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Tom seesaws his hand. “He doesn’t drive anymore. We keep telling him to come to New York and he doesn’t do that either.”
“He will one day,” Eliot says more optimistically.
“Maybe if we blackmail him.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Eliot quips.
“I was joking.” Tom strums the guitar and grimaces at the high-pitched noise. “Fuck.”
“And I’m staying out of any blackmail shenanigans,” I say, sipping a canned vodka cocktail. They said it was Charlie’s beverage and I could take it at my own risk. So I took it.
The footage is still on-screen.
“What about everyone else?” I ask them. “Are they okay after the crash?”
Tom reminds me, “You told us not to give you spoilers.”
“Yeah, but I meant spoilers for romantic crushes and baby news and stuff like that. Spoilers don’t extend to bodily or mental harm—” My voice tapers off as Charlie struts out of his bedroom and into the open living area, kitchen in view.
His attention beelines straight to the TV screen. A leather duffel slung over one shoulder and passport in hand, he looks ready to depart for a getaway trip. By his simple attire—white-button down and khaki slacks—I couldn’t guess the climate of the destination, let alone the continent.
“Really?” Charlie swivels to shoot his brothers a look. “You’re letting her watch this shit?”
“This is Emmy Award-Winning high-brow shit,” Eliot rebuts.
Tom looks up from his guitar and adds to Charlie, “Shit thatyourbodyguard’s husband produces.”
Charlie has a blank face.
“I asked to watch it,” I pipe in.
“And we complied,” Eliot says, spreading out his arms dramatically.
Charlie stares hard at the footage, then says, “If you’re trying to help jog her memories, this is the wrong episode.” Oh, he’s not referring to the show asshit, just this particular segment. He turns to me, then hikes his duffel strap higher on his shoulder. “You weren’t in that crash.”
But he was.
I already know Charlie, Maximoff, Farrow, Winona, and Ben were in the car, but I haven’t learned whether anyone sustained any injuries. By the totaled state of the vehicle, I’d think there’d be carnage. Death. At least I know everyone made it out alive.
Maybe they wouldn’t want me to figure out their lives through the docuseries. Is it cheating?
“Uh…” My cheeks burn as Charlie keeps staring at me. This can’t be about me drinking his canned cocktail.
Off my silence, he says, “You should start writing again. It might help.”
Tom grins. “You hear that Luna, Charlie misses reading your smut.”
Eliot mutters something about missing my stories too.
Charlie doesn’t even give Tom the satisfaction of looking his way. Instead, he says to me, “Think about it. I’ll edit them again.”
I’ve wanted to reactivate my account on Fictitious, or create a new one. Do what Original Luna was too afraid to do. But after my deep-dive reading most of what I’ve written, the greatest doubt monster has emerged to swallow me whole.
I could just nod to Charlie. Say nothing more. Except that’s not the new path I want to head down, so with a big breath, I tell him, “I’m not sure I’m as good of a writer as her.” He knows I’m referring to Original Luna.
He barely blinks. “Who cares?”
“My followers on Fictitious?” I say it like a question. “They’d care if the writing quality changed.”
