“Sadly,” Charlie quips.
“Charlie,” they all chastise.
A pretentiously coy grin plays at his lips. “Only joking.”
Jane hones in on my bruises. “No wonder Farrow was so quiet,” she mutters, setting down the sleepover loot. I figure they all plan to crash in the attic. When we were kids, we’d pop out sleeping bags and air mattresses and spend the night at each other’s houses.
My brows knit. “Farrow was quiet?”
“He spoke to me.” Beckett plugs in an air mattress.
“Only because you were being a fucking ass,” Sulli tells her best friend, and then she pats my foot consolingly, a turquoise blanket slipping from the heap she holds.
“What’d you say to Farrow?” I ask Beckett, my shoulders constrict and that hurts like a thousand pitchforks poking my bone. I wipe my perspiring forehead with the heel of my palm.
“I thanked him for helping Ben, Winona, Charlie, and you in the crash, and then I said if he has anymore exes that you should know about, you deserve full transparency.”
I groan. “Beck.” I’m not surprised everyone knows about Rowin Hart. He was introducing himself to our families at the hospital.
“You do need transparency, Moffy. Farrow knows everything about you—”
“I know every goddamn thing about Farrow that I need to know.” I understand that Beckett is protective because I’m the first to be in a relationship—the first to combat these strange dynamics since we’re strangely famous—but he can’t keep shitting on my boyfriend. Farrow has been through enough. “I don’t want the names of his other exes, Beckett. If I asked, he’d tell me. Give Farrow a fucking break.”
Charlie leans against my dresser. “He said he thanked your boyfriend.”
“Great,” I say, “and what did Farrow say in return?”
Beckett bends down to plug in the air mattress. “He told me to get the fuck out of his relationship.”
“His boyfriend almost fucking died,” Sulli tells Beckett, helping him spread the air mattress out. “You’re lucky he didn’t deck you in the face.”
Beckett fiddles with my old outlet. “I’m willing to take a punch for Moffy. And for you and the rest of our family.”
Sulli slugs his arm hard, but playful.
He pushes her back, smiling.
I watch Jane tie her hair in a low pony, and she brings a tin of chocolate turtles to me. “You must be starving. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I’m not.” I cringe, no appetite from anesthesia and now pain. Nausea roils deep, and I try to ignore the queasiness. Having my family here helps.
She carefully crawls on the bed beside me, dressed in baby blue coffee-print grannie jammies. I lean into my best friend and whisper about Xander, not able to keep this in. Not from her. She doesn’t ask for more details, just nods and listens.
“Uh, cumbuckets.” Sulli just banged her elbow on the dresser, trying to inflate the air mattresses. I need to text Farrow to let him know that Omega can join us up here. If they want. It’s been a long, exhausting day. And we’ve gone through some shit together.
My phone is lost in my sheets.
Fuck.
“What are you looking for?” Jane asks, wanting to help, but a black cat hops on the dresser behind Charlie. If there’s anything that can steal Jane Cobalt’s attention from family—it’s her cats.
Purring, Lady Macbeth collapses and rolls on her back. “She’s slow and old,” Charlie says to Jane. “I’d give her two more years maximum.”
Jane looks murderous.
“Charlie,” I snap.
“Lady Macbeth, come here, my love,” Jane says quickly, trying to cajole the cat away from Charlie. The cat looks up at the ceiling.
“And she’s deaf,” Charlie notes.
“She’s most definitely not. Wait and see.” Jane leaves my bed to prove her point, and the stairs creak—I’m hoping to see that tatted guy breach the doorway.
Instead, my gangly little sister stumbles in. She wobbles like she’s fueled on energy drinks and sleeplessness from writing fics.
“You okay?” I ask Luna, her Metallica T-shirt stained with paint and glitter.
“Yeahyeahyeah.” She almost trips over Beckett. “Sorrysorry.”
“You’re fine,” he says, watching as she careens towards my bed.
I sit up like I can stupidly help. Pain explodes in my chest, fucking Christ. I grind hard on my teeth.
Both Sulli and Jane react fast and catch my sister’s hands on either side, stopping her from collapsing on the bed and bouncing the mattress.
Sulli lets go of Luna’s hand as Jane twirls her in a dance move. Luna wobbles and outstretches her arms. “Whoa,” my sister says.
“Are you drunk?” Charlie asks outright.
“I had a Four Loko.” Green marker scribble runs down her arms and stains her cheeks. Her light brown hair is a matted mess. “The world is spinning.”
I’m not used to Luna drinking beer or liquor. At all. But I’ve never seen her exceed one drink. Sometimes I hate that I’m so fixated on alcohol, but it’s always in my face. Always brought to my attention by the media, by my family history, and I just can’t ignore it.
What’s even in a Four Loko? Is that a beer?
I try to crack a knuckle—realizing, I can’t even do that without the use of my right hand. “You’re not going out, are you?”
“Nopity.” Luna drifts to the windowsill. “I’m home for the night. Per Farrow’s request.”
So my boyfriend hasn’t been completely quiet. It’s clear he’s had some conversations with my family while I was asleep. It makes me feel like I was awake. Like someone grabbed my wheel and steered. Keeping everything upright when I couldn’t move.
I feel myself start to smile.
“Maximoff and Farrow!! Sitting in a tree!” someone yells from outside my window on the Philly street. “K-I-S-S—” Giggling erupts outside.
“How many times does that happen?” Beckett asks, giving the window a what the fuck face.
“Every single night,” I answer with indifference.
I’m trying my best not to let this fact grate on me. The public enthusiasm surrounding my relationship is a product of fame, and I don’t want to be irritated that people shout at my window. But this involves Farrow, so it’s harder to let go.
Beckett glances at Charlie. “Remind me to never fall in love.”
He grins. “Already in my calendar for the rest of your life.”
Luna sinks down on the windowsill. “So…maybe I’ll fall head-over-heels and out-of-orbit for my date next week.”
The air strains. Everyone is staring at my sister like she’s actually flown into another fucking galaxy.
My gaze sets sternly. “By date, do you mean the auction, and by auction, do you mean that sixty-year-old man who bid on you?”
Luna burps into her fist. “Yep.”
“No,” I snap, a different kind of pain clawing my muscles.
“It’s not a date, Luna,” Jane says, the black cat cradled contently in her arms. “It’s simply an obligatory function where you don’t need to even speak. It can be a silent hour.”
“We don’t know how long it’ll be,” Charlie corrects. “It could last till morning.”
My sister has her eyes set on me. “So if you’re going three-fourths Loren Hale right now, I should expect a pretty harsh reaction from him?” Luna asks.
I’m completely rigid, my jaw sharpened. “Yeah, don’t call it a date around Dad.” Jesus. What am I doing with this fucked-up auction? Why am I letting Ernest Mangold control my sister’s fate? It’s all wrong. It’s all cursed.
The porn star—fuck that.
Fuck this.
“Moffy.” Luna stands, clutching the curtains to steady herself. “I retract my statement. Notta date. Just a meeting. Like a business thing.” She tilts her head. “Better?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I lean back, my mind still reeling. None of
this is okay. It’s not, but I need time to think about the auction. Right now, my pain has taken the front seat, and I need to find my fucking phone.
10
FARROW KEENE
“Shotgun him,” Donnelly suggests to me, his ratty Van Halen shirt almost a decade old. That blue-eyed shameless motherfucker leans on the stove of the cramped kitchen.
We’re in the famous one’s townhouse. Oscar digs through the cupboard for snacks, listening to this conversation take a turn.
“I’m not smoking out my boyfriend.” I spin a butter knife between my fingers. “A. weed makes him sick and B. he’s Maximoff.” I’m sitting on the counter next to melting ice packs, a thermometer, and a portable fan, waiting for a bagel to toast.
Mostly, I’m giving Maximoff alone time with his family. I’ll be up there soon.
Donnelly adjusts his septum piercing. “A. edibles made him sick. We aren’t sure about smoking. I gotta jawn in my pocket.” His lilt is thick on jawn, a word which means just about anything in Philly, but Donnelly uses it mostly for blunt. “B. he’s Maximoff in Pain with a capital P.”