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My heart fills remembering his fingers sliding along my face, pressing stickers to my forehead and cheeks and nose. The pure elation of singing, head-banging, jumping and dancing like no one can touch us stays with me. Life is made up of exultant seconds and full breaths, and I’m breathing so fully with him. I know this.
My lungs could soar out of my body and to every universe, wherever those may be.
I want to believe me and him are more than just a fragmented, imaginary dream, but so much of what happened at the club feels surreal to me. Like a hope, a wish upon a shooting star—the idea of a serious thing between us is so far out of reach.
Why is that?
My dad.
I won’t jeopardize Donnelly’s life, and I should try to detach some strings of my heart that are latching on to his heart.
With another reread of my Fanaticon DMs, I go ahead and text Eliot and Tom in our group chat: what do you guys think about possibly asking to meet up with StaleBread? If it’s a public place like a convention, it shouldn’t be risky. Right?
Eliot replies so quickly that I barely have any time to set my phone down.
No reward without risk (I’m invited, correct?) – Eliot
My phone buzzes again.
I’m all for some mayhem, but this might be too far. You know 0 about this dude. Could be a catfish. Could be exclusively into dudes – Tom
Tom is right on that front. Before the risk, get some more information. Recon. – Eliot
Or bring us ?? – Tom
Recon? I don’t want to go full Harriet the Spy on this guy. I like how things are progressing naturally without any ulterior motives. But I understand Tom and Eliot are just being protective. I text back: going to think on it.
Reopening the Fanaticon chat, I reread our conversations again and again and again.
Hope surges. Hope that he’s a good guy. Hope that this could be something more. But Eliot and Tom are probably right, I need to know more before I ask to see him.
And I don’t want to be naïve about SB. If he is cruel or rude online about my family, that’d be an automatic dealbreaker.
I click into the We Are Calloway tab on Fanaticon and press follow. Now I can scroll through the threads and check to see if SB pops up in the comments.
The “hot” thread of the moment: Sullivan Meadows Looks Pregnant! POLL: Who’s the Baby Daddy?
I cringe. And this is why I’ve avoided WAC fandom chats. Why is it necessary to have polls on paternity? My mom experienced that while pregnant with Maximoff. All it does is cause needless hurt.
I skip that thread and see another that says: So I have this theory…
Clicking into it, I read the rest. Face burning, I wince again, and my heart thumps heavier and faster.
Luna Hale is a Sex Addict.
Okay, that’s enough WAC Fanaticon for the day. I slip my phone in my pocket and hear the front door open.
Rolling off the couch like a burrito, I fall onto my knees and pick myself up, just as Donnelly rounds the corner with a large cardboard box. My pulse is already on ascent.
Unearthly reader, today is the day Paul Donnelly moves in to the room next to mine.
His hair looks unkempt like the wind made love to it. He nods to me. “Hale.”
I make the Vulcan salute. “Hey, Hi, Heidi, Ho. Howdy,” I say the full greeting.
Donnelly smiles. “Never gets old.”
“One of these days it will,” I tell him. “Especially now that we’re roomies.”
His pink lips part but no sound escapes. He looks a little thrown by that word. Roomies.
The floor drops out from underneath my feet. “You’re still moving in, right?” I stare harder at the box in his hands. “I just thought the box—”
“I’m moving in,” Donnelly confirms with a casual nod. “Just getting used to that word. Roomie.” I’ve heard him call Frog his roomie, so I’m pretty positive it’s not just the word. But it’s a combination of the word and me.
“I guess we can call each other something different. Habitat friends. Starship mates. Planet partners.”
“Planet partners,” he says into a stronger nod. “That’s sick.”
I grin and then study the worn box. Names have been crossed out in black Sharpie.
Cruz.
Johnny.
Novak.
Fields.
They’re past bodyguards. Not all still active.
I see that someone wrote don’t touch and someone else scrawled too late and added a devil doodle. The second someone is definitely Donnelly. He has legible handwriting. I look up at him. “You need any help?” I look behind him since he probably left the rest of his stuff in the entryway.
“This is it.” He lifts the box a little.
It’s not a big box. I try to think quickly of another excuse to be around him. Heartstrings aren’t loosening one bit, clearly.
