He shakes his head, and his nostrils flare in dislike. “I don’t,” he says. “We ran into each other at a party. I had no idea who she was.”
Oh, nice. I laugh, though it comes out as a snort. He didn’t know who I was? I’m sure he interrupted Jamie and me on purpose, wanting to know the juicy gossip and what we were arguing about, so he could spread it all around.
“What’s he doing here?” I demand, without looking in his direction.
My mom glares at me, her eyes bulging because she thinks I’m being rude. “I’m hiring him to provide security,” she says.
“I don’t need security,” I spit back, feeling my cheeks burn and adrenaline bursting through my veins, making me feel like I might explode. “I’ve already told you I don’t want anyone. And definitely not him.”
My mom nods. “I know. But I disagree, as does Marty.”
“I don’t care what you or Marty think. It’s my life.”
My mom takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, as though counting to ten. I bet she learned that in her one-to-one yoga class. “I know it’s your life,” she says calmly. “But Marty and I are making an executive decision.”
I bite my lip, tears stinging my eyes. “No,” I say. I feel like a toddler, and that I actually might stomp my foot. It’s the injustice of it, the complete lack of control over my own life. It’s a helpless feeling that makes my skin crawl. I don’t want someone spying on me and reporting back to my mom on everything I do, or worse, selling me out. It’s suffocating and humiliating, but no matter how many times I try to explain all this to her, I can’t seem to make my own mother understand it.
“You don’t have a choice in this,” my mom answers.
“Screw you!” I manage to yell as a sob bursts out of me.
I turn around before she can see me crying, only to find Will standing in my way. I charge toward him, desperate to get out of the room, and he steps smartly aside, but I’ve already started to swerve around him and so we bump into each other. I shove him with my hands and he stumbles back, hitting the edge of the coffee table.
“Luna!” my mom shouts after me, but I ignore her and run up the stairs, tears streaming down my face.
WILL
I watch Luna run from the room. She’s like a human hurricane, whirling in, wreaking havoc, then storming off to no doubt wreak havoc someplace else. What are the freaking odds? My heart leaped and sank at the same time when I saw it was the girl from the party. I’m tempted to get up and leave right now, but before I can, her mother starts talking at me again.
“I’m sorry,” she says, turning back to me. “I was meaning to talk to her before you came, but she went out early this morning before I could.”
I shrug. “That’s okay.” I hesitate for an awkward moment, then hold out my hand. “It was nice to meet you.”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asks, surprised.
I glance toward the door that Luna just ran through, crying. “Well,” I say, “I figured that she doesn’t want a bodyguard, so—”
“What Luna wants doesn’t matter,” her mother interrupts.
I laugh to myself. “It kind of does. I can’t do this job if the person I’m paid to protect doesn’t want me around.”
Her mom sighs and gestures to the sofa. I don’t want to sit down, though, because I just want to get out of here. I’m not a fan of drama. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime. “I think I should go,” I tell her.
“Please,” she urges. “Let me at least tell you what’s going on.” Before I can stop her, she gets up and walks over to the door and closes it, cutting off my escape.
I glance at the window with its triple-thick glass, then sigh and sit back down.
Once she sees that I’m no longer about to bolt, she sits down too, perching on the edge of her seat, ready to leap to her feet if I try to flee again.
“Letters started arriving about two years ago,” she says. “They were nasty—abusive, but they weren’t threatening her life. We thought it was just an angry fan.”
“A fan?” I ask. “Why would a fan send nasty letters?”
“I mean, a fan of Jamie’s.”
“Who’s Jamie?” I ask, confused.
Mrs. Rivera gives me a look like she wonders if I’m joking. “Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Have you been living in a hole for the last six years?”
“Kind of,” I answer, deadpan. “I’ve been on deployment, remember?”
She flushes. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m talking about Jamie Whitstone. He’s a singer. He just had a Billboard number one. His album has been in the top ten for sixty-three weeks. He recently launched a clothing line. He’s her boyfriend.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to hide my reaction. “We met at the party. Nice guy.”
Her mother’s face doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. She has an even better poker face than I do. I wonder if she likes the guy or not, or if she knows how badly he treats her daughter.
“They’re on and off a lot. A lot.” She rolls her eyes.
“Are you sure he isn’t behind the threats?” I ask, thinking back to Jamie’s behavior at the party and the way he was dragging Luna back by the arm.
Mrs. Rivera shakes her head at me. “It’s not him. They get hand delivered, often when Jamie’s overseas. The police have already investigated.”
“I was about to ask if the police were involved.”
She nods. “We spoke to a detective a while ago, but he wasn’t able to trace the letters, and until the person who sends them actually does something more than send letters, until he threatens her in person, there’s nothing more they can do, apparently.”
“So, if it’s only an angry fan, or someone who’s jealous, why not just ignore them?” I ask. It sounds like middle school–level drama to me when I compare it to what I’ve seen in Afghanistan—a place where threats are usually followed by an IED explosion. Even the police didn’t take it seriously, which tells me something.
“You don’t understand,” Luna’s mom goes on. “At first we thought they were letters from a jealous fan of Jamie’s, or someone who just hates Luna. You’d be amazed at the nasty things people post online.”
I don’t have social media, but I can guess. I know enough about people to know that most of them aren’t very nice, and they’re even less nice when they can hide behind anonymity.
“I tell Luna not to read the comments online, but short of taking away her phone, I can’t stop her. But then the death threats started,” she goes on. “And they were detailed. Extremely graphic. Explaining what this person wanted to do to her.” She swallows hard, as though even recalling it is difficult, and then she looks up at me, and I see her eyes are welling up with tears. “I mean, I know you must have seen some awful things in your time, but this was pretty much the worst thing I’ve ever read. And this is my daughter we’re talking about. I’ll do anything to protect her.”