Leaving the hospital was surreal. People gawked, and you assumed that whatever you felt deepest in your soul was stamped across the forehead. The news was positive, but there were comments about not being out of the woods yet.

I didn't know what the woods had to do with Dad, but I was relieved. At the same time, I found it hard to walk rather than just drag my feet to the truck.

Chuck jogged over and fell into step beside me. "Are you still obsessing over Heather? I told you I didn't kiss her."

"Why was your truck parked in her driveway this morning?" Now seemed the best time to do an alibi check.

"I went back to pick her up. It was obvious that you weren't going to. You stormed off to your room like a twelve-year-old."

I came to a halt. The truth stung like a bee in summer. I hadn't even considered going back.

"You need to apologize to Mom and Heather." The sincerity in his voice was a first. "If you wanna borrow the truck to do that, you can. We all have ways of coping, Adrian—yours is hurting others..."

My dad had never not existed. When I stared at a sunset, he breathed somewhere else, never a question that one day I might watch it rise again without him. The idea of losing Heather or Dad made my stomach sink. Maybe tonight, I would punch Pat in the crotch, and right before he fell, I'd see him smile. Thank fuck for the stairs.

There was a new weight in my stomach. The only way it would ease was with thoughts of filling up Chuck's tank with premium gas. The next time I borrowed the truck, I'll leave a post-it note. Two days ago, there would have been no world where Heather sucked and Chuck was the hero. Never in my life had I felt more awkward having to ask Chuck for advice.

"How do I apologize to Mom?"

He looked down at me with the same eyes as my father. "Comfort her and then do chores."

I squinted at him. "How do I do that?"

"Start with hugs."

"With what?"

My skin went clammy, but I nodded my head in agreement to do it. Nothing screamed regret more than the potential of losing somebody without relaying how you felt—that and the email address I chose when I was eleven.

I strode ahead. My fingers fumbled dialing Heather's number, but it went straight to voicemail. Not to be defeated, I dialed her home number, but when her mom answered, I hung up.

If she ever spoke to me again, I listed all the responses she may have, but my mind wouldn't allow me to bypass the first: rejection.

If she did pick up, I'd let Heather ask me again to prom, and even though that would make me feel slightly emasculated, I would get over it. Heather would wear a T-shirt that pledged 'Riots not Diets,' and I would borrow one of dad's dress shirts but pair it with jeans. We'd spike the punch and then watch the carnage. Then, finally, things would get better, and Chuck would suck a little less.

We wouldn't rent a room, but take the truck instead, hit a drive-through, then eat burgers under the stars, and she'd name every incorrect constellation she knew. I'd be silent because all I wanted to do was kiss her. She'd say I'm normally a rambler, and I am, but she knew shit about stars.

I'd tell her that's what our prom looked like to me, and if she still wanted to go, I would be privileged to take her.

Prom was always an ending; best friends move away, we graduate, and life will never be the same. But maybe some pieces of our teenage life will float into the adult chaos with us, and we wouldn't have to lose them forever.

Some endings are messy, and so are Heather and I. On the third try, she answered, and I got a date to prom.

|The End|

Incorrect Constellations

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