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“There are other theatre companies,” Beckett tells Eliot. “Fuck the one that would make you take an ultimatum. You don’t want to be with them anyway, but you also shouldn’t torch the bridges you’ve built to get there. You don’t know who’s friends with who behind-the-scenes. The art world is small.”
I’m cold.
“It’s the point of the matter,” Eliot says. “The world should know what kind of people they are.”
“Let our family’s publicist put out a statement then,” Beckett says diplomatically.
“Beckett’s right,” I say. “If you post a rant video, you’re just going to get more shit too.”
“I’m not afraid,” Eliot decrees. “Fuck everyone who thinks you wrote something gross or obscene. Fuck the fans who want me and Tom to stop being your friends.” Hot tears invade his eyes, like those last comments have punctured raw pieces of him. I haven’t dived too deep or long into the internet this week, and I’m starting to guess he has.
Tom crosses his arms over his chest. He looks to me. “We’ll always be your friend, Luna.”
I know.
I’m lost for words though. Every piece of information hollows me out more and more. My mistakes have grown like thorny vines, twisting around the people I love. Guilt has become heavier like a weighted blanket impossible to throw off.
Eliot watches me, his ire almost dissipating into more concern. “It’s not your fault, Luna.”
It is my fault.
It’ll never not be my fault.
I stare at the phone. Delete it, Luna. This time, I pull the trigger and delete the video.
Eliot runs two angry hands through his hair and releases a guttural noise like he just lost his very voice. Did I rip out his vocal cords?
I blink back a worse feeling, but no decision I made was going to have a happy ending. Eliot wants to unleash his rage in a manner for everyone to hear, but I’ve watched my older brother slam enough fists in public to see the consequences.
I don’t want that for Eliot.
“Oh…shit…” Tom curses, staring at his phone screen. The confounded look on his face only somersaults my stomach. I don’t need another car crash. Another blindside.
12
LUNA HALE
“What is it?” I near him the same time Beckett and Eliot do. Tom reveals the screen, a trending news article staring back at us. The headline:
Loren Hale Enraged at Son’s Bodyguard
Enraged? My family’s publicist couldn’t use a milder word like…not happy? It’s slowly dawning on me that the fake article is no longer a far-fetched idea that could’ve been shelved. It’s been executed.
It’s real.
My pulse ascends as I skim some of the text.
An inside source close to the family says that Loren Hale has become increasingly irate towards Paul Donnelly, the personal bodyguard of his seventeen-year-old son Xander Hale. No one has been able to identify exactly why, but our trusted source has confirmed that termination is on the horizon.
Paul Donnelly, a former tattooist, has tattooed multiple of the Hale children, including the firstborn Maximoff Hale. Our source says that Loren Hale has never approved of Donnelly, and the tattoos have only exacerbated his dislike—but it’s not why Loren is planning to fire the Security Force Omega bodyguard.
We’ve been told that Donnelly has trouble following Loren Hale’s house rules, and Loren might not want him around his youngest son as he becomes a legal adult. Xander Hale turns eighteen on Christmas Day, and it’s hinted that Donnelly will be axed by then.
“He’s a bad influence,” our inside source said. “It’s been a long time coming.”
I knew this article might drop, and yet, it still hurts. I’m sorry, Donnelly. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry. I want to tell him a million-and-one times over.
Eliot and Tom are staring at Beckett more than me. In their eyes, Beckett has the most history with Donnelly, I guess.
Beckett upturns one of the antique chairs. “You can stop looking at me.”
“Just making sure you’re okay,” Tom says. “Seeing as how your favorite bodyguard might not be around for much longer.”
Beckett’s frown deepens. “I’ll talk to Uncle Loren. The article might be bullshit anyway.”
“What if it is true?” Tom wonders. “I’ve seen Uncle Loren glare at Donnelly from across an entire ballroom. Pretty sure he’s not Paul Donnelly’s biggest fan.” He splays a hand out to me, so I’ll voice similar sentiments.
Before the whole team-up, I would’ve said the same thing. My dad despises Donnelly. Now, all I know is he’s promised to protect him.
I just shrug, a little nervous. I’m walking this super secretive line that I kinda want to hop off now.
“Who do we think is the inside source?” Eliot asks.
I can lie.
I should lie this time. But I’m really starting to hate that my best friends think this fabrication about Donnelly is true. The only issue—Beckett is here too. And I never pictured myself confessing my feelings for Donnelly in front of Beckett.
Is there a way to leave myself out of the equation and tell a half-truth? Is it bad that I don’t want to?
