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Be slow with her.
Doesn’t mean I have to be distant. I carry her against my chest to the kitchen, her legs wrapping around my waist.
She’s grinning. “I bet she loved when you did this.”
I know she’s referring to her past-self. The self she doesn’t remember. “Carrying you to the kitchen wasn’t something we did on the regular.” Or really at all. “We were mostly friendly outside our rooms.”
“This isn’t friendly?”
“Not to me,” I breathe.
She’s eyeing me with an eagerness that heats my blood. “How’d the meeting go?”
“I’ll tell you about it.”
So I set her on her feet in the kitchen, and I rehash everything to Luna while we’re making turkey sandwiches. I’m spreading mayo on a sourdough slice. She’s topping tomato on the deli meat. Saying the plan a third time isn’t any easier.
It’s harder than the rest. After unleashing the brunt of it, I tell her,“You won’t be around my dad or my family at all. You’re not dealing with it.”
She squirts mustard on her bread, considering this quietly. “I just want you to be safe. I think Original Luna would want that too.”
“It’s safe,” I assure, and I believe it. I have to ‘cause this is the only path I want to take. “Most everyone I know is locked up.”
“It’s a good plan then,” she nods, slapping the top bread on her sandwich. “If it allows us to be out in public together, it’s something I want.” Luna is patting her sandwich. “Love pats add extra flavor.”
I grin, licking mayo off my finger. “Is that so?” I rinse the knife off in the sink. “Did the sandwich tell you?”
“I’m not proficient in the sandwich language, unfortunately, but love pats tend to bring joy, not misery.”
“You’re telling me,” I wipe my hands on a dish rag, and I pat my finished sandwich a couple times. She’s smiling over at me, and I edge closer while her body shifts toward me. I pat her cheek lightly before cupping her face. “How’d that feel?” I breathe her in.
“Loving.”
I watch her eyes roam over me, and so easily we could just take this to the bedroom. Go back there. Stay there. This has to be different.
“Wanna watch Bass?” I ask. “We could start over.” We barely got through episode one.
She nods repeatedly, and we break away to grab our sandwiches—but pieces of me always feel entwined and bound to Luna, no matter how far apart we truly are.
37
LUNA HALE
We’re thirty minutes into episode one. Roommates are elsewhere throughout the space, so the living room is free for my TV-watching marathon with Donnelly.
Turkey sandwiches made with heart, in a fancy penthouse, with a bout of amnesia, while casually seeing a guy who was dating my original self—it’s a great setting for a sci-fi fic, if I added time travel. It’d be cool if I could speak to Original Luna. Get more info from myself and not just everyone else.
I wish.
On the blue sofa together and plates on our laps, Donnelly chews methodically, his attention super-glued to the screen. He really loves this show, and I’ve abandoned half my sandwich in favor of the “evolved” drama on the Peak between Callie, Frost, and Strider.
“That’s how episode one ended?” I ask, wide-eyed. “I have so many questions. Is Frost an Anger Dominant but controlled? Beneath a Strong Sentiment—his sentiment has to be Anger? He’s definitely not Sadness or Lust.”
“You’ll see. We’ve got eleven more episodes to go.”
Sandwiches eaten and three episodes in, I’ve made a comfy home on the sofa with Donnelly. Tucked closer to him, his arm has fallen around my shoulders, and I sense him absorbing my reactions.
Was this her favorite show?
It’s a really addicting one. “Wait, go back to Strider,” I say to the TV and huff. “Why are his scenes so short? He’s the most interesting character.” I lean back into Donnelly’s arm but notice he’s tensed. “What?” I frown. “Is Strider secretly awful or something?”
Donnelly has a cool, calm expression. “No spoilers in this sacred Bass household.” He points the remote at the TV. “Keep watching.”
By episode five, we’ve stretched our legs onto the coffee table and eat gummy bears. Evening has fallen and we consider ordering take-out, but we fall victim to our obsessive binge-watch and forget about a future dinner.
I hear footsteps behind the couch, and Donnelly and I turn our heads as Sulli crosses the living room. Looks like she’d been working out, her brown hair sweaty in a top bun and water bottle in hand.
“Hey, Luna,” she says to me.
“Hi.” I lift a hand in a wave and return to the show. I doubt she’d want to stick around a TV all night with me.
Two seconds later, I hear her walk away. Donnelly watches Sulli leave, a strange look in his eye that I can’t decipher. And I glance back at her shadow, then I frown.
