The woman’s lips tighten into the smallest pout of displeasure. “My daughter is receiving threats,” she says.
Her daughter?
“The threats aren’t public knowledge,” the woman adds hastily. “And this conversation that we’re having is obviously confidential.”
“Of course,” I answer.
“I’ll have our lawyer send you an NDA,” she goes on.
“A nondisclosure agreement?” I interrupt.
“Yes.” She nods. “It’s standard. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“I don’t need to sign an agreement. I just gave you my word.”
She shrugs. “And with respect, I don’t know you, and everyone in Luna’s orbit has to sign one. That’s the deal.”
“With respect,” I say to Luna’s mother, “I was in the military for seven years—I know how to keep a secret.”
Mrs. Rivera eyes me with a jaded expression. “And do you know how many times people have told me to trust them and have then sold my daughter out to the tabloids or gossip sites?”
I stay quiet.
“As I was saying,” she goes on, “my daughter has been receiving threats.”
“What kind of threats?” I ask.
Luna’s mom stands up and walks over to the window. She takes in the view for a few seconds, then turns to me, and for the first time her face expresses an emotion that’s clear to read: one of pure fear. “Death threats.”
LUNA
I’m starving and I have nothing to wear, and all I want to do is crawl into bed and watch Queer Eye while eating a gallon of ice cream, but I can’t. I glance at my phone, which is lying on the bed. I promised myself I wouldn’t go near it for at least twenty minutes and it’s only been about five, though I’m not exactly sure because to check how long it’s actually been, I’d have to look at the phone.
I step toward the bed but then stop myself. If I pick up the phone, I’ll get sucked in. But what if Jamie has texted? He’s probably awake by now. What time is it in Japan anyway? No. We broke up. We’re over, this time for good. Last week at that party we got in a fight. It wasn’t even over anything big. I wanted to go home and he wanted to stay. I didn’t really know anyone, and I don’t feel comfortable around strangers. I’m always too nervous to relax, too aware that I’m being watched like some rare species in a zoo. Jamie’s the opposite. He thrives on attention. It’s his oxygen. He loves knowing people are staring at him, and he becomes a different person in public, loud and kind of obnoxious, and that night I’d had enough.
I force myself to back away from the phone and focus instead on the problem of what to wear tonight. I don’t want to go and I’ve already tried getting out of it several times, but standing up to Marty is like trying to stand up to Thanos.
Standing in the doorway to my walk-in closet, I glance at the rails of clothes and boxes of shoes stacked all the way to the ceiling like an architect’s model of New York City skyscrapers, but instead of feeling excited about getting dressed up, I feel only a creeping sense of dread. My breathing is shallow, and it feels as if there are rocks pressing down on my shoulders and an army of ants on the march beneath my skin. I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
If only I could wear these sweatpants and a hoodie tonight. I laugh under my breath, imagining what people would say if I did. When I take a step toward the mirror, it’s easy to see myself the way other people do, because it’s like looking at a stranger. The girl in the mirror smiles at me, a big, broad dazzling smile. And it is so genuine that for a second I feel envy at how happy she is and wish I could feel that way myself.
Wanting to ease the antsy feeling, which is only getting worse, I head downstairs, making a beeline for the kitchen. I hurry to the freezer and yank open the door. Someone has been shopping. There are six tubs of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to choose from, one Cherry Garcia and the rest Chunky Monkey. Cruel. Carla knows my weaknesses and is exploiting them.
I hear the back door opening and spin around. Carla bustles in with her hands full of fresh pink and red roses she must have just cut from the bushes in the garden. Or maybe the gardener, Francisco, gave them to her. I’ve seen his eyes follow her when she wanders outside.
“Are you hungry?” she asks me, setting the flowers in the sink before crossing to the fridge. “Let me make you something. You can’t have ice cream for breakfast.”
I slam the freezer door. “I wasn’t going to,” I say indignantly. “I’m not hungry.”
Carla ignores me and starts pulling food from the fridge: eggs, tomatoes, chilies, cheese.
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “I’m not hungry.” But my mouth salivates all the same.
“Well, I’m going to make something anyway for Matias,” she says. “I’ll make you some too. You don’t have to eat it.”
I glower at her, but she is busy moving around the kitchen, gathering bowls and whisks and frying pans, and oh no, I realize too late what it is she’s doing.… She’s making huevos rancheros. She hums as she cracks the eggs into the bowl, and I watch as she starts to froth them with the whisk, adding liberal shakes of salt and pepper.
I did do a two-hour workout this morning, so surely I can cut myself a break just this once? Grudgingly I take a seat at the kitchen counter and watch Carla as she starts chopping a green chili, smiling a little smugly and very annoyingly to herself.
“Who’s the cute guy talking to your mom?” Carla asks as she drops the chili into the egg mixture.
My head pricks up at that. “I don’t know,” I say, hopping off the stool and heading for the door. My suspicions are raised.
“Will you call your brother?” Carla asks, seeing me heading for the door. “Tell him breakfast is almost ready.”
I mumble a yes, but I make straight for the living room, tiptoeing closer to the door. I can hear my mom talking in a low voice, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I peek through the crack in the door and see a man with broad shoulders sitting on the sofa. It takes me a few seconds to place him, but then…
“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself—it’s the guy who inserted himself into my argument with Jamie at the party. What’s he even doing here? How did he get in? Panic weaves through me.
“… already been through three bodyguards,” I catch my mom saying to him.
“Three?” he responds, sounding vaguely amused, vaguely horrified.
My stomach lurches. My blood starts to boil. I storm into the room. “What the hell is going on?” I demand, glaring at my mother. “What are you doing here?” I say, turning to the guy, who double-takes when he sees me, his mouth falling open.
My mom looks up at me, alarmed. “Luna,” she stammers. “I thought you were out.”
“Clearly,” I answer, anger rising like a geyser in my chest.
“This is Will,” she says now, gesturing toward him. He forces a smile, only it comes out as a grimace. He recognizes me too.
“Hey,” he says with a trace of what looks like a smirk. “I think we met before.”
My mom looks at him and then me with what can only be assumed is a frown, though it’s impossible to tell because all the Botox she’s had has frozen her face, so she always looks blank. “I thought you didn’t know her,” she says to him.