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I read the other program.
Maximoff Hale & Farrow Redford Keene. I skim the list of the grooms’ party and freeze at the sight of Donnelly’s name.
Oh wow, he was Farrow’s best man. They are closer than close then.
I place the cigar box in its original spot and check the end table drawer.
Phone charger.
Bullets? Probably since he’s a bodyguard. He has a gun somewhere. Then I unearth a notebook. Milky Way swirls and basic stick figure aliens…I used to draw these in my school binders all the time. I recognize my crappy artwork. These are my doodles.
Why would he have my notebook?
Is this a diary?
I exhale a burst of fear. Okay, he could’ve thieved this from my room. But am I much better? I’m digging through his belongings like a thief in the night (or morning, it’s morning).
I’ve never kept a diary though. In the situation I’m in, it’d be way too helpful if I did. Heart accelerating, I open the notebook and see my handwriting on the inside cover.
Donnelly,
I don’t know if you use this sort of thing, but I figured you might like writing down your daily thoughts in pen. Sometimes it feels good to seep out all the gooey stuff in your brain and put it somewhere else. So this is for your gooey brain matter.
Merry Christmas,
Luna
Not my diary. It’s his.
My stomach twists with this information. I gave Donnelly a Christmas present, which definitely means I trust him. He’s good. A good guy. Knew it!
More eagerly, I flip through a few pages and see the words Daily Planner and different typed sections: today’s focus, notes, meals, water, question of the day. In each one, Donnelly has added his handwritten thoughts.
Today’s Focus: Be chill (you are the freeze)
Question of the Day: Has Rose Calloway ever farted in front of Connor?
I laugh hard, smile spreading, and I flip another page and another. Not reading everything, I’m just seeing how much Donnelly has used this notebook. So, so many pages are filled. My heart swells.
I tuck the notebook under my armpit and turn my sights to the closet.
Once there, I whip open the door. T-shirts, a suit in the very back, some hung slacks—your regular variety closet occupants. No skeletons. No monsters. Yet. (I really hope those don’t exist.) Bending down, I pull out a plastic tub and pop the lid.
Manuscripts? I pluck one out.
The Bluest Night by Luna Hale. My manuscripts…I thumb through the stapled pages. Red pen strikes through some lines, and little notes in the margin read, check consistency and this word doesn’t make sense in this context. I think you mean “dissipate.”
Charlie’s notes.
Quickly, I snatch the next manuscript. Born to Roam by Luna Hale. The next. The Chasm of Elsewhere by Luna Hale. And the next. See You in the Stars by Luna Hale. I’ve never read any of these! I can’t even remember writing them.
My ribs tighten painfully, and I swallow a rising knot. Slower, I reach in for the thickest bound manuscript.
Human Him, Cosmic Her by Luna Hale. Subtitle: The Thebulan Saga.
Of course I’ve been continuing my longest-run series, and I’ve had plans for how the next stories would pan out, not just for me but for the handful of readers on Fictitious who keep up with the story. The slight positive to losing my memories, I can read my stories for the first time like I’m just a reader and not the writer. I put the printed story back in the tub, since I can access them online. Original Luna must’ve had a ton of guts to lend these to Donnelly.
He’s read my stories. The startling thought comes crashing down.
My cheeks burn, feeling a teeny bit exposed. Did I know he’d like them? Or did I just risk it? What if he read the smuttier ones? Maybe he hasn’t had the chance to flip through any of them. They could just be collecting dust in his closet.
It lessens my nerves, and I return to the closet-hunt. Next to the tub, I find his tattoo machine, ink, and other supplies, some carefully packaged for sterilization. Sketchbooks are stacked neatly nearby, and I examine the top one.
Each page is full of tattoo sketches. His style of art is bold and colorful. Pirate skulls, lions, roses, a ship in a bottle, horseshoe with a good luck banner…an alien head. I smile at the alien with a crown, a banner reading, galaxy queen. I flip a page. A ringed planet with a new banner says, chart your own galaxy. My lungs fill, and as soon as I turn the next page, I solidify.
This is…not a tattoo sketch.
Or maybe it is, but the style has changed from thick black lines to a thinner pen. He’s drawn a girl. Inside her eyes are twinkling stars, and I’m lost in the expressiveness of those lively orbs, as though she’s seen universes of light.
