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“Don’t think that’s all she wants,” I tell him casually, then nod to him. “Need to ask you somethin’.”
“Yeah?” He sits on the edge of his bed, facing me too. “What’s up?”
I grip my knees, trying to figure out how to pose this. I usually don’t press people too hard, but I should’ve with Beckett when he was using drugs. I’m not making that mistake again.
I try to remember what it’s like being Xander’s age, but his two-weeks-from-eighteen doesn’t look like mine. I was already on my own by then. I could only rely on myself and the new friends I made.
“I’m not your mom,” I tell him. “Not your dad.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says with very little bite to his voice. He’s soft. It fucking reminds me of his sister, and that screws me up for a second.
“You’re not gonna get in trouble with me, alright? I won’t talk about this to anyone. Just please don’t lie. You can even tell me to fuck off if you really want to.”
Xander tenses. “Okay.”
“I can’t find my straight razor,” I breathe. “And I’m not saying you took it, but I’m not saying you didn’t take it ‘cause I don’t know where it is. You get me?”
He runs his palm over his forehead a couple times, then looks over at me. The expression in his eyes is one of confliction. I say nothing. Do nothing. Then he rises, goes to his backpack on the floor, and returns to me with my stainless-steel razor.
Xander hands it to me.
I fold it up. “Were you going to use it?” I ask, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Too late now.
“I don’t think so,” he answers truthfully. “I thought about it. One time.” When he sits back down, I come over and take a seat right beside him. He turns to look at me. “I’m sorry, Donnelly.”
I turn to look at him. “Thanks for being honest with me.” We chat for a while longer, until I know he’s not stressed or anxious. We’re cool, and I sense trust. Hope he feels like he can come to me, if need be.
Back in Luna’s room, I find her already beneath the covers. Lights off, and I shed my damp pants and my tee before crawling into bed with her. I think I’m quiet enough, but as soon as I roll towards her, she scoots into my chest. Holding her, I feel her heart beating against my pulse. Alive. Slumber and something more content ease my eyes closed.
It feels like my first sleep in weeks.
47
LUNA HALE
Ever since the Fanaticon Convention five days ago, I’ve tried to put Original Luna to rest. I suppose this is the final stage of grief.
Acceptance.
And with the new year on the horizon, I have greater plans for my future. Back in Philly at the penthouse, morning light shines through the curtains of my window, and I sit cross-legged on my bed, scrolling on my laptop.
I’m enrolling as a full-time student at Penn next semester. English major, I’ve decided, but maybe I’ll double major in Business too. On the laptop screen, the red and blue University of Pennsylvania logo stares back at me while I choose my college courses.
I pick my last one and click into Television and New Media. It sounds fun to dive deeper into the mediums that I use often and love so much, and I want to learn more about digital media and the history of television, which the course says it covers.
It fits into my class schedule too. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. Professor: Wyatt Rochester.
Done.
I shut the laptop, and Orion leaps off the bed, wagging his tail like we’re about to adventure the Philly streets for a morning walk and hydrant sniffs. I just took him out to pee. “We can go exploring soon, I promise,” I say, and he flops happily on his doggie bed. “I need to clean my room first.”
I start with the heap of manuscripts on my bed. Gathering them, I put each one gingerly into my plastic tub, only storing the ones I’ve read. So I check each title carefully. I’m not back on Fictitious yet, but I’ve given Charlie more of my stories to edit.
When I reach for a thinner stack of papers, my brain whirls and dizzies at the typed font. “The Chasm of Elsewhere,” I read out loud, pulling the story closer.
More slowly, I sink back on my butt and flip the page. I haven’t read this one yet, but my heart speeds like I know it’s important somehow. Like a string to a memory is tickling my mind, and I just need to pull…
So I read.
And as soon as I reach the line, tears flood my eyes. “He didn’t,” I whisper to myself, and with my finger, I trace the printed words that Donnelly spoke to me.
