The third message was from Luna. I took a deep breath and told myself it was just my best friend—who I’d spent every single day of my life with, short of the last few months.
Luna: Whenever you’re ready.
It was all the invitation I needed to jam my feet into leather Prada sneakers and head out.
The moon peeked through the clouds, shouldering past the last strains of sunset, and I thought, fitting.
“How do you like this baseball bat?”
Trent Rexroth opened the door, examining the paddle in his hand from all angles. Threatening me with heavy objects had been a running gag in our families ever since it became apparent I was smitten with Luna.
They used the word smitten because batshit crazy wasn’t cute. But everyone knew I was smitten with chicken wings and vintage Tumblr porn, not with Luna. With Luna, I was in fucking everything. Love. Lust. Obsession. Take your pick.
Not that I ever told her that.
Not that I was even sure she knew.
I waltzed into the Rexroths’ house, ignoring the baseball bat Trent swung playfully at random objects. He and I were cool. He and my father, Dean, were actually best friends. Trent had even coached my Little League team back in the day, and he’d introduced me to football. I stuffed my fists into the leather jacket over my hoodie (I didn’t do varsity jackets. Even as captain, they were fashionably insulting.) and followed him inside.
“How’s your middle finger?” Trent asked.
“Still working overtime, sir. Speaking of phallic gestures, Dad said to call him.”
Was I making small talk? I was. But why the fuck? Apparently, I really was on edge.
“Your dad can pick up the damn phone, then,” Trent retorted.
Edie, his wife, called from upstairs, “Language!”
I raised my eyebrows at Trent, and we both laughed as Racer, Luna’s seven-year-old brother, darted from the family room to the landing, thrusting his toy car in my face.
“Knight! Look! Look what my sister got me from Boon! There’s five of them, and it’s not even my Christmas present.”
“That’s awesome, bud. Your sister is a pretty cool chick.” I ruffled his curly hair, looking up at Trent in question.
There weren’t many guys as big as I was, but Trent was one of them. He pointed upstairs.
“Good luck.”
“Why would I need luck?”
“She’s a girl in her late teens. Luck can’t hurt, kid.”
I shook my head, trying to downplay my nervousness. I was pissed. Pissed at the four months we’d spent playing virtual hide-and-seek. Pissed at the slap I still felt on my skin. Pissed at North Caro-fucking-lina. And pissed that I’d kissed Poppy Astalis for the entire world to see. If Luna found out, she would think I’d been dipping my dick in everything that moved.
That wasn’t a true representation of how I’d spent the last four months, and I needed her to know that. Then again, I didn’t want her to know that, because it was so fucking tragic, my goddamn soul wanted to wedgie me.
I climbed up the stairs to Luna’s room and knocked on her door, pushing it open without waiting for an answer. She was sitting on her bed, her MacBook in her lap, and she looked up at me, exactly the same as I remembered her. With perfect gray eyes and that perfect tan skin and those perfect lips—and the slightly uneven teeth, the shit that took her from conventionally pretty to a breathtaking siren. My face broke into a smile, even though there was nothing remotely pleasing about the mess called our relationship.
“What if I wasn’t decent?” she signed, grinning.
“I was counting on it.” I ran my ringed tongue over my lower lip.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“It’s never too late to rectify the situation.”
“You’re so bad.” She chuckled, shaking her head.
“You’re so good.”
“What’s wrong with being good?”
“Less easy to corrupt.”
Silence.
“Ask me again,” I said.
“What’s wrong with being good?” She rolled her eyes.
“Nothing,” I answered quietly. “Nothing is wrong with you, Moonshine.”
Immediately, Luna’s tight expression melted. She put her laptop on her bed and stood up, moving toward me.
I wrapped my arms around her and inhaled her shampoo, and skin, and entire being, squeezing my eyes shut and thinking, home. How could she feel like home? She went limp in my arms, and I felt her shaking. Sobbing. When she withdrew from me, her face was twisted in pain, but there were no tears. I frowned.
“What’s eating you? Please let it be me.”
She tried to laugh, but it died in her throat. “I need to tell you something.”
“That makes two of us. Ladies first.”
I wanted to tell her: You need to come back. Or maybe we can do the long-distance shit. I don’t care. But you slapped me, and that meant something. It meant that you care.
I also wanted to say, I know you don’t believe this could work, but not trying is no longer an option. For four months I’ve wanted to give you this ultimatum, but it felt weird to do it through Skype. But now you’re here, and I’m not letting you go before we sort this shit out.