02 | CELESTIAL

positioned in or relating to the sky, or outer space as observed in astronomy.

☆

I WAKE UP TO A FACE above mine, multiplying as he moves like a glitched film in twenty frames-per-second. So many pairs of blue-grey eyes. Water drips from the ends of his dark hair and onto my face. Ryan?

Rain pounds the pavement beside me. Everything—the black clouds, the brick of The Black Inlet's exterior—is distorted. He delicately touches my shoulder.

"Hey, are you okay? Aria, come on, we need to get you out of the rain."

"That bitch!" I jolt upright, and Ryan jumps away. A dull ache throbs through my cheekbone and grows more intense as my cognizance returns.

"Hey, not so fast." He hovers his hands over my shoulders. "You should really take it easy."

"How long was I out for?"

"I don't know, I was just locking up when I found you. Here, let me help." He hoists me to my feet and steadies me with a hand on my lower back. I fist his soaking wet shirt. "Easy now," he says. "Come on, I've got you."

"Fuck, I don't feel good."

"Are you gonna be sick?"

"No. No, I need to get home."

"You were assaulted. I should call the cops."

"No! No cops. Please. I'm fine."

He hesitates. "I'm the one who served you. If you don't get home safe, it's on me."

Way too sick to respond, I stay silent.

"All right, I can give you a ride," he says. "That okay?"

"Please," I manage to say.

Ryan practically has to bend his body in half to get low enough to sling my arm around his shoulder. After a moment of frustrated grunts, he picks me up bridal style like I'm made of nothing. "Sorry," he says, "but it's easier this way."

The scent of sandalwood and rain envelops me when I hook my arms around his neck. I slip into blackness again. The next thing I know, I smell pine. I open my eyes to see a Tim Horton's cup and a National Geographic magazine on the center console of a car. Ryan gets into the driver's side. Rain drums the roof, and a flicker of lightning illuminates his face: eyes filled with worry, a frown tugging at his lips. Oh God, what am I doing here?

"Who did this to you?" he asks.

"This chick... she broke my phone, and my idiot ass decided to say something. She sucker punched me."

"What did she look like?"

"Tall, brunette, hot as hell, but a total bitch."

"Jean jacket? Redheaded friend?"

"That's the one."

He scratches behind his ear. "Damn it, I was worried I overserved her..."

I drunkenly laugh. "You overserved me too, remember?" Ryan blinks at me, so I mumble an apology. Not the time to be making jokes, idiot.

His hand reaches toward me, and I allow him to brush my hair from my cheek so he can observe the wound. "It doesn't look that bad, but how are you feeling? Do you need a hospital?"

"No, I just need to get home. Please."

"Okay, where do you live?" I'm too out of it to reply, so he gently touches my arm. "Aria. I can't drive you home if I don't know where you live."

"Old South. 167 Rochester."

Ryan buckles my seatbelt for me, and the motion of the car starting makes my gut lurch.

"Hey, try not to get sick in my car, okay? I'll pull over if you need me to."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

He turns on the radio. Californication ebbs through the speakers, and the mellow guitar riffs turn to colours around me. Bile burns my throat but I keep it in. Don't throw up in his car. I can't throw up in his car. City lights flash through my closed eyelids and hurt my brain. When we pull up to a stoplight, I dare to open them—and all the blood rushes to my head and spirals there like a merry-go-round.

"Ryan, I'm gonna throw up."

"Oh, fuck."

I point to the big yellow arches. "McDonald's."

"What?"

"Dude, pull into the McDonald's, unless you want my vomit on everything."

He whips into the lot, and before I leave the car, I grab his arm.

"You're not gonna leave me here, are you?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

I rush into that McDonald's like my life depends on it. Then I'm hugging a toilet, losing chunks of time the same way I expel the contents of my stomach. I knew that six-inch cold cuts sub wasn't going to be enough to fill me for the whole night. A crumpled burger wrapper with a big M on it is on the mucky floor next to me. My first thought is: who brings their burger into a bathroom? And my second: Ryan is out there waiting to take me home, that fucking gentleman, so I run out of the bathroom and into the restaurant.

2:33 a.m. A group of teenage guys wait in line, and an old man in tattered clothes eyes me from his seat near the PlayPlace. Ryan is going to have to wait, because if I don't get some food in me now, I'm going to yak again. After ordering two Big Mac meals, I bring them outside, and exactly as promised, Ryan's dark blue Pontiac Sunfire is there waiting.

"Sorry, sorry." I shut the door behind me and shove one bag on his lap. "It's a Big Mac. Peace offering?"

"Thanks." He takes the bag, but doesn't open it. When I take my food out, his pale skin somehow gets whiter, as if he's repulsed by the smell. I eat a massive bite of my burger and pull down the mirror. Black makeup is smeared around my brown eyes, my hair is a teased mess, and my wet burgundy hoodie clings to my skin.

"Jesus Christ, I look like my birth mother."

"Your birth mother?"

"Yeah. She's... something else." I guess I'm more related to her than I want to admit, because in the reflection of that mirror, I see nothing but her. A drunken hag with a massive welt on her cheek. Ugh.

"Why do you call her your birth mother?" Ryan asks. "Why not just... mother?"

"Because I didn't even know her until I was sixteen."

"Oh."

I sigh. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you this. Jesus, you must think I'm such an idiot."

"I don't think that."

"You have to. First the cringey flirting, now you're driving my drunk ass home... I'm a mess, Ryan."

He wipes his palms on his blue jeans. His seat is as back as far as it can go, yet his long legs are still awkwardly positioned to fit. "Well, I'm a bartender. It's my job to help people who are messes, whether it's helping them get messy or helping them clean up."

"So you've dealt with someone like me before?"

"Not exactly. I've never had to drive someone home before."

"Or take them to McDonald's?" I smile again and hope that after all of this, he at least might still think I'm cute.

But he just starts the car. "Yeah. Anyway, 167 Rochester, right?"

I nod and take a weak bite of my burger.

For the rest of the drive, I direct him toward my place in silence. After-bar traffic clogs the arteries of downtown; this is the busiest time you'll ever see it here. This town is a fishbowl, too small to be considered an actual city like Toronto, but too big to be a small town, either. Our only attraction is a fancy university, so a lot of people breeze in for a few years to get an education before whisking off to better lives.

Not me, though. I was born here. A small city girl. I glance at Ryan through my peripherals. He focuses on the road, his expression tired and tense, and the streetlights cast flashes of yellow and blue and red over his cheeks.

Despite everything, I'm one lucky bitch; of all the guys who could've found me drunk and knocked out in front of a dive bar, I happened to get the nicest one. There are a hell of a lot of men who wouldn't do the same. And in my drunk state, I can't help but think of him as celestial—he reminds me of a constellation, because he's a light wrapped up in blue and black, because he says no words and yet his silence speaks volumes.

It's justified, I'm a goddamn mess. I've inconvenienced and annoyed him. I might as well quit while I'm ahead, because no amount of flirting is going to get him to view me in any other light. The thought fills me with a throat-tightening regret, because I like him. And there's no way he'll ever like me.

At long last, the city streets are replaced with the Victorian homes of my neighbourhood.

"Here it is," I say. Luna, Devin, Caroline, and I rent the upper unit of this huge house in the south end. Ryan stops out front of number 167. Dying grass spreads throughout sparse green on our lawn, and tall, unruly weeds sprout from the dirt of our shitty garden. A plaque that reads 1884 hangs proudly on our porch, our landlord's most prized possession. He gets tax cuts from the city for keeping a piece of history alive.

"Nice place," Ryan says.

"So, um..." I laugh obnoxiously, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't suppose you'll let me make this up to you? Like, coffee tomorrow? Or something?" Worth a shot, I guess...

Ryan moves a piece of his hair behind his ear. "Thanks, but it's really not necessary. I just wanted to get you home safe."

Ouch. I knew it was coming, but I'm really not used to this whole rejection thing.

"Right." I open the car door, but lean back in and meet his eyes. They're not mad; exhausted, maybe. But not angry. Still, I'll never be able to face this guy again, so I say, "Thank you for this. I really, really appreciate it. And I'm sorry, but no offense—I hope I never see you again."

I teeter up to the house and struggle to get my key in the lock. Once I'm safe in the stairwell, I press my back to the door and take a deep breath before I peek through the curtains. Ryan is still parked outside, looking at the house, as if to make sure I'm really in here. Moments later, he drives away.

* * *

A/N: Aria is a very messy heroine, but there's a lot of room for character development here :-D

What do you think of her and Ryan so far?

Anyway, I'm not sure how fast updates will be for this. They could be slow, fast, or totally sporadic and random (probably the latter). But I would really appreciate any feedback, and I truly hope you're finding it entertaining so far.

Don't forget to vote if you like it! xx