“I’ll see you around,” Luna said as she took the back stairs, like a robber making a getaway.
Owen promptly gathered his belongings and followed her.
“Wait up,” he said.
Luna didn’t. She knew he could catch her if he wanted to.
Outside, Luna was revived by the fresh air and a rush of adrenaline as she breezed past the incoming paramedics.
Owen caught up with Luna and walked in stride with her through the quad. “You hit your head pretty hard. You might have a concussion.”
“I don’t.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve hit my head before.”
“Maybe I’ll just stay with you to make sure you don’t develop any symptoms.”
Luna wanted him to stay. She’d wanted him to follow her out of the library. But she was good at not saying what she wanted.
“It’s a free country,” she said.
As they walked in stride, Owen was greeted by a gauntlet of students, cheerily acknowledging his presence. Owen would raise his hand in a half wave or nod as a response.
“You running for class president?” Luna asked.
“Never. Why?”
“You have a lot of friends,” she said.
“Acquaintances,” he clarified. “People like me. Don’t know why.”
Luna thought he probably did know and didn’t want to say. He was handsome but not manly or rugged. Attractive without being threatening. And, judging by his egalitarian greetings, he was friendly. Luna didn’t mention any of that. She did, however, ask a question no one had ever asked him before.
“Do you like people?”
“Not as much as they like me,” Owen said. “Hmm, I think that came out wrong.”
“I get it, in a way,” Luna said.
Her experience was the exact opposite, which allowed for a certain inverse understanding.
Luna seemed wise beyond her years, Owen thought. She was subtly enigmatic. It would take some time to figure her out, but he was willing to put in the effort.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Owen said.
“Like what?” Luna said.
Vague questions never seemed vague to Luna.
“I don’t know,” Owen said. “What do you do when you’re not convulsing?”
It was a dangerous joke. When a moment of silence passed, Owen thought he’d gone too far. Then Luna laughed, a big, deep laugh, the kind of laugh you can’t fake. He loved the sound of her laugh. It was like the first time you take a drug.
“I think we’re going to be friends,” Owen said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Luna replied, even though she secretly hoped that would be the case.
That was the day it all began. Luna and Owen. Owen and Luna. Their names would be inextricably linked for years to come. The one steady thing in their unsteady lives. Before long, neither would be able to imagine a life without the other. It would be hard not to admire the strength of their bond. However, if you were in their orbit, you might come to realize that it was a dangerous place to be. Not everyone there made it out alive.
October 7, 2019
Luna was watching coffee brew. It was seven-thirty a.m., caffeine withdrawal ramping up, brain still fogged and incapable of any heavy lifting. Still, Luna thought, this is not a good use of my time. Not that she could think of a better thing to be doing at the moment. Her husband, Sam, had a thing about waiting for the coffee to finish brewing before you poured a cup. He once suggested it was like the grown-up marshmallow test. Luna didn’t think that was the best analogy, but the mere suggestion that she’d fail that test had changed her entire morning habit.
Luna heard two quiet knocks on the back door. Only one person used that door. You had to unlatch a side gate and circle around the house. It was just easier to use the front door. Irene Boucher, however, didn’t care about easy. The doorbell took a picture of you, which was stored on some random company’s hard drive. They were not going to take her picture.
Luna opened the door, got a look at Irene, and laughed. That morning, Irene was wearing a red Fila shell suit. It wasn’t one of her better ones, Luna thought. She also had on a thick gold-plated chain that Luna had given her for her last birthday. A joke of sorts. It was the kind of thing that a movie mobster might wear. Irene really liked the chain, in an unironic sort of way.
“Is Tony Soprano your fashion icon?” Luna had once quipped.
Irene’s earnest response: “Paulie and Christopher wore the best tracksuits.”
Irene had a closet full of them. Some velour, some polyester, in a strange rainbow of colors. She was most loyal to Fila and Adidas. She wore them for comfort and because she could exercise at a moment’s notice when she had them on. Irene was compulsive about physical activity. She ran, hiked, lifted weights. She was the sort of person who would suddenly drop to the ground and do a set of push-ups or lunge her way across the room.