The Chaos of Stars

“No.” I pause, thinking of all the dreams I’ve had lately. The dreams of darkness swallowing and unmaking everything around me while I . . . do nothing. Do I really feel guilty that I don’t worship my parents like they want me to? I didn’t think I did. I thought all I felt about that was anger. But . . . “Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not.”

“Okay, don’t get mad, but it sounds like your parents care. They’re trying to keep you safe in the best way they know how.”

“No, that’s just it. They don’t care. This was an easy solution for them, so they took it.”

“Why are you so sure they don’t care?”

“I can’t explain it. It wouldn’t make any sense to you. But trust me. My dad’s whole job, his whole life is taking care of people, and he’s so consumed by it he doesn’t even know who I am. He doesn’t even live in my world. And my mom, she’s like this legendary mother figure, but when it comes down to it, she doesn’t actually care about me. I’m a means to an end. Period. They don’t love me. They never have.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about when you talk about love. How do you define it?”

“Well, according to you, I wouldn’t know.”

He smiles. “My family has made a special study of love. It’s kind of our thing. Did I ever tell you my mom is a professional matchmaker?”

Of course she is.

“Anyway, we Greek poets think a lot about love, too. We finally went ahead and made three separate definitions and words for love just to try and explain it. So maybe—maybe your parents love you in a way you don’t understand, or a language you don’t speak.”

“That’s crap, Ry.” I speak every language in the world. They don’t care about me in any of them.

“Okay, maybe they don’t love you in the way that you need. But I can’t imagine that they don’t love you at all. That’s not possible.”

“You don’t know them. They’re capable of anything.” Adultery, blackmail, attempted murder, having kids just to create more worshippers. What’s not loving one stupid, noncompliant mortal daughter on the list of their sins and shortcomings?

“No, I mean it’s not possible not to love you. Even if they are the worst parents in the world. If they didn’t love you, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, grabbing his phone to find some music so that hopefully he will stop talking. He doesn’t know them. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. If even Sirus doesn’t get it, Ry never ever could.

I scroll through the playlists and stop. “Why do you have a playlist named ‘Isadora’?”

He snatches the phone from me with a sheepish grin. “In the interest of not pissing you off anymore tonight, let’s not select that particular playlist.” Ignoring my glare (why oh why couldn’t I have inherited the instant-headache glare?), he turns on something instrumental. “So, if you could reconcile with your parents and get what you need from them, would you be willing to date someone? Is that the hang-up?”

“What’s the point of it all? Love sets you up for disappointment and pain, and we all end up alone one way or another. Nothing—nothing—in my life can last.”

“I take issue with every aspect of that. Love is a point in and of itself. But the core of your argument is that relationships are pointless because they don’t last, right?”

“Sure.”

“Then why do you design rooms? I mean, they’re nice now, but styles and tastes change. You aren’t creating anything permanent. The museum wing you’re killing yourself for will only be there for a few months. So what’s the point in spending so much time and energy investing all of yourself into something that isn’t permanent?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Well, for one thing, rooms don’t betray you. I’ve yet to meet a room that snuck around and slept with its sister-room’s husband.”

Ry snorts. “Well, most people won’t do that, either. And unlike rooms, people can give things back to you. Contribute as much or more than you do.”

“People aren’t like designs. I can’t pick and choose everything that goes into them, and I can’t imagine anyone picking what I am.”

“You have a terrible imagination then. But what I’m getting is that this is a control issue. You’re scared because the other person is outside of your control, and so is the way they make you feel.”

“This is a terrible analysis. Designing is nothing like love. Idiot gods, you must be the worst poet ever if these are your metaphors.”

He laughs. “See? How could I ever be arrogant with you around? Someday I’ll let you read my poems and decide for yourself. But I’m not backing down on this. Are you a coward?”

“No.”