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He wasn’t wrong about that. I couldn’t remember a time so many ever tried to follow me. “Who’s your baby with if Farrow’s working?” I wanted to call the baby my nephew, but it felt too bizarre.
“Ryke and Dad are watching him.”
“Not our aunts?” I would’ve thought they’d be the first in line after our mom.
“Ripley likes when Ryke and Dad hold him more,” he explained, still trying his best to train his gaze on me and not the driver. Screens blocked our windows, so he couldn’t peer outside that easily. “When he was really small, he used to cry a lot, except when he was in my arms. So I think they remind him of me.”
I wanted to ask if Original Luna already knew this, but I just assumed she did.
Walking through this ugly carpeted hallway now, Moffy clues me in more, “We usually go in the front entrance. The lobby.”
“So we’re still not that afraid of any lurking cameramen?”
“Yeah,” he smiles. “You and I still brave them like they’re total backgroundto ourawesomeabnormal lives.” He slips me another brotherly smile, and it feels the same.
Not so different.
The escalating pitter-patter of my heartbeat slows a little. He is a very good memory guide. Chosen wisely.
“We’re going up.” He points ahead after we’ve weaved between halls and worked our way towards the lobby. “It’s a private elevator. No one else has access to it without our keycard. No strangers allowed.”
I want to ask if I seem like a stranger to him.
But I’m limiting my questions. My family and Farrow agreed not to overwhelm me by filling in every single blank in my memory. Instead, they’re lettingmeask the questions. And I’m trying my best to filter out the stupid ones.
“Private elevator,” I muse under my breath while he scans his card, and we wait for the elevator to drop to us. From here, I spy a snapshot of the lobby. Seems glitzy. Marbled floors. Gold light fixtures. I like the green paisley wallpaper.
Still, is this apartment snazzy or something? I glance back at my brother.
He’solder.Three entire yearsolder, and I see the changes. His jawline is stronger with age. He’s more built, but he still stands poised for a meteor shower. He’s never been Atlas, crouched down while bracing the world.
My brother is upright, the entire globe perched on his strong swimmer’s shoulders like it weighs as much as an inflatable beach ball.The same.That’s the same. Or is he pretending for me? To not frighten me?
But his hair—his hair isn’t dyed light brown like the last I remember.
The natural dark shade makes him look more like our Uncle Ryke, which was why I thought he’d been dyeing it in the first place. To look less like him. So he could show love and loyalty to our dad and give a middle finger to the “Ryke is Moffy’s real father” rumors.
I look back to the elevator, then the snapshot of the lobby. I can’t imagine my brother living in anything extravagant or pricey. He’s not flashyat all.I’d be more freaked if he were wearing shiny loafers and a button-down. He’s just in Timberland boots and a plain white tee.
The elevator dings.
When we’re inside and begin rising, anxiety presses hard on my chest, not knowing what I’ll be walking into. So I thinkgood thoughts. Like how I saw my dad at the hospital.
He sat on the edge of my bed after he hugged me. His relief at seeing me alive and awake flooded the room. “You feel okay?” he asked and his sharp gaze snapped to Farrow like,pain meds stat!
But after a decent night’s sleep at the hospital, my body didn’t ache as badly this morning. Just tender ribs. I learned I fractured two.
I wasn’t totally sure how. I was told there was an assault. The details surrounding that night were still fogged, and they were careful not to paint the whole picture for me. I gathered that it could do more harm than good.
“I feel better,” I told my dad. “How’s Mom?” It hurt even asking. His eyes were bloodshot, face unnaturally torn.
My parents—their souls were intertwined. In my life, their love had always been one-of-a-kind. Stuff of legend and fanfiction, and the fact that it wasmyreality, that I got to be raised by two soul mates, was a treasure I wouldn’t trade for anything. Not even dirt from Mars or theguaranteeI’d write the best sci-fi novel in the world. It was that precious to me.
“She’s doing better,” my dad said tensely. His brows never uncinched in theirfuck the world and everyone in itwrinkled position. “But uh…” He had to clear his throat. “She wants to wait a bit until everyone sees her.” He forced a pained smile.
Had he broken his sobriety? Will he break it?
It wasn’t the first time the thoughts invaded, but they seemed the most warranted in that moment and even now.
