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“Pause it,” Tom says to Eliot. They’ve been hawk-eyeing my reaction since we started this We Are Calloway marathon, 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 been too 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 shut so many 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 they knew.
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 fucking fish.
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 the only ones 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 I know this 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.
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 that your bodyguard’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 as shit, just this particular segment. He turns to me, then hikes his duffel strap higher on his shoulder. “You weren’t in that crash.”
