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43
LUNA HALE
“It’s your interpretation.It’s not a fact, Luna.”
That’s what my therapist told me after I rehashed my new findings—that I used to love Donnelly. She said, “You’re assuming you wrote the human with Donnelly in mind. You could possibly just be seeing exactly what you want to see.”
I rereadHuman Him, Cosmic Herfive times, and there is some margin of error on my part. It’s not like Original Luna ever mentioned Donnelly in the text or in a footnote.
“Why don’t you concentrate on your life at the present moment and less about him?” she posed.
Dr. Raven didn’t get it. Understanding the past three years isn’tjustabout Donnelly. It’s about who I am, the person I became and the relationships I’ve made, and with so many varying perspectives and voices, the only one I can really trust is Original Luna. And I. Can’t. Find. Her.
I’ve gone from being jealous of the OG Luna to being desperate for her. I’m terrified of the next stage of grief I’m headed for. Because this one really sucks.
Next mode of action: a TV marathon. If anything will surface a memory or help piece together the missing years, it’sthis.
Only, I didn’t expect half of what I’ve seen. In the Cobalt brothers’ Hell’s Kitchen apartment, a lump is lodged in my throat as I stare at the TV. A Twizzler hangs half out of my mouth, and my arms wrap around a tub of popcorn, kernels beneath my butt on the leather couch.
Wreckage of a car crash smolders on-screen, and I picture my older brother, cousins, and Farrow in the carnage. Not that any cameras caught the actual crash—but they captured the aftermath. And that’s enough to knot my stomach into a figure-eight.
“Pause it,” Tom says to Eliot. They’ve been hawk-eyeing my reaction since we started thisWe Are Callowaymarathon, and now I know why.
They knew what was coming.
Eliot grabs the remote from the coffee table and looks to me in concern. “You okay, Luna?”
“Uh-huh,” I mumble through my Twizzler.How much of everyone’s lives did I miss?The answer has repeatedly beentoo much.My heart lurches with my stomach.
Focusing on the bookshelves beside the TV, I see a terracotta vase with two high-swung handles, possibly Greek pottery. Charlie might’ve bought it on one of his many excursions. I’m glad we’re watching the docuseries in New York and not the Philly penthouse. Less people are here to see my reaction.
Right now, it’s just me, Tom, and Eliot in the bachelor pad living room. I’m unsure of Charlie and Beckett’s whereabouts, but I heard Beckett has this Monday off from ballet. So it’s totally possible they’re both holed up in their bedrooms.
Eliot is still staring at me.Tom has stopped winding new string around the guitar on his lap. I’m obviously reacting poorly if they’re not restarting the show.
“You don’t look fine,” Tom says.
Normally, I’d brush it off with a shrug, not say much in reply. Being closed down and reserved has its drawbacks—I’m experiencing a life where I shutsomany people out for so many years, where I didn’t fully express myself, and at times, it’s been maddening. Other moments, it’s been excruciating—because it would’ve been so much easier if theyknew.
If they knew how I felt about the things that mattered to me. About my future. About friends. About who or what I really loved. About my fuckingfish.
I will never, ever take the bonds I have with people for granted. I make that vow to myself. Because when the floor drops beneath my feet, they are theonlyones there to catch me, and they need to know who they’re catching.
So I bite the end of my Twizzler off and gently set the popcorn on the table. “I kinda feel guilty,” I tell my best friends. “I’m eating popcorn and candy like this is some fun watch-party, but Iknowthis docuseries gets deep. And I feel like such an idiot.” I start sinking on the cushions, and I grab the nearest pillow to stuff my face into it. Disappear!
It doesn’t count as hiding if I spilled my guts before I hid.
I peek out of the pillow.
Eliot flips the remote in his hand, a smile in his eyes. “You’re not being insensitive. Of the three of us, I’m the one who wears that crown. I’d bring popcorn and candy to a funeral if I could.”
“He would,” Tom says, twisting the guitar string.
I wear a tender smile and unbury myself from the pillow, but my lips fall again seeing the car wreckage paused on-screen. “Paparazzi chased Ben.”
Eliot says, “I think the paps were more interested in your brother than ours.”
“Is Ben okay though?”He was driving.
