He and Chano had driven out of the city, back when they were still getting to know each other. Miles wanted a chance to gaze at the stars, revel at the way they studded the inky sky. He’d grown up in a much smaller town at a higher altitude, and he’d been missing seeing them. He was no astronomer, could point out little more than the dippers and Orion’s Belt, but he’d studied up and figured out how to find Gemini. Chano had a vested interest in the zodiac. It was the perfect time to see it high in the sky, and the cold February air had given them the perfect excuse to snuggle close on the hood of Miles’ car. If he thought about it, he could almost still feel the warm puff of Chano’s breath against his cheek, feel the weight of Chano’s hand on his chest as he laughed, asking, “Where’s Capricorn?”

“I have no idea,” Miles had replied. Admitted, more like. He hadn’t thought of the obvious follow-up, had assumed that Chano would only be interested in finding his own sign in the sky.

“You know,” Chano’d said, that laugh still caught in his voice, “Capricorn and Gemini aren’t real compatible.”

“Says who, the stars?”

Chano’d been humoring him by agreeing to go at all. He was no stargazer, he’d been a city boy all his life, and he much preferred that temperature-controlled indoors to the crisp dark of the outside. He liked mood lighting, soft blankets, and a full-bodied red wine. He’d laughed off Miles’ derision about the zodiac and their compatibility, as he laughed off most things. So little got to him, and Miles had found that refreshing at the time.

Miles didn’t believe in signs, but maybe he’d missed a few red flags. Maybe that carefree nature, that water-off-the-duck’s-back attitude, should have told him something. So little got to Chano, sure, but maybe that was too little. Maybe Miles himself had never made it past that first, nearly impenetrable layer of Chano’s defenses. Maybe he’d never gotten to Chano either.

He certainly doesn’t find an answer in the dark sky now. The stars, undoubtedly present but hidden from his view, don’t offer him any wisdom. For all he knows, for all he could prove, a hundred shooting stars had passed him by unnoticed. He makes no wishes; he isn’t ready for more disappointment. The darkness, he supposes, offers a kind of comfort on its own. It expands as far as he can see, seemingly forever, and reminds him that he and his concerns are small. The world is vast, unknowable, and he’s just a blink in time. His worries, his hurt–they’re finite. This thing above him, this dark blanket, it’s infinite. It’s seen more in a fraction of its life that Miles will see in the entirety of his.

A small part of him might wish that he could be the kind of person who could wish on errant shooting stars. It’s the same small part of him that wishes it’d been his mom or dad he’d caught putting presents under the tree when he was small, that wished every subsequent year that he’d find one of them creeping, sneaking presents under the tree in the dead of night–but they’d never been the creeping types, and they snuck nowhere. The smallest, most foolish part of himself wishes that the rose quartz, still sitting on his nightstand, actually had the power Chano’d said it did, that it could inspire unconditional love. 

What a joke. Chano’d given it to him only days before he left. Miles didn’t believe in the power of stones, but Chano had–and Miles had believed that Chano meant it. He believed that Chano’d given him something that signified something bigger, something deeper. He’d thought it meant something Chano couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say. His carefree attitude, Miles suspected, had been a farce; he’d been hurt, but refused to say by what or whom. He never said, and Miles didn’t ask, but it was clear when he’d drop by unannounced at midnight to lie together in silence that he needed someone or something. There was a lot that’d gone unsaid between them, but Miles understood.

Or, he’d thought he did.

He’s surprised, now, that the thought makes him angry. Things had been good, and he didn’t and still doesn’t know what changed. His chest aches, and he feels that familiar burn in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t feel like crying. Not anymore. He stares into the dark, willing the wetness away from his eyes. He can almost imagine where Gemini might be, and that gives him an idea.

He slides the balcony door open, and the whisper-soft glide of it attracts LB’s attention. She approaches, rubs against his legs, and he pauses to pet her. The only sound in the dark apartment is the quiet rumble of her purr and the ticking of the clock; his watch tells him that it’s getting late, that he should consider going to sleep, but he’s not tired enough yet. He’d missed his 11:11 wish, as he’d missed every one before then, even though Chano used to alert him to it nightly (primarily to tease him). But he hasn’t missed it by too long. Less than an hour.

He sidesteps LB and continues to his bedroom. He might knock his knee against the nightstand when he gets there, might spend a moment fumbling in the dark, but he doesn’t need the lights to find the polished rose quartz sitting there. It’s cold against his palm, smooth and round, but it’s warmed up by the time he gets back to the balcony door. He’s held onto the damn thing for too long, and he doesn’t need another visual reminder of Chano’s presence here. He’d only just managed to pack away the toiletries, the high-end creams and pomades, the various things Chano’d considered essentials, that had previously taken up residence in his bathroom. He couldn’t bear the thought of all that waste, though he could similarly not bear the thought of using any of them, having to smell anything that reminded him of Chano’s skin. He’d washed his sheets countless times, but still imagined he could smell Chano there.

He squeezes the stupid crystal in his hand, almost wishing it weren’t so smooth. He wants, for a moment, to feel a jagged edge bite into his skin, but the harmless round thing only pushes into his palm. It annoys him, and he yanks open the balcony door more forcefully than he’d done moments before; it clatters in its frame. Behind him, LB makes a reproachful noise and skitters off into the bowels of the apartment.

The cool night air gives him a sense of clarity. It purifies his anger, concentrates it, makes it invigorating. He stares again up into the smooth, placid blackness of the sky above him.

Well? He thinks, defiant. Here’s your chance, send me a star to wish on. 

No shooting star comes, and he snorts. The sky is undisturbed. He’s never even seen a shooting star, not in thirty years. He feels foolish for even thinking about it, but he has something to wish for now. He wants the melancholic ache to leave him alone. He wants to stop wondering whether Chano’s okay, whether his leaving was a result of something Miles did, or maybe something he didn’t do. He wants to stop looking at his things, his surroundings, and seeing a phantom everywhere. He wants to never again consider that maybe, just maybe, Chano was out there somewhere, looking at that same sky and thinking about him. He hasn’t been able to manage any of what he wants on his own, and it’s about damn time he got a little help from the universe, even if he needs to create the conditions for it himself.

He squeezes the stone in his hand one last time, feeling the divot it’s left in his skin from the force of his grip–and then he lobs it at the dark sky. 

There’s my shooting star.

He’s never made a wish like this. He should be due, and this lifetime of unused wishes should count for something–so he wishes. There is no star light, star bright, but he wishes with all his might anyway.

He’s disappointed, but not surprised, to find that his heart doesn’t magically mend. It’s still stuck on Chano’s gray eyes, his mischievous smile. The sad way he’d looked at Mile, the soft murmur of his apology, the day he’d walked out. Miles wills the image away.

He would make the wish come true himself, since the universe was so intent on letting him down. He casts one more rueful glance at the sky, still but a stretch of unending blackness. No stars, no cosmic signs. He’d made the conditions for the wish, after all, so it only follows that it’d be up to him to make it come true. There’s a knock from somewhere in the building, quiet enough that he’s sure it’s someone at the neighbor’s trying to be conscientious of the hour. His watch tells him why–it’s just past midnight. 

He can’t hear anyone in the adjoining apartment stirring. Maybe he’d missed it, because the knocking hasn’t continued. 

He lost track of the quartz almost as soon as it’d left his hand. The greedy dark had swallowed it up quickly, and it gives him a small amount of closure. Maybe someone would find it, mistake it for a sign, give it to some other unlucky fool and continue the cycle of broken hearts.

Miles’ phone vibrates in his pocket, and he frowns. When he looks at the screen, his frown deepens.

I’m sorry, the first text reads. The next one comes in seconds later: If you’re awake, please let me in. The third follows almost immediately, saying You don’t owe me anything, but I owe you an apology.

Miles presses the heel of his hand into his eye, the acrid anger he’d been tasting in the back of his throat mellowing some. He’s not sure how he should feel; is it a relief or a disappointment that his very first wish is a resounding failure? The universe has elected to ignore him. 

That’s not entirely accurate, he supposes; it hasn’t done anything so benevolent as ignoring him, but has instead chosen to spite him–it has brought the very thing he wished would leave him alone to his front door. He wished for peace from his pain, to shoo away the remnants of his rogue lover, and now the prodigal lover returns. He reminds himself that he’d only just vowed to make his wish come true himself, and there’s nothing stopping him from silencing his phone, pretending he’s not home. No time like the present to start making his dreams come true.

He hears another gentle knock, and knows without hearing it that Chano must have said something from the other side of the door by the way LB lets out a wailing meow to alert him. He looks at his phone again, and he turns it off. When he looks back at the sky, it’s staring back at him.

The judgment he feels echoed back at him is entirely of his own making, he knows. Only minutes ago the expanse had felt endless, comforting, but now it feels cold and empty. 

It’s been long enough that he assumes Chano’s taken the hint. When he pads, barefoot, across the living room, he can just make out that LB still has her face pressed into the crack under the door, can hear the soft huffing of her breath as she scents the air out in the hall. He pauses, and he hears little else. When he peers through the peephole, the hallway looks empty. He tries to coax LB away from the door, but she’s adamant. She won’t stray, and nothing he tries to bribe her with proves sufficient distraction. He’s left with little choice but to scoop her up and show her that no one’s there.

She squirms in his arms as he opens the door, restless again. He nearly drops her as she uses all nine pounds of her bulk to flail against him.

“Lunchbox,” he hisses, though his admonishment does little to quell her sudden fit. He only uses her full name, gifted to her by the shelter he’d adopted her from, when he’s annoyed at her. She doesn’t care, and clearly does not respect the significance of it. He turns back, prepared to dump her back into the apartment rather than risk letting her loose in the hallway, and nearly slams his forehead into the closing door. He might’ve managed to give himself an impressive goose egg if a hand hadn’t shot out in front of his very eyes and cushioned the blow. Knocking knuckles against his face isn’t exactly pleasant, but it beats catching the edge of the door between his eyes.

He’s almost relieved until he looks back, meets a pair of gloomy gray eyes with his own, and then all sense of relief evaporates.

“Miles, hi.” Chano says it softly, contritely. He’s got his shoulders rounded, making himself small, but he looks hopeful anyway. “We should–talk. Can I come in?”

Miles has half a mind to yell at him, sleeping neighbors be damned. The nerve of this man, the audacity. Weeks with no word, not a single text, no explanation, and now he shows up like he’s meant to, like it’s his right. Miles hadn’t called, but he’s certain that if he had, it would’ve gone unanswered; Chano hadn’t called either, likely for the same reason. The ache is back in Miles’ chest, watching Chano watching him. He can feel it on his face, he’s glaring, but Chano keeps looking right at him. Doesn’t have the decency to look even a smidge less hopeful.

“Make yourself useful,” Miles eventually sighs. “Open the damn door.”