Misfits Like Us (Like Us #11)(125)

What will this do to them? Their businesses? I’ve written some raunchy stories about space bounty hunters and otherworldly species that won’t be good for Halway Comics, Hale Co., Superheroes & Scones…not to mention I’m the niece to Connor and Rose. How is this going to affect Calloway Couture and Cobalt Inc.?

What about Aunt Daisy?

Camp Calloway.

I’ve only been thinking of my life, but…this could destroy so many other people, too. Legacies imploding…because of me.

Tears suddenly burst.

“Luna?” He cups the back of my head.

“I don’t want to be here,” I sob. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Donnelly.”

“We’re gone. We’re not here, Sad Alien,” he reminds me strongly, but I hear the strain in his voice as emotion surges. “And I know it feels like they’re cutting you inside-out—but those assholes are somewhere inside a computer. They’re more invisible than we are, you know that? They’re the ones who don’t exist. Not in our universe.”

“Our universe feels cursed,” I choke out.

“What happened to hoping?” Donnelly questions softly. “What happened to believing?” He tilts his head, capturing my eyes that try to fall. “Believe with me. Believe they’re exiled from your planet. Believe that they can’t touch the most important parts of you, Luna.”

“What if…I just give you my heart and soul for safe-keeping?” I ask tearfully.

“We’ve made a swap then. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you already have mine.”

I shut my eyes, letting that sentiment wash through me. Tears keep leaking.

They’re exiled, I want to pretend.

I hear his words.

But cracks inside of me are letting fear and panic seep through, and I just want to sleep. I just want to go to bed now. I want to never open my eyes again.

I don’t have the energy to speak. I just pull my shirt back up over my head and let the darkness consume me again.

Donnelly touches the top of my head. I listen to the thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat for a long while. It helps. He doesn’t say anything else. He just stays with me, but when I start thinking of all the companies I could be tarnishing, I cry harder.

I feel him leave the bed.

Time slips away. One second feels like a minute. My breathing cuts short, sporadic, and then I hear my brother.

“Luna?”

I peer out of my T-shirt to see Maximoff on the edge of the bed. His toughened, empathetic eyes have a way of speaking a million things at once.

You’re okay.

And I’m going to fix this.

And I’ve been where you are. You’re not alone. You’re never alone.

I crawl over to my brother, and instantly, he’s hugging me. “It’s going to be okay,” he breathes strongly, and just like with Donnelly, I want to believe in my brother’s words, too.

I want to believe them all.

But it’s been easier to believe in extraterrestrial beings—in you, unearthly reader—than believing that everything will be okay in the end. I’ve known that.

I rub at my swollen eyes and look over at the doorway.

Farrow lifts his brows at me. “Fuck them. Whoever says a fucked up thing—they’re a waste of time in your head. They don’t deserve to be there, Luna.”

I know. “I don’t know how to get them out.” My voice sounds small.

Donnelly—I wish Donnelly would come back beside me, but he’s at the doorframe and speaking to someone in the hallway. Akara, Banks, Thatcher—maybe. I think all three. And I realize how big of a security issue this is.

Only my family and security knew my username on Fictitious. It was exposed, but by who?





I’m in a daze at the twelve-seat dining room table. It barely gets any use at the penthouse, but tonight it’s overflowing with laptops and all eight of my roommates. Their readiness in times of a crisis—even a 2 a.m. crisis revolving around the internet and me—reminds me that five of them are bodyguards. Prepared for the worst.

And then you have Jane and Moffy who are practically bodyguard adjacent with their leadership skills and resolve.

The only one remotely like me is Sulli, who’s doing her best to contribute to the team, on her own laptop. Her uncertain eyes ping to Banks and Akara on either side of her. Like she’s copying their homework for a test.

It almost makes me smile.

I’m at the head of the table. Quiet, mostly. I stare blankly at my sticker-decorated laptop. I open it and scroll through all my stories on Fictitious that Donnelly set to private.

“Send that link, honey,” Thatcher tells Jane.

“Done.” Jane clicks on her keyboard, her wavy hair tied in a low pony with a polka-dot scrunchie. The table hides some of her pregnant belly from my view. Same with Sulli’s growing baby bump.

Everyone looks woken out of bed, in various PJs. I threw on sweatpants before rejoining life outside my bedroom, but Donnelly, Farrow, Banks, and Akara didn’t even bother grabbing a shirt.

They just grabbed their laptops.

“Fuckin’ trolls,” Banks mutters, biting on a toothpick.

“Get ‘em, Banksy,” Akara quips, typing on his computer. “Use your big strong guns.”