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Donnelly sees me squinting. “Cruz Jr. He’s Kinney’s full-time bodyguard.”
Huh. “What happened to his dad?” Cruz Sr.
“Retired.”
So many bodyguard changes, but I wasn’t always that aware of them even when I didn’t have memory problems.
“Well, we aren’t going to do it later,” Ali says, still surveying the store. She points at the espresso machines and whispers to Jack. He’s typing on his phone.
“Aren’t you guys done with post-production?” a burly white bodyguard asks. “The new season of WAC already premiered.”
I usually always watch the premiere with Tom and Eliot. I wonder how many months the new season covers and what big events they filmed. Tuning into the docuseries might help fill in blanks. I sense a binge-watch in my future.
“This is for a wedding,” Ambrose emphasizes like they’re air-headed jocks. “We already explained we’re seeing if the store can hold two-hundred people for the welcome party.”
“We’ll be out of your hair in ten,” Jack tells security. “I promise, it’ll be quick.”
“Who’s getting married?” I whisper to Donnelly, careful so they don’t hear. Production has no clue I have amnesia. Not yet, at least.
“The story supervisor and boom operator on Jack’s unit. Jane’s their wedding planner.”
Jane is a wedding planner? That suits her. I want to smile, but bodyguards start muttering, pissy over production occupying this space when it’s supposed to be safe for me, maybe.
“There’s always another fucking wedding in production,” a bodyguard grumbles. I’m guessing security is full of Single Pringles while production is getting hitched left and right.
Ambrose rotates back to him. “Maybe go out once in a while. Take a day off. Go wash your body with soap and you’ll find someone who wants to touch it.”
Ali snorts into a laugh.
Jack is trying not to smile. “Ambrose.”
“Me?” Ambrose plays innocent.
Ali says pointedly, “My brother is full of relationship tips that nobody wants to hear.”
“Jack wants to hear them,” Ambrose says.
“I do, but later,” Jack smiles.
Bodyguards voice their opinions over one another.
Ambrose turns to the fleet again. “You’re all invited to Faye and Hudson’s wedding, so I don’t know why you’re so angry.”
The door chimes. Security goes deathly silent. Eliot and Tom. I rise again, only to sink back in my seat.
Still not them.
“Oscar,” Donnelly whispers to me, just in case I can’t remember Charlie’s bodyguard.
Another bodyguard snaps, “Oliveira, tell production to scram.”
Oscar blinks. “Scram?”
“Yeah, scram.”
Oscar’s brows crinkle. “Call me nuts but this isn’t the West Side Story, and I’m not participating in a fucking rumble.” He extends an arm between production and security. “Play nice.”
Bodyguards groan and cough, “Traitor.”
Even so, Jack’s bright grin hasn’t faded. Strange. Oh wait, Jack is approaching Oscar, and they’re kissing! Whaaat in the world.
My jaw slowly unhinges.
“They’re married,” Donnelly says to me, and he’s full-on grinning like it’s the best news he gets to tell me. Oscar, I’ve come to realize via We Are Calloway Fanaticon Forums is super close to Donnelly. (Yes, I’ve been snooping online but just recent posts.)
One of the worst things I’ve seen: an article about my dad feuding with Donnelly. To which, Donnelly confessed it was fake to help him infiltrate his toxic family. He needed to distance himself more from mine.
It was a good reminder that I can’t believe everything on the internet. Which is why I haven’t combed through too much online.
Production is true to their word at Superheroes & Scones and depart after ten. Oscar goes with them. Only a few minutes later, the door chimes for a third time.
This has to be Eliot and Tom.
My nerves double. Of all my cousins, I thought about confronting Jane first, but Eliot and Tom reached out to me in a group text.
ELIOT
We’ve been told to wait for you to contact us, but you know what we think about rules.
TOM
Meant to be broken
ELIOT
100%, so this is us saying we’re still your best friends. Let’s hang out when you’re ready.
So last night I texted back:
Superheroes & Scones tomorrow at 11AM?
TOM
We’ll be there
ELIOT
Wouldn’t miss it
It is them walking through the door.
I press my journal against my chest seeing my best friends for the first time. Eliot is…tall. That hasn’t changed, at least. He carries himself like the world is his stage, a player amongst mortal men, while Tom walks with an earnestness like he has somewhere important he needs to be.
“Luna, No Middle Name, Hale,” Tom greets first, nearly jogging to reach me, as if I’m so far away. I’m right here, I want to yell, but it’d be a half-truth, a half-lie.
Parts of me are gone.
Coming out of the booth, I step forward like it’s the most natural thing to do, and then we collide into a tight hug. I fist the back of his leather jacket, the familiarity overwhelming. He still smells like Tom—like sage and apricot, the fragrance of some expensive cologne Beckett got him into when he was fourteen.
