I reach in my purse, but Santiago says, “I got it.” I ignore him, but he says even more gruffly, “I got it, Moon.”
“Thanks,” I say, even more unkindly. “See you guys later.”
I don’t look back. When I’m in the hotel room, I take photos of my cards on the shelf by the window, next to a collection of smoky quartz I had in my bag. It almost distracts me enough from the tree trunk in my chest, which is now somehow splitting me into firewood.
I force myself to focus on all those reasons I used to convince myself to share my Fotogram account with Andro in the first place.
Mom will always find a reason to hate me.
I can’t hide who I am.
None of this is worth it anymore.
I sit on the bed and scroll through my notifications mindlessly. I can only focus on what’s happening on the inside. Half of me is giddy. Half of me has a broken heart. But all of me feels like my decision is the right one.
I already know what I’m going to tell Andro. I just don’t know how I’m going to deal with the backlash.
* * *
I’m editing a long text to go with my FG tarot post. People have been waiting to preorder for a year or more and… and now they can. I had to make a large deposit at Occulette in order for them to, which hurt down to the roots of my teeth, but it’s done now. Now I’ve got to get the words exactly right. My brain hurts from reading the same lines over and over again, so I joyfully turn off my screen when there’s a knock at the door.
“Yes?” I say, opening it. My mouth drops when I see my sister, looking devastated, with tears spilling over on her cheeks.
“Star! What happened?”
It’s a shock to see Star upset. For-real upset, not just the pretty sort. It’s hard to cry when people bow down to you, hoist you on their backs, and wave palm leaves covered in gold dust. I haven’t seen her weep like this in years.
“You told him something bad about me, didn’t you?”
“What? Who are you talking about?”
“Santiago.” She’s perched on the sofa, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “What did you say to him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.” Except that she was everyone’s type, but she already knows this and certainly doesn’t need the reminder, even now.
“He…” She gasps a little. “He said he’s not interested in me like that.”
“He what ?” At first I’m incensed on her behalf. Who the hell tells Star Fuentez that?
But then I warm up. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and my feet feel a little funny and imbalanced. Santiago. That’s who tells Star Fuentez that. She’s actually not his type.
Yeah, he basically told me that at brunch. But I thought he was being nice. Star’s loud sniffle reminds me otherwise.
“You sure you didn’t tell him all my flaws?”
“What flaws?” I ask. Besides her bitchiness at the beginning of the tour, Star is so sickeningly sweet, it makes me want to vomit all the time. I can’t ever stay mad at her. I can’t ever stay jealous of her. She’s been my only friend and constant in my life, the only one who knows what it’s like to have a father leave without warning, who knows the extent of Mom’s cruelty. Even if she isn’t there for me like I want her to be, or need her to be, Star is my best friend.
But a part of me wants to turn up the radio and freaking dance. Dance. Because Santiago Philips doesn’t like her like that.
And an even more jerk part of me wants to cheer because Star has finally been rejected. I want to throw a tissue at her and snarl, Doesn’t feel all that great, does it?
But I put an arm around her instead. “Hey. I didn’t know you were that into him.” Especially considering you seem a hell of a lot more interested in a certain makeup artist, I add in my thoughts.
“I’m not,” she says, wiping her eyes and standing up straighter, nudging my arm off. “Not like how you feel about Andro, anyway.”
“I don’t like Andro.” I scrunch my nose a lot. I realize I must look like an elderly tortoise and only then do I stop.
“But you think he’s hot.”
“He’s good-looking. But now that I know him more, I see him as a friend.”
“And Santiago?” Ah, there it is. I was wondering why she was bringing Andro into this. It was a segue. And her tone is a touch accusatory for my liking.
“I hate his guts,” I respond. “And he knows it.”
Star nods slowly, then more confidently. She seems satisfied. “Well, I thought something might’ve been happening with you and Andro. He kept asking me about your art this morning. Something about cards?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I make the split-second decision to rip the bandage right off. “You know those earth art pictures I’ve been working on? Well, I’ve had them printed on a card deck.”
“Oh?” Star wipes her eyes. “Can I see them?”
Well, there you have it. My hopes to avoid all tarot talk out the window. I hand the partial deck to her wordlessly, sitting back as she fingers the cards. I refrain, with great difficulty, from opening the window, climbing out, and starting a new life in Greenland. I mean, the backlash had to start sometime, right? Why not now?
Star raises her eyebrows. “These came out incredible. The quality…” And then, “Oh.” She’s got her hands on the Ace of Swords, and I guess it’s obvious enough. She smiles at me. “It’s amazing. I knew it was good, Moon, but seeing it all together like this?”
I fold and unfold my hands. “You’re not…?” Freaked? Appalled? About to throw me on the church tabernacle? “Mad?”
“Why? Because they’re divination cards?” She sighs. “Look, I admit I’m not excited about that. Because you know Jesus wouldn’t be excited over that.” Apparently, Star and I have different versions of the Bible, because I don’t remember Jesus’s opinion on “divination cards,” but whatever. “But I’m going to support you, okay? Because I think Jesus would be okay with that.”
“So you’re not going to tell Mom?”
“Of course not,” Star says, as though she hasn’t betrayed me to Mom before. She eyes my collarbone and forearm, like she’s remembering the same thing. “Of course I won’t tell.”
Now it’s my turn to about faint from shock. “Really?”
“Of course.” She smiles, but it’s one of her creepy sewn-doll smiles. “I’d never tell her something like that, Moon. We both know how she is.”
Ah, so the smile is just accompanying some revisionist’s history. At least her voice sounds normal. Whatever. “I have your word, then, Star?”
“You have my word,” she repeats solemnly, adding a hand to her heart for effect.
I breathe out a long, slow exhale I didn’t realize I’d been holding inside of my bone marrow. “Okay. Thanks.”
“So Andro wants to promote your work?”
“He’s thinking of adding me to the tour.” As Star’s eyes widen in alarm, I add, “You know, as a little side show. Only when it doesn’t take away from you big-timers. Besides, my deck isn’t even complete yet. I can’t use it on the tour until I upload the last couple of dozen images.” I immediately hate myself for the impulse to make her comfortable over my good news. I’ve been doing it my whole life, it feels like. When is Star going to grow up enough to realize that me having my own glow isn’t stealing from her light?
Star does a fake little chuckle, but her relief is evident. “Oh, come on, Moon.” She’s relaxed again. Our places as number one and number zero have been reconfirmed. “So you and Santiago aren’t—”
“No. Never. Not in a million, trillion years.” Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I stop reassuring her?
“Good. Because Mom has been asking about you and boys—”
I groan. “There’s no one, Star. You know better than anyone.” I pause. “And there’s no one else for you?”
Star laughs. “Of course not. No one here is as pious as I require.” She’s examining the pearl-pink nail polish on her
fingernails so very closely.
Pious. I think of her and Belle making out and getting to God knows what base against a cypress tree. “You sure? Some of the people here are really cool. It’s an artistic, creative bunch.”
“Well, I doubt anything will develop, but if it does, you’ll be the first to know.”
Bald-faced lie, right to my face. But I can’t be mad. Star’s not ready to tell me about Belle. When she is, I’ll be right here. After a few seconds, she smiles. “Are you ready for our birthday?”
“Oh, Go—I mean, goodness, what? What day is it?”
“You forgot our birthday?”
“No, I mean today.” I click my phone. “Just three days away. Holy crap.”
“I really need to do a shoot for it,” Star says. “The big eighteen and all.”
“What kind of theme were you thinking?” And as she goes on about platinum jewels in her hair and disco balls, my brain wanders to thirty minutes ago, when she claimed she’s not Santiago’s type. The memory has marked my brain, like when you slide a napkin in a book, except it feels a lot like a spiny cactus arm. It won’t let go, not when she leaves, not when I pack, not when we’re back on the bus, stopped for dinner, Santiago teaching me how to poach eggs, acting all normal, like he’s not the first person in all of history to not bow down in reverent prayer at the attention of Star Fuentez.
“You’re really quiet,” he remarks once we’ve sat down with our food—bowls of poached eggs in homemade chorizo salsa that’s been simmering all day. On the side, Brazilian cheese bread, which tastes like it was blessed by Jesus Himself.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He makes a face. “Do you realize how much you apologize to everyone?”
I do, actually. “That’s what you get when you were a disappointment from the womb.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Santiago says. He sounds almost angry.
“Look, I’ll prove it to you.” I grab my phone. “Mom has emailed, texted, and called Star every day since we began the tour.” I scroll through my incoming calls and texts, showing him. “See, nothing. I got nothing in all this time, from my own mother.”
“Your sister concerns her more.”
I shake my head. “That’s true. But only because I don’t concern her at all.”
“That can’t be.” Again he sounds pissed and incredulous. Which makes anger fill up in me, like pouring red wine into a Moon-shaped pitcher. Why does he think I’d lie about something like this?
I hit some buttons on my phone, hard, then tap the speakerphone on. Mom answers on the fourth ring.
“Moon? Is she okay? Is Star okay?”
“She’s fine, Mom. I was just calling to talk. How are things?”
Mom pauses. “Normal. The father was asking about you girls.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
There’s crickets for a few seconds before Mom says, “Is your sister around?”
“No. She’s at dinner.”
“Oh. Well, let her know to give me a call when she gets in, okay?”
“Okay, yeah. I will.” She starts making humming noises, like she’s about to say goodbye, so I quickly ask, “Mom, can I tell you a little about my day?”
She sighs and, after a long while, says, “Moon, I don’t know why you always try to provoke me. Especially this time of year.”
“What time of year?” I’ve never heard her complain about the seasons before.
“It’s been six years this month—”
“Gotta go, Mom. Bye.”
I return to my food while Santiago watches me in silence. There’s a tic in his jaw, like he’s grinding his teeth. And his face is a little pink, and not from blushing. I think he might be furious, actually. I groan. “Look. I’m sorry. That was…” I bury my head in my arms. “I hated you thinking I was a liar.”
“I didn’t think—”
“Yeah. You did.”
He sighs. “I didn’t realize it was as bad as you said.”
“It’s much worse, actually. But I don’t want to dwell. That’s never gotten me anywhere. So.” I lift my head and look right at him. “Are you going to be a chef or something?”
Santiago blinks. “A chef?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You cook better than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”
“Whatever,” Santiago grumbles. He sounds like an old man. A hot, young, angry old man.
“I’m serious. You should have a blog. Or write a cookbook.”
“Oh yeah?” he snarls. “So what’s my aesthetic ? The miracle food of the one-handed chef?”
I freeze, my food positioned halfway to my mouth. “Of course not.”
“But you think that’s a good idea.” He sounds like he’s had this fight about one thousand times before, and he’s primed and ready to win it this time. But, honest to God, I don’t have the energy for this.
“Forget I said anything. I won’t bring it up again.”
“No, I want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?” Good Lord, what is his problem?
“That you think I should capitalize on this.” He waves his arm around, glaring at me, like I didn’t just freaking try to give him a compliment.
“Your brand, clearly, is big, hulking jerk.”
“Good one.” His voice and expression are still hard, proving my point, basically.
“Santiago, damn it.” I take my dishes to the sink. “You’re the flipping best chef I’ve ever seen. And the Food Network is my favorite flipping channel. You’re even better than Jamie Oliver, and I gotta say, I want to do a lot more than eat that guy’s food!”
“Jamie Oliver is the human version of an American bulldog!” Santiago bellows.
“He’s not even American!” I yell back. “He’s from England!”
“Fine! English bulldog, then!”
We’re breathing at each other, like we’ve both run half a marathon with skyscrapers strapped on our shoulders. And then I see it. His mouth is all contorted and his eyes are squinty on the edges. He’s trying not to laugh. And he’s failing.
Which gets me going too. It feels too intimate or something, to lose it while facing him, so I face the kitchen counter and laugh until I’m weak, until I fold over and I’m practically lying down on the smooth quartz.
And then something warm is draped on my back. Santiago. His arm. That thing must weigh seventy pounds. I’m smiling, but when Santiago drags his hand to the small of my back, my smile evaporates. In fact, it feels like my smile has moved to the space under his hand, tingly and hot.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I’m an asshole.”
“You’re not an asshole,” I respond, somehow, because it’s really hard to think when he hasn’t moved his hand yet. “You’re like me when I’m pissy. Except, all the time.”
He chuckles again, and his hand shifts so that something—his palm maybe?—has reached the skin exposed from where my shirt rode up. I lift my head like I’ve been electrocuted and promptly bang it right on the bottom of the cabinet. “Mother—”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, even as I feel the drip of something warm and thick run down my temple.
“Jesus, you’re bleeding.” He’s grabbed a bunch of paper towels, and now he holds them to my head.
“I’m fine,” I say, but all I can think is, I-need-a-boyfriend, I-need-a-boyfriend, I-need-a-boyfriend right-now right-now RIGHT-NOW. That’s gotta be the explanation as to how Santiago makes me feel all warm and tingly all the time. Even now, with his hand on my head, I’m blushing. Blushing.
He grabs the first aid kit mounted on the side of the kitchen cabinet. He opens it but has a hard time with the little antiseptic ointment.
“Here,” I say, and I pop the top off. I make to put some on my fingers, but he stops me.
“You didn’t wash your hands.”
“Bossy,” I grumble, and fight the urge to sink against his fingers as he cleans the wound and rubs the oin
tment in. Finally the bandage is on.
“You sit here.” He points to the dining table. “I’ll do the dishes. You look kind of flushed.”
Flushed. I think I’m about to explode more like. From not having a boyfriend.
And then the bus touches ground with a freaking bridge.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I see the lights reflecting on the water out the window. A bridge, a freaking ridiculous water bridge. Just my luck.
Thankfully, only a few seconds pass before we’re back on the regular road. My hands tremble so badly, I have to grip the table. I need to distract myself. So naturally, I turn and watch Santiago as he washes the dishes.
According to my mother, girls should not have horny thoughts or feelings. If you do, there’s something wrong with you. Not that I ever needed anything else to remind Mom there was something wrong with me, but… She thinks the only way for sex to be okay is if it’s coerced between a husband and wife. As in, the husband must wear the wife down until she—soul, body, and mind pure as an angel—relents.
I looked it up, and actually, that whole situation is also called marital rape. Which is bananas to me. My mom thinks getting raped by coercion is the good, godly way to get laid.
But I can’t help feeling guilty. I don’t know why it’s hitting me now, but I can just see Mom, knives in hand, facing me with her wild, judgy eyes.
I’m calm enough to talk again, so talk is what I do. “I’ve been with three guys. Had sex with, I mean. Do you think that makes me a slut?”
The muscles in Santiago’s shoulders tighten. He puts the last pan on the drying rack. “Where’s this coming from?”
I shrug. I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell him it’s from me wanting to jump on him like he’s covered in caramel sauce.
He turns to me. “I don’t think girls are sluts. I don’t care if a girl’s been with a hundred guys. She’s not a slut.”
I make a weird sound and try to cover it up with an “Oh.”
“Who called you a slut?” he asks softly.
I can’t look him in the eyes. “Everyone,” I respond finally, because it feels like the truth.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 15