“Christ,” I say. Star winces a little, but she doesn’t chastise me.
“Well, I got a text from him that night.” She picks up her phone and shows me. Hey, Star. It’s Santiago Philips. Do you know if Moon has a new # yet?
“Ah,” I say, and then I force half a taco in my mouth.
“Well, I told him some of the situation. And that I was pretty sure you were here, in New Orleans. He offered to get me. Said he wanted to see you anyway. I climbed out the window in the middle of the morning.”
“What about the rosebushes?” Mom planted giant climbing roses outside of all Star’s windows to protect her purity from would-be rapists.
“I put on a pair of your boots and several layers.” She clears her throat. “Basically, I started packing the second she started. I knew I couldn’t stay there anymore. I brought a bag of your stuff, by the way. And that old bottle of Daddy’s cologne you kept. And the pressed fireweed, in the photo frames.”
Okay. There’s something in my eyes right now. “Thanks.”
“And yeah, it was a thirty-hour drive. We came straight through, stopping only to sleep, basically.” She pauses. “Did you read your letter yet?”
“What letter?”
“The one Santiago slid under your door last night.”
I’m in my room in what feels like an instant. I must’ve walked right over it—because yeah, right there. An envelope. Moon is scrawled on it in small, neat handwriting.
Because I’m starved, I don’t open it yet. Clutching the envelope like it’s holy, I walk back and return to my plate and mug of coffee. “Well?” Tía says.
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Don’t leave us hanging,” Star says.
“I need a minute first.” I grab my food, walk back to my room, and sit on the bed. After a couple of more bites, I open the envelope.
DEAR MOON,
I FEEL LIKE THE BIGGEST JERK IN THE WORLD. AND THAT’S BECAUSE I AM, I GUESS. I THOUGHT YOU WERE TRYING TO GET CLOSE TO ANDRO BY BEING WITH ME BECAUSE, I GUESS, WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE, I DIDN’T UNDTERSTAND WHY A GIRL LIKE YOU WOULD EVER WANT ME. YOU’RE TALENTED. BEAUTIFUL. FUNNY. AND I’M, WELL, YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT ME. I KNOW I REALLY BLEW IT WITH YOU, BUT I WANT TO MAKE IT UP SOMEHOW. I’LL BE STAYING AT THE OLDE TOWN INN.
I’LL BE UP FRONT. I WANT TO TAKE YOU OUT. COURT YOU. ALL THAT STUFF. PLEASE LET ME… AND IF YOU’VE CHANGED YOUR MIND, I MEAN, THAT WOULD SUCK, BUT THAT’S OKAY. I STILL WANT TO BE FRIENDS, IF THAT’S OKAY WITH YOU.
THERE ARE SO MANY AWESOME PLACES TO EAT HERE. WHY DON’T WE MEET AT ARNAUD’S TOMORROW AT SEVEN? EMAIL ME WHAT YOU THINK. OR NOT. IT’S ALL UP TO YOU, MOON.
—SANTIAGO
I rush out to the kitchen, where Tía and Star are finishing their coffee. “So you and Santiago aren’t together?” I ask Star.
“What?” Star says. “Are you kidding?” When I say nothing, she smiles. “He won’t even look at me unless I’m talking about you. The only time he spoke to me was to remind me of all the times I was shitty to you.” Her eyes water a little.
“Wait, so he was a jerk to you?” That’s not what I want either.
“No. No. He told me exactly what I needed to hear.”
I lift the letter, looking over his blocky handwriting again. “He wants to meet me at Arnaud’s tonight.”
“Ah,” Tía says, raising her eyebrows, and at the same time Star squeaks and says, “What are you going to wear?”
I blink for a second, staring at Star. “Are you really freaking serious right now?”
Now Star’s the one who looks confused. “But—he’s trying to get you back, right? Why wouldn’t I want to know what you’re planning to wear?”
I scoff. “Um, maybe because the last time I saw you, you were destroying my camera and livelihood? You were telling Santiago what a slut I am? And then you made him believe I wanted Andro instead of him?”
“Why do you sound so mad?” Star asks. “You said you forgive me.”
“Just because I forgive you doesn’t mean I’m over it.”
“That’s exactly what forgiveness is supposed to—”
“Girls.” Tía’s voice is quiet and firm. “You both have things you need to work out. Clearly. But we’re not at your mother’s house. I won’t have this dissolve into a screaming match.” She stands. “You talk. With inside voices. I’ll make more coffee.”
Star and I watch her go. When we look back at each other, we each fidget in our seats, in the exact same way. We’re practically mirror images of each other.
“You tried to ruin me,” I say. “That’s not something I can just forget, okay?”
Star nods. “Okay. Yeah. I get it. I did some really crappy stuff to you.”
I scoff. “Really crappy stuff” is certainly putting it mildly. “One of the things I don’t get is why you did it. Why? Why did you go out of your way—”
“Because I was jealous, okay?” Star’s voice is loud, and she lowers it when Tía tsks in the kitchen. “Because I am jealous of you.”
“You. Are jealous of me. You.”
Star nods.
I huff. “This isn’t a joke, Star.”
“I’m not joking. Not lying. I really was—and am—jealous.” Her eyes are getting big and glassy. “For so long… you were you. And I was me.” It’s kind of a vague beginning, but I get it. She was Star Fuentez, the virginal FG influencer. And I was… me. Moon the Weed. Star wipes her eyes as she continues. “And all of a sudden, you were getting noticed. And not because of what designer you were wearing or how you braided your hair or how many Bible verses you’ve memorized or…” She sniffles. “You were noticed because of your art. Because you’re funny and smart. The things you’d say. And your tarot deck.” She takes a breath. “It hurt when you didn’t tell me about that. Why didn’t you tell me about your Fotogram account? How could you let me find out about it when your story, with the red feathers, hit number one?” She blinks back tears. “I felt so ridiculous. And betrayed.”
“You would have totally freaked, Star.”
“No, I wouldn’t have. I would’ve supported you.”
I shrug. “Sorry. That’s really hard for me to believe.”
“Okay. Yeah. That’s fair, given my behavior.”
We both pause as Tía places café con leche in front of us.
“Gracias,” I say. Star echoes me.
“Right,” Star says, and takes a sip. “So. I was jealous and I saw that you were getting close to Santiago. And I—I know that must make me sound like such a sinner. But I wanted to get him. I wanted control back. That was it. I felt so out of control.”
“You wanted to put me in my place as the ugly, weedy sister.”
Star rolls her eyes. “Moon, you are not—”
“But you know what I mean.”
“Well, whatever I was trying to do didn’t work. He really likes you. I swear. I think he’s in love with you, Moon.” She shrugs. “And I was terrible. I know. But I thought—I thought if people realized how great you are, if you realized it, that you’d leave me. That I would be alone.”
“What are you talking about, Star? You—you’ve always had everything. Everyone. Thousands of fans and followers and friends. And Mom. Like, I would’ve never left you if you hadn’t been so cruel. But don’t kid yourself, or me. You wouldn’t have been alone.”
Star shakes her head. “All Mom cares about is money. Even my friends… even Chamomila. All they care about is access to one-point-four million followers. Everyone’s only waiting to cash in, as far as I’m concerned. When you left, Moon, I realized you were the only real relationship in my life. You’re the only one who ever cared to protect me from the creeps. Who even thought of doing that.” Star shrugs. “I don’t want to lose you. I get that you can’t just let it go, but I promise you, Moon, I’m going to try to be a better sister to you.”
I get up and sit next to her and lean into her, and she leans into me, and then we are hugging and crying.
&nbs
p; “I want to be a better sister too,” I say. “So if you have feelings for Santiago—”
“I don’t. I promise. I don’t.” Star pauses. “But I do need you to promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me help you choose your outfit for tonight.”
I groan. “What the hell, Star?”
“You dress a little too—”
I give her a look.
“Casually most of the time.”
“Fine. Help me dress. Whatever.”
Star cheers and Tía pops her head out of the kitchen like it’s pure coincidence and she wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time. “Ya? All good now?” She sits. “So you’re going to give him a chance?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. You have to. You have to,” Star says.
“Don’t pressure her,” Tía says.
“I mean,” I say. “I guess I’ll go to hear what he has to say.”
“Not in that, you’re not,” Star says, gesturing to my goat pajamas.
“Well, duh.”
“Show her,” Tía tells me. “All those clothes we got, eh?”
“Ugh, fine,” I say as Star claps her hands together rapidly. She runs to my room before I can even finish my last sip of coffee.
“Have some patience, would you?” I call.
“Oh my gosh! What about this brown jumpsuit?” she calls back.
I groan, and Tía smiles like she knows I’m only pretending to be annoyed. Because… you know what? It feels good to have Star be interested in me for once. Like… she’s invested in me or something. Like she cares.
So I let her dress me. In distressed denim and my pale-pink wrap top. In an ochre dress of Tía’s patterned with tropical-looking leaves. Finally, I put on the brown jumpsuit. “That’s it,” Star says. “That’s what’s going to make Santiago’s eyes explode right out of his head!”
“God, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I say. But yeah, I know I look good in it, because the belt hugs right where my waist is smallest, making me appear like an hourglass. But there’s still a part of me that keeps wanting to glance over my shoulder to measure the rolls on my back, to see if the cellulite on my butt is visible through the fabric. The kindest thing I think is, I look chubby. But Santiago liked it, didn’t he? He liked all the thick, soft, wobbly parts of me, so much that when I let him, he couldn’t keep his hand—or mouth—away.
But he didn’t like it enough to fight for me.… That’s what he’s doing now, though, right? Fighting.
God, I’m so confused. Now I feel like I just look bad.
Tía knows what I’m doing. “Stop,” she says, lightly smacking my hip. “His eyes will be nothing but ash.”
And she’s right, of course. Santiago will melt when he sees me, not just because he thinks I’m hot… but because I actually am hot. I hide a smile as I look at myself again—hourglass, jiggly, dimpled. Beautiful.
“Yeah, he’s going to pass out for sure,” Star says, smiling, then looking around. “Where’s your jewelry?”
Star and Tía decide to put bamboo hoops in my ears and on my hands, with my brown leather sandals and my coconut bag. Everything on me is some form of bronze or brown or deep gold. “You look amazing,” Star keeps reassuring me, but seeing myself in the mirror, I feel conflicted. I know I look good. I just feel like I might be trying too hard. Like I come off as desperate.
Tía scoffs when I say this. “That’s because you’ve been raised to think a woman dresses up only to attract a man. Consider this—maybe a girl dresses up for herself? Hmm? Ever think about that?”
Which makes me feel much better, actually. Because all this, it’s not for Santiago. It’s for me.
53. Actually, This Might Be the Worst Date in the Known Universe
I SPOT HIM first, standing at the front of the restaurant. Everything is sticky-humid. Everything smells amazing. Everything is blue and orange and glowing with gas lanterns, little tongues of flames hovering around like fairies.
And Santiago. So freaking handsome, it’s not fair at all. He dressed up, maybe for himself, too. He’s got on a cobalt-blue button-down that looks a little too tight over his broad shoulders. His gray slacks are lightly pin-striped. Black dress shoes so shiny, I can see the lanterns reflected on them, little fairies flitting at his feet.
And then he sees me and there’s, like, a thousand different emotions on his face. I don’t get a good read on each one. There’s maybe surprise and relief, maybe hope, and maybe—Lord—longing? But then all that zips up nicely into something vaguely pleasant.
“Hey,” he says when I get close.
My whole body wants to hug him. I want to melt right into him, take him to my bed and snuggle for hours. And then kiss for hours. But then, you know, the fact that he thinks me whorish enough to seduce him to get Andro. And all the crap that comes with that.
I guess he senses my restraint against touching him, because he tilts his head rather than reaching for me. “Shall we?”
I follow him through the epic Arnaud’s. I actually looked up some of its history online. It’s literally over a hundred years old. Once, a European dude mocked me for thinking one hundred years was actually old. I couldn’t say it at the time, but the reason we have so few old things here is because European conquerors destroyed it all. So I’m allowed to feel awe and wonder right now at a whole hundred years, a whole lifetime ago. I mean, really. Back then was so different, it was like a hundred lifetimes away.
I feel like if things were normal between me and Santiago, he’d be telling me all about Arnaud’s now, probably some supersecret historical information that only chefs would know, with that same joyful tone in his voice that I first heard when he told me about salt.
Now, with things anything but normal, we say nothing. He leads me to the back of the restaurant, where there’s a server. “Mr. Philips,” he says. “Ms.…?”
“Ms. Fuentez,” Santiago finishes.
The server nods and smiles and reaches to pull my chair out, but Santiago beats him to it. “Are you ready for the menus, sir?”
Santiago nods, and I sit down, suddenly acutely aware that I haven’t said a single word since I got here. A trickle of fear nips at the back of my neck. What if I’ve lost my voice? What if I can’t say anything for the rest of the night, or ever again?
“Thanks for meeting me here tonight,” Santiago says. There’s nothing wrong with his voice, that’s for sure. It’s still the same, deep, flipping sexiest tone I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Do you like oysters?” he asks next.
I shrug and do a really weird head movement that’s basically a combination of a nod and a shake.
“You ever had them before?”
I shake my head.
“Want to try a couple?”
I shrug and nod at the same time. Santiago drops his menu. “Are you ever going to speak to me again?”
I open my mouth, then close it.
“So that’s a no?” He takes a breath while I try, and fail, to not freak out. And he stands, and for one super-freaked-out moment, I think he might leave me there, all alone, in my brown-on-brown-on-brown outfit. But he stops once he’s next to me. “I want to hug you,” he says. “Can I?”
My hands, arms, knees—everything—shake. I nod. His hand is on mine and he helps me up, and then his arm is around me. First on my shoulders, then the other at my waist. It takes me a few seconds, but finally I raise my arms and clasp my hands around his hips. He rests his chin on my head. When he speaks, I can feel the rumble of his voice on my cheek and throat and collarbone.
“I’m sorry. I’m such a fucking fool.” He holds me for a long while. After a minute I relax enough to sink into him. His muscles are firm against all the squishy bits of me.
His hand reaches my hip and squeezes. I squeak like a mouse.
“Ah, so you can speak,” he murmurs into my hair.
I’m stiff again. I take his hand off my hip. �
�Look.” Taking a step back, I glance up at his face. How can someone look so beautiful in the freaking dark like this? If anything, his cheekbones and lips and ambery eyes are heightened by all the shadows.
I swallow. “Okay, yeah, I’m not exactly sure about all this. About you. The fact that I’m here isn’t a yes. It’s…” I run a hand on my hip, where everything still tingles. “It’s a maybe I’ll give you a chance to be friends. And then maybe more. Or maybe not. I’m not sure yet.”
He looks slightly devastated, but then he nods. “I respect all of your choices.” He gestures to the table. “Can I compliment you?” he asks as we sit.
“Why wouldn’t you be allowed to compliment me?”
He shrugs. “I guess—maybe my compliment isn’t exactly a just-friends sort.”
I swallow. “Well, in that case, maybe wait a bit, okay?”
He nods, looking down at the menu, cheeks and neck red.
“But,” I add. “Maybe a friendly version of that compliment would be nice.”
“Is that so?” He gives me a half smile. And then his eyes drop to my ribs, then back up again. “Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to look—I mean.”
I clear my throat. “The compliment, Santiago?”
He’s biting his lips when he looks back up at my eyes. “You look… nice.”
It’s amazing how a simple, even boring compliment can carry so many other words behind it. He may as well have said, I want to eat the oysters we ordered off your body. That’s how nice you look to me.
“Thanks,” I say. And then I let my eyes drop to the wide of his shoulders. I remember exactly what they feel like in my fists. And then I say, “You look nice too.” Translation: Yes. Eat dinner off me. After I have a go at you first, though.
“So, oysters,” I say, and somehow, that doesn’t break the tension. “Are they as slimy as they look?”
He smiles and chuckles and, Lord, okay, the tension wavers, but there’s something else between us. Relief? Happiness? Alegría? That was my word today from Tía. It means something like joy. Alegría. It settles around me like dust, warmed and red from some distant, ancient desert.
“A little. Maybe.” He picks up the menu. “We can try them for an appetizer, along with mushrooms Véronique. Does that sound okay? For dinner, I was going to order gumbo.”
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 28