Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
FANATICON
DIRECT MESSAGES
Friday, Sept 14th
3:31 p.m.
StaleBread89: thx
Illyana_Dallas222: no problem
4:24 p.m.
StaleBread89: is Bass your fav show or you like others? Need some recs while we wait for episode 5 to drop
Illyana_Dallas222: Bass is my current fav. Also love Raised by Wolves, Battlestar Galactica, Roswell, The Expanse, and The 100. Have you seen The OA? It’s amazing but only got 2 seasons #gonetoosoon
StaleBread89: The Expanse is god level. Need to check out the others. The OA any good?
Illyana_Dallas222: definitely worth seeing. I might be able to steer you in a good sci-fi direction based on whether you like it or you think it’s too weird
StaleBread89: if it’s weird it’s def for me
Illyana_Dallas222: sending you a link! Also fyi, if you don’t like some romance elements, you might not love Roswell and The 100 as much
5:55 p.m.
StaleBread89: I’m good with some romance. Everyone needs some love in their life 😛 Even our girl Callie.
Illyana_Dallas222: Callie stans unite 👊
StaleBread89: 👊
7
LUNA HALE
I stare dazedly at the fist bump emoji we just sent one another. Smiling stupidly at his words about Callie and everyone needing some love in their life.
“Where’d she go—is she still there?” Tom asks over speakerphone.
“Looooona,” Eliot calls out over the three-way call. “Looooona!”
“We’ve lost her, dude.”
“We knew she’d be beamed up sooner or later,” Eliot sighs. “Which aliens should we go fight, brother?”
“Every single one. Leave none alive.”
I smile bigger at my phone. “I’m here. Just…checking my DMs for a sec. Sorry.” I swivel in a full circle on my vanity stool. The townhouse is no more—it has been lost to flames for over a year now. Where I lived isn’t as important as where I live now, unearthly reader. The penthouse is a big step-up in square footage.
9000 to be exact.
But more importantly, I have more roommates. I live with two married couples, a married triad, a one-year-old baby, seven cats, two puppies, and the goldfish that I secretly bought a month ago. Two more newborn babies (human) are expected to arrive at the end of the year, which will increase the Homo sapiens to eleven.
“DMs,” Eliot says, “as in the Fanaticon DMs?”
Tom strums a cord on a guitar. “Wait, the ones from this afternoon?” I did inform Tom about StaleBread89 when he returned with the chicken shawarma. That I did end up splitting with Eliot.
“Maybe,” I say softly, still smiling at the DMs.
“That is a big flaming yes,” Tom sounds more interested—but also ten times more concerned. “I’m FaceTiming.” In an instant, Tom appears on my phone screen, guitar on his lap while sitting on his bed, a skull-printed black duvet beneath him.
Eliot stays as a voice call. He’s in the dressing room that he shares with most of the theatre troupe, and he goes on-stage later tonight as Hamlet.
“What’s the prognosis, Tom?” Eliot asks. “Is she swooning?”
“Oh yeah. Total swoon.” He strums the guitar. “What’d StaleBread say?”
I cup my phone. “I have to click out of FaceTime to read it.”
“Then click out.” While strumming more forcefully, he sings with melodic passion and aggression. “‘Cause Luna with No Middle Name might be swooning over Stale Bread. Yeah! Stale Bread!” He pumps his fist in the air with a grin. His golden-brown hair is a popular 90s style that has all the guys swooning after him.
Tom Carraway Cobalt has always been an ember in the dark. Eliot is the one burning and burning on fire.
I imagine they are the fiercest, raging stars in my universe, and if there is a night where the sky is black, they’ll glow the most brightly. Burn too bright and they become supernovas. They explode and die.
Chaos at its finest, Eliot would say, but I don’t like thinking about a time where they might not be there. Where I can’t look up and point them out so easily.
“Stale bread! Yeaaaah,” Tom sings again.
“Number one single,” I sing-song way more off-key.
“Luna, coming in with the chorus.” Tom starts to bob his head, then stops halfway. “Really, though.” He puts his hands on the guitar strings, cutting off the music. “What’d he say?”
I pop up Fanaticon and read most of our conversation, “…and then he said, if it’s weird it’s def for me—”
“Pit stop,” Eliot chimes in. “Red flag.”
I frown and return to the FaceTime screen. “He was being nice.”
Tom sets aside his guitar. “He said he’s into weird shit. How is that not a red flag, Luna with No Middle Name?” His nickname for me sounds serious with his serious eyes boring into me. He even adds, “Seriously.”
“I’m into weird things,” I mention.
“So am I,” Eliot interjects.
“As am I,” Tom adds. “But this is online. Anonymous. He could be into kidnapping!” He rakes a hand in his hair with a wide-eyed expression that reminds me of Scott Wormer from Now and Then. He does almost have the same haircut. “Eliot.”