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I want to believe them all.
But it’s been easier to believe in extraterrestrial beings—in you, unearthly reader—than believing that everything will be okay in the end. I’ve known that.
I rub at my swollen eyes and look over at the doorway.
Farrow lifts his brows at me. “Fuck them. Whoever says a fucked up thing—they’re a waste of time in your head. They don’t deserve to be there, Luna.”
I know. “I don’t know how to get them out.” My voice sounds small.
Donnelly—I wish Donnelly would come back beside me, but he’s at the doorframe and speaking to someone in the hallway. Akara, Banks, Thatcher—maybe. I think all three. And I realize how big of a security issue this is.
Only my family and security knew my username on Fictitious. It was exposed, but by who?
I’m in a daze at the twelve-seat dining room table. It barely gets any use at the penthouse, but tonight it’s overflowing with laptops and all eight of my roommates. Their readiness in times of a crisis—even a 2 a.m. crisis revolving around the internet and me—reminds me that five of them are bodyguards. Prepared for the worst.
And then you have Jane and Moffy who are practically bodyguard adjacent with their leadership skills and resolve.
The only one remotely like me is Sulli, who’s doing her best to contribute to the team, on her own laptop. Her uncertain eyes ping to Banks and Akara on either side of her. Like she’s copying their homework for a test.
It almost makes me smile.
I’m at the head of the table. Quiet, mostly. I stare blankly at my sticker-decorated laptop. I open it and scroll through all my stories on Fictitious that Donnelly set to private.
“Send that link, honey,” Thatcher tells Jane.
“Done.” Jane clicks on her keyboard, her wavy hair tied in a low pony with a polka-dot scrunchie. The table hides some of her pregnant belly from my view. Same with Sulli’s growing baby bump.
Everyone looks woken out of bed, in various PJs. I threw on sweatpants before rejoining life outside my bedroom, but Donnelly, Farrow, Banks, and Akara didn’t even bother grabbing a shirt.
They just grabbed their laptops.
“Fuckin’ trolls,” Banks mutters, biting on a toothpick.
“Get ‘em, Banksy,” Akara quips, typing on his computer. “Use your big strong guns.”
“Keep teasing, Nine. We know you like my arms.”
“Not more than she does,” Akara smiles at Sulli, who’s blushing.
And then she pushes their arms. “Fucking focus, this is serious.”
Akara and Banks realize I’m watching them, and I just shrug. I want to say it’s okay. Hanging on to different banter at the table makes it feel like the world hasn’t completely overturned. The familiarity tries to ease me. Plus, I get that the three of them have been dealing with a lot of toxicity online. This might just be more of the same to them, and they seem to cope through laughter.
Still, it’s hard to speak at all.
A lump is nestled in my throat.
“We’re getting this fixed, Luna,” Akara assures me. He’s the head of SFO, so he’d know how catastrophic it’d look, but I also think Akara wishes he could solve every problem, too. So I don’t know if he’s just trying to make me feel better.
They’ve all been tracing links of the screenshotted stories and sending them to Uncle Garrison, who’s on the phone with Moffy.
My uncle is a wizard at coding and all things internet.
At the moment, everyone is just trying to do damage control. Not solve a “whodunit” mystery. Because in less than five minutes, Uncle Garrison discovered how my username was exposed.
It was me. It was my fault.
I’d been on my phone at my Biology lecture on campus. I popped up my Fictitious profile, logged into my account where my drafts were hidden—just to tweak a line I thought about in the moment—and an unknown student behind me snapped a photo, capturing my phone screen.
Capturing me.
Internet sleuths put two-and-two together.
I am galaxxygirlx. And I have no one to blame but myself. My eyes are raw, still burning from tears that threaten to well.
I’ve never felt so…ashamed. Of what I’ve done, of what I’ve written—and shame isn’t anything I’ve ever experienced to this magnitude.
It’s a suffocating, unbearable feeling. Tearing at my insides.
My eyes glass more and my face roasts. I swallow hard to fight waterworks and a breakdown at the table. I have the urge to hide in my shirt again.
“We’ve been through this,” Jane says analytically from across the table. “Your brother and I. The incest rumors. We felt like they’d change an awful lot of everything, but they blew over in time, Luna.”
“This will too,” Moffy nods, assured about this, his phone lowered from his ear. “And don’t worry about our families’ companies.” He knows this has been a big stressor. “Dad and Mom won’t care if their stocks dip or take a colossal hit, just like they didn’t care before.”
