The Accomplice(42)

Hey.

why won’t u talk 2 me?



What Luna didn’t know was that Owen hadn’t responded to any of Scarlet’s communiqués in the last few months. He’d delete them as soon as they popped on his screen. Luna had always believed it was the unpredictability of Owen’s affection and disdain that unhinged Scarlet. A clear, immutable no could spare her months or years of pain and embarrassment. It took Luna and her drunk fingers five minutes to compose the message.


You have to stop, Scarlet. It’s over.



Luna sent the message without a moment’s hesitation. She thought that would be it. Then there was that annoying ding, along with another message.


someting importan I hav 2 tell you.



As Luna tried to formulate an even stronger sentence conveying utter disinterest, Scarlet sent another message.


Luna has a secret. A secret u wan 2 now.



Every remaining ounce of Luna’s sympathy was gone. She punched out another message.


She told me. Let it go.



Five minutes later, Owen’s phone dinged again.


u don know. If u knew, u wood not lik her



Luna, furious and frantic, replied again.


Stop. Stop. Fucking stop. Get a life.



A moment later, another message came in. Luna replied again, followed by another message.


meet at black budd in 30 min


You’re drunk. Go to bed.


30 min Or I tell



Luna deleted the entire exchange and threw the phone back on the floor. She shut her eyes hard and tried to stanch the flow of tears. Then she stopped fighting and let the tears flow until she was drained.

Luna remembered the joint she’d stowed in her winter coat for emergencies. This was indeed an emergency.

She poured a shot of leftover booze and lit the joint, taking a long, slow drag. It tasted stale, but maybe it would slow down her careening mind. She couldn’t help it. She dug out the cigar box with the letters. It was overwhelming, seeing them all at once. She reminded herself that they had accumulated over seven years.

Over time, some of the letters had diminished in power. The quasi-religious condemnations of her soul no longer packed the same punch as they once did. But when she reread all of them, the impact was like driving full speed into a concrete wall.

Luna didn’t so much fall asleep as tip over onto the floor. When she woke for the second time, it was one a.m. She heard a light tap on the door, whispers outside her room. The memory of the past few hours flooded back, and Luna’s adrenaline kicked in.

She crawled across the floor into her closet. She could wait until campus was silent, pack a bag, and be gone for good. But she had very little money and no safe place to crash.

The knock repeated, and Casey’s comforting voice came through the door.

“Luna, wake up,” said Casey. “You have to come outside and look at the moon.”

Casey liked the moon. Since full moons had more moon than any other, she was partial to those. Also, Casey was determined to document any evidence of full moons altering human behavior. It troubled her greatly that more studies were not done on the subject.

Luna crawled over to the door, trying to decide whether to speak or keep hiding. The threat hadn’t fully arrived. She could at least answer and buy some time.

“No moon for me,” said Luna, her mouth a kiss away from the doorframe. Despite her name, or because of it, Luna was willfully indifferent to planets beyond Earth.

Luna thought she sounded normal.

“But what if it’s the last moon?” said Casey.

“Fuck the moon,” said Luna.

Casey heard it that time, the wobble in Luna’s voice, the precipice of tears. Casey wasn’t going to leave now, no matter what kind of moon the sky had to offer.

“Open the door,” Casey said.

Luna tried to ignore her. Casey began knocking. Quiet, steady beats like a woodpecker on the job.

“I can do this all night,” Casey said. “I have titanium knuckles.”

Casey wouldn’t stop. Of that, Luna was certain. She scrambled to collect the letters spread across the floor and unlocked the door. Luna crawled into the small empty space between her bed and her dresser. She snatched the near-empty bottle off the floor and pulled the blanket from her bed. She covered herself and her hate mail with it.

“Thank you,” Casey said, entering the room. She shook her right hand, which stung from the pounding. “As it turns out, I don’t have titanium knuckles.”

Luna said nothing. She uncapped the bottle and drank, even though she was already feeling queasy. Focusing on her physical discomfort seemed far superior to the sick shit that was going on in her brain.

“Gimme some of that,” Casey said, mostly to get the bottle out of Luna’s possession.

Casey took a couple of heavy swigs. She never made a face after drinking booze straight. When Luna wasn’t overcome with dread, she would marvel at Casey’s strong disposition.

“This isn’t about Ted. I know that,” Casey said.

“No,” Luna said, extending her hand for the bottle. She didn’t so much want to drink it as hold it for comfort, like a degenerate’s teddy bear.

“I can keep a secret like no one else,” Casey said.