shooting stars and satellites
chapter 1
sept 2018
this is an unprecedented meet-cute, but neither of them are complaining.
i. from cil.
Taking the back roads was meant to be an act of genius, but there’s a tree down blocking the street and the cars are backed up on the usually solitary stretch of pavement. Cil doesn’t drive himself often, so this is especially frustrating, as there’s no one else in the car to complain to. All alone. Only his frustration is there to keep him company.
Not that there’s much to complain about. A tree fell down, they’re working to get it out of the way now. There’s nothing to be done other than what they’re doing, so Cil puts his car in park and waits until it’s his turn to move again. They’ve got the debris cleared from one lane, so they’re filtering cars back and forth and Cil simply has to call the office to let them know he’ll be late and to push his conference call back an hour.
“There’s nothing to be done,” he says to his secretary. “I’m completely stuck.”
“Can’t you just turn around?”
Cil is annoyed because yes, he could, and he probably should have, but he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? And now it’s almost his turn to go, once the people on his right are clear. So turning around now would be pointless.
“It’s all blocked,” he lies. “Lots of trees.”
“How did you get to where you are in the first place if it’s blocked by trees?”
“I gotta go.” Cil hangs up quickly before he can bury himself deeper. His employees aren’t afraid of him. They aren’t afraid to ask questions and get details. He prefers it that way, except for in these cases, when he’d rather their suspicions go unremarked.
He watches as his phone buzzes with emails in the cupholder - he has a dedicated phone holder on his windshield but never takes the time to actually clip his phone in it - and inches ever closer to his goal. Very slowly. So slowly, like an itch he can’t scratch. All he wants is to get to work for a very stressful day. He just wants to be overstretched at work, rather than in the car all alone.
And finally, it’s his turn. He waited like the patient man he is and now he gets to go. It’s his moment of glory as he gives a big grin to the police officer waving him on, and everything is perfect, so of course the back of his car suddenly swerves sideways, sending him careening into a skid. He can only imagine the look on his face as he slides, watching the officer run for his life as two tons of metal come screeching towards him. It’s probably a mix between bewilderment and acceptance. He’s already accepted it. He’s already accepted he’s getting in a fender bender today, because that’s just how the morning is shaping up. That’s just how it is, sometimes.
He ends up completely backwards, facing the car that’s just given him months of financial headaches and insurance paperwork. Car accidents are such a hassle, which is why Cil tries to find himself in them rarely, as he imagines most people do. But this driver seems to have a different mindset, if the appearance of his shoddy car has anything to say for him. It’s a beat up clunker from 1901, probably one of the first to come off the assembly line. Which is fine - everyone lives within their means, except this car looks like it’s also been in a few wrecks. Maybe the dents and scratches are from a previous driver, but Cil doubts it. He tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before he knows he has to get out of his car. There’s a thump of the other driver slamming his door closed, and he’s shouting something before Cil can finish his breath.
“The food was slipping and my foot came off the brake!”
Cil looks in his side mirror. He can’t quite see the man yet, but he’s shouting as if Cil has done something wrong. As if he’s the angry one, when Cil imagines he should be quite apologetic. Cil isn’t very mad himself - Cil doesn’t really get mad - but he is inconvenienced further, which is beginning to really get on his nerves.
He finally reaches for the door handle and opens the car door, unsure where the grace he’s exiting his vehicle with is coming from. Maybe it’s because his suit was just pressed so he knows his slacks look great. Not that the guy in front of him will care.
Cil’s eyes go wide. It’s like a movie. Or a TV show. Or a book. Or something fictional; it certainly can’t be real life. Someone this beautiful can’t have just inserted himself into Cil’s life with no option of escape. Cil bites down on his bottom lip hard for a few seconds and furrows his brows in confusion as he looks down at the other man - or kid, maybe, is a better term for him. He looks to be in his twenties, just a few years younger than Cil, but he’s short, around five-foot-four, and has messy hair flying all around his face. It’s a nice, deep auburn and could probably just barely be pulled back into a ponytail. A small one. A small ponytail, just barely dipping down into the collar of his t-shirt.
“I, uh-”
“I’m sorry,” he says as if he’s simply following instructions. Social instructions. If you hit someone, you apologize. “It’s just - I have a delivery and it started slipping everywhere and when I went to catch it my foot came off the brake and I hit down on the gas instead.”
Cil isn’t sure what to say. The kid is clearly frazzled, but scowling still, as if this isn’t his own doing. And Cil supposes it’s not exactly, he didn’t mean to hit Cil’s Aston Martin. If he’d meant to hit anyone, it would not have been the person whose car reaches into the millions. Especially when it looks like his car reaches into the tens.
“I need to get this delivered,” he urges. “Can I please just give you my number and - what kind of car is that?”
“Aston Martin.”
The kid’s eyes go wide.
“What?” he cries. “I can’t pay for that!”
“Do you have car insurance?”
“Yeah, but I can’t pay for that!”
“Just making sure you had insurance at all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m poor, I get it. My car sucks and I can’t hold down a relationship or whatever, I know.”
“I - what? I wasn’t sayi-”
“I’m telling you right now, I have to go but I can’t afford to fix your car. I’ll have to take out a loan and I’ll go into debt which I guess is what’s going to happen but just so you know, you’re not getting the money to fix this anytime soon. Not that you’d need it, but…”
“Look,” Cil says, trying to calm the beautiful human in front of him down. There’s something about an attractive person getting wild that makes Cil flustered. “I’m in a rush, too. Let’s just exchange numbers and I’ll call you later. Don’t worry about anything for right now. It wasn’t that hard of a hit, both our cars are still working. So let’s just deal with it later.”
The kid regards him curiously, as if he doesn’t trust him. Cil gets that a lot. Nice people can’t ever be trusted. There must be a hidden agenda. But Cil doesn’t have one right now, other than to get this guy’s number at all.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Cil says, reaching into his pocket but realizing he left his phone in the car. “Do you have your phone?”
The kid takes it out of his pocket and punches Cil’s number in. They both hear it ringing from his car and shake hands, the entire exchange lasting about four minutes. They go back to their cars quietly but then the kid shouts out behind him:
“Hey, wait!”
Cil turns.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
“Cecil,” he says. “But - but call me Cil.”
“Alright,” he mumbles, turning back to his phone. He must be putting Cil into his contacts. Cil licks his lips. He supposes he should get the kid’s name, too.
“What’s yours?”
“Yale.”
Cil blinks.
“Y-Yale? Like the school?”
“My mom just liked the way it sounded,” he says, rehearsed. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Call me when you get home from work, okay?”
Cil nods and finally gets back in his car, allowing Yale to back out first and waving at him as he drives past and off down the opposite road. He watches him go before another car honks at him to get a move on and he does, stepping down on the gas a bit too hard and lunging forward. He laughs to himself and backs up slowly again, finally getting back onto the right street, passing the evergreen downed on the road, and wondering if it’s a sign that he studied at Harvard.
Taking the back roads was meant to be an act of genius, but there’s a tree down blocking the street and the cars are backed up on the usually solitary stretch of pavement. Cil doesn’t drive himself often, so this is especially frustrating, as there’s no one else in the car to complain to. All alone. Only his frustration is there to keep him company.
Not that there’s much to complain about. A tree fell down, they’re working to get it out of the way now. There’s nothing to be done other than what they’re doing, so Cil puts his car in park and waits until it’s his turn to move again. They’ve got the debris cleared from one lane, so they’re filtering cars back and forth and Cil simply has to call the office to let them know he’ll be late and to push his conference call back an hour.
“There’s nothing to be done,” he says to his secretary. “I’m completely stuck.”
“Can’t you just turn around?”
Cil is annoyed because yes, he could, and he probably should have, but he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? And now it’s almost his turn to go, once the people on his right are clear. So turning around now would be pointless.
“It’s all blocked,” he lies. “Lots of trees.”
“How did you get to where you are in the first place if it’s blocked by trees?”
“I gotta go.” Cil hangs up quickly before he can bury himself deeper. His employees aren’t afraid of him. They aren’t afraid to ask questions and get details. He prefers it that way, except for in these cases, when he’d rather their suspicions go unremarked.
He watches as his phone buzzes with emails in the cupholder - he has a dedicated phone holder on his windshield but never takes the time to actually clip his phone in it - and inches ever closer to his goal. Very slowly. So slowly, like an itch he can’t scratch. All he wants is to get to work for a very stressful day. He just wants to be overstretched at work, rather than in the car all alone.
And finally, it’s his turn. He waited like the patient man he is and now he gets to go. It’s his moment of glory as he gives a big grin to the police officer waving him on, and everything is perfect, so of course the back of his car suddenly swerves sideways, sending him careening into a skid. He can only imagine the look on his face as he slides, watching the officer run for his life as two tons of metal come screeching towards him. It’s probably a mix between bewilderment and acceptance. He’s already accepted it. He’s already accepted he’s getting in a fender bender today, because that’s just how the morning is shaping up. That’s just how it is, sometimes.
He ends up completely backwards, facing the car that’s just given him months of financial headaches and insurance paperwork. Car accidents are such a hassle, which is why Cil tries to find himself in them rarely, as he imagines most people do. But this driver seems to have a different mindset, if the appearance of his shoddy car has anything to say for him. It’s a beat up clunker from 1901, probably one of the first to come off the assembly line. Which is fine - everyone lives within their means, except this car looks like it’s also been in a few wrecks. Maybe the dents and scratches are from a previous driver, but Cil doubts it. He tilts his head back and looks at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before he knows he has to get out of his car. There’s a thump of the other driver slamming his door closed, and he’s shouting something before Cil can finish his breath.
“The food was slipping and my foot came off the brake!”
Cil looks in his side mirror. He can’t quite see the man yet, but he’s shouting as if Cil has done something wrong. As if he’s the angry one, when Cil imagines he should be quite apologetic. Cil isn’t very mad himself - Cil doesn’t really get mad - but he is inconvenienced further, which is beginning to really get on his nerves.
He finally reaches for the door handle and opens the car door, unsure where the grace he’s exiting his vehicle with is coming from. Maybe it’s because his suit was just pressed so he knows his slacks look great. Not that the guy in front of him will care.
Cil’s eyes go wide. It’s like a movie. Or a TV show. Or a book. Or something fictional; it certainly can’t be real life. Someone this beautiful can’t have just inserted himself into Cil’s life with no option of escape. Cil bites down on his bottom lip hard for a few seconds and furrows his brows in confusion as he looks down at the other man - or kid, maybe, is a better term for him. He looks to be in his twenties, just a few years younger than Cil, but he’s short, around five-foot-four, and has messy hair flying all around his face. It’s a nice, deep auburn and could probably just barely be pulled back into a ponytail. A small one. A small ponytail, just barely dipping down into the collar of his t-shirt.
“I, uh-”
“I’m sorry,” he says as if he’s simply following instructions. Social instructions. If you hit someone, you apologize. “It’s just - I have a delivery and it started slipping everywhere and when I went to catch it my foot came off the brake and I hit down on the gas instead.”
Cil isn’t sure what to say. The kid is clearly frazzled, but scowling still, as if this isn’t his own doing. And Cil supposes it’s not exactly, he didn’t mean to hit Cil’s Aston Martin. If he’d meant to hit anyone, it would not have been the person whose car reaches into the millions. Especially when it looks like his car reaches into the tens.
“I need to get this delivered,” he urges. “Can I please just give you my number and - what kind of car is that?”
“Aston Martin.”
The kid’s eyes go wide.
“What?” he cries. “I can’t pay for that!”
“Do you have car insurance?”
“Yeah, but I can’t pay for that!”
“Just making sure you had insurance at all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m poor, I get it. My car sucks and I can’t hold down a relationship or whatever, I know.”
“I - what? I wasn’t sayi-”
“I’m telling you right now, I have to go but I can’t afford to fix your car. I’ll have to take out a loan and I’ll go into debt which I guess is what’s going to happen but just so you know, you’re not getting the money to fix this anytime soon. Not that you’d need it, but…”
“Look,” Cil says, trying to calm the beautiful human in front of him down. There’s something about an attractive person getting wild that makes Cil flustered. “I’m in a rush, too. Let’s just exchange numbers and I’ll call you later. Don’t worry about anything for right now. It wasn’t that hard of a hit, both our cars are still working. So let’s just deal with it later.”
The kid regards him curiously, as if he doesn’t trust him. Cil gets that a lot. Nice people can’t ever be trusted. There must be a hidden agenda. But Cil doesn’t have one right now, other than to get this guy’s number at all.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Cil says, reaching into his pocket but realizing he left his phone in the car. “Do you have your phone?”
The kid takes it out of his pocket and punches Cil’s number in. They both hear it ringing from his car and shake hands, the entire exchange lasting about four minutes. They go back to their cars quietly but then the kid shouts out behind him:
“Hey, wait!”
Cil turns.
“Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
“Cecil,” he says. “But - but call me Cil.”
“Alright,” he mumbles, turning back to his phone. He must be putting Cil into his contacts. Cil licks his lips. He supposes he should get the kid’s name, too.
“What’s yours?”
“Yale.”
Cil blinks.
“Y-Yale? Like the school?”
“My mom just liked the way it sounded,” he says, rehearsed. He doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Call me when you get home from work, okay?”
Cil nods and finally gets back in his car, allowing Yale to back out first and waving at him as he drives past and off down the opposite road. He watches him go before another car honks at him to get a move on and he does, stepping down on the gas a bit too hard and lunging forward. He laughs to himself and backs up slowly again, finally getting back onto the right street, passing the evergreen downed on the road, and wondering if it’s a sign that he studied at Harvard.