Status: System disrupted. Remove foreign object to stabilize.
“You don’t want to do that, do you?” I say.
“What?”
“Hook up with some guy you met at a convention?”
“What should I hold out for?” she teases. “A sham marriage to my best friend?”
I flick her shoulder. “Ideally.”
She presses Sim’s face to my cheek and makes a smoochy sound. I kiss the top of her head. I try not to, but I picture her in this position with that Lego-haired creep Dave, his lips lingering on her hair and his hands roaming the gentle curves of her body, doing all the stuff my hands would never do. My Bec. Not mine anymore. I guess she never was.
She lays Sim and Lagarde on my chest, side by side.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” she whispers.
“Yep.”
Abel snores pornographically, like a prince sleeping off an orgy. Outside on the highway, everyone’s going somewhere fast; 18-wheelers and SUVs and slick two-seaters all streak by together in one deep roar of purpose. I press my eyes shut and pretend Bec’s shoulder is Sim’s, picture his mechanical heart pumping blue in the dark. You are safe here with me, he says, and Shall we watch the skies for falling stars?, but all I see is Abel’s hurt face in the kitchen when I said shut up, and all I hear is Hell Bells. Hell Bells. Hell Bells.
CastieCon #2
Atlanta, Georgia
Chapter Eight
“Fellow Casties,” sighs Abel. “A solemn bonjour from the parking lot of the Atlanta Superion Inn. Also known as Hell’s fiery furnace.”
Abel’s at the RV desk with the camera on, eating cheese curls that smell like dirty socks and fanning himself with a CastieCon program. I’m folding boxers in the Sunseeker kitchenette and deciding which t-shirts need to be ironed. I refuse to look at him. He didn’t even ask if I wanted to do a post, which I guess makes sense because we’ve barely spoken to each other all week. Whatever. I’m used to showy silent treatments. I have an older sister.
“Since we’ve been deluged with three whole comments wondering why we haven’t posted a vlog entry from the road this week, I figured it was time to sit you down for a heart-to-heart and be honest with you.” Abel clears his throat. I turn my back and plug in my iron. “Okay, here’s the thing, kids: Daddy and Daddy had a fight. The particulars aren’t important; let’s just say that Daddy Two was being a raging bitch and Daddy One graciously stepped aside and gave him the space he so desperately needed this week.”
I slam down the tabletop ironing board. “You’re not posting this.”
“Did you guys hear something? Like a gnat, maybe?” Abel cups a hand to his ear. “Anyway, Daddy One has personally had an awesome week. Cadsim ladies, I so enjoyed that new hurt/comfort fic where Cadmus ‘whimpered like a proud wounded cat’ and ‘dissolved into the comforting clank of Sim’s arms.’ Also, the road between Cleveland and Atlanta? Let me tell you guys: Superbly creepy cemetery in Cincinnati. Amazing drag show in Lexington—Anita Bigwon, you complete me, I’m totally stalking you on Twitter now. Of course, Daddy Two over there spent the entire week sulking in the RV and rewatching Season 1—”
“I’m not listening to you.” I wipe sweat off my brow with my forearm. “Just so you know.”
Abel rolls his eyes and crunches another cheese curl. “Aaaanyway, kids, just because Daddy and Daddy are fighting doesn’t mean we don’t love you. We’re parked just paces away from the Superion, where we’ll be giving you complete coverage of the Tom Shandley Q&A in…t-minus forty-five minutes. Guys: Are you ready to kneel before Xaarg?”
“Your phone keeps ringing.” I grab it off the desk and hold it up.
“I busted out my black cashmere t-shirt specifically for this occasion, ‘cause it’s not every day you lift your question paddle before the biggest badass villain on television. Considering he only approves of ‘literary fanfic that probes the psychology of Xaarg,’ I’m preeeetttty sure he’ll be his super duper awesome self and give another fat NO to cave-scene sexitude. We might have to literally worship him then.”
I fling the phone at his chest. “Will you answer this already?”
“Jesus, Brandon!” He shuts off the camera, rubbing the spot where I hit him. “What’s your malfunction?”
“Nothing wrong with me.”
“Normal people don’t throw phones.”
“Bitter loveless losers do, though.”
He checks the screen. “I missed three calls from Kade.”
“Tragic.”
“You know—”
“Make sure you apologize a million times and ask if he’s mad at you until he is.”
“I don’t do that!”
“It’s pathetic.”
“At least I have someone.”
“Someone with a chicken tattoo.”
“It’s a phoenix.”
I give him a smug chuckle, so he thinks I’m stifling a great comeback.
“Screw you.” He shakes his head. “Seriously.”
Bec bangs in with her laundry bag slung across her shoulder. She looks at me, then at him. I turn back to my Steamium, scrub it across my Castaway Planet shirt.
“What’s going on?” she says.
Abel’s dialing Kade. I shoot a toxic glare at him. “Nothing.”
“How long are you two going to do this?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“—Awwww, babe, don’t get pissy. I forgot…no, I did!” Abel’s saying. “I know, I’m tired too. I was out till two…No! God, not with him. Can you imagine?”
I slam down the Steamium. Bec shakes her head.
“I’m catching a Greyhound home,” she says, “if you guys don’t stop acting like infants.”
“Thought you had fun this week.”
She sighs a little, but she smiles. It’s been like old times with me and Bec this week—sort of, when she’s not texting Dave. A few times she’s hung out with Abel, but mostly it’s been the two of us chilling like an old married couple, eating cheese fries and chocolate cream pie in diners, fishing at crappy free campgrounds, doing weird touristy things Bec loves, like the Grave of Doctor Pepper in Virginia. I don’t really care what Abel’s been up to. He goes out at night in whatever town we’re in, and he comes back in at two in the morning with souvenirs: a thrift-store snakeskin bomber jacket, a shot glass with a skull and crossbones on it. Sometimes I’m still awake in the loft, fighting off swarms of dark thoughts or combing the Cadsim fanjournal for the next Hell Bells sighting (nothing else, so far). When the door creaks open, I always pretend I’m asleep.
“It was fun,” Bec says, “but the two of you are—”
“Talk to him. It’s not me.”
“It’s both of you! I can’t stand you guys like this.”
Abel lets out a hugely annoying look-how-much-fun-I’m-having laugh. “Nuh-uh! No you didn’t. You did not! Oh no, baby, that’s not crazy. You want crazy, let me read you something from this FJ…Um, fanjournal? I am not a nerd; you’re just culturally illiterate…”
“This shirt. For meeting Dave today. What do you think?” Bec waggles a narrow green t-shirt with a deep v-neck.
I swallow hard. “Nice.”
“It’s not too boob-intensive, is it?”
I’m just about to push out a “No” when Abel breaks in with a couple expletives that would’ve gotten me three days’ detention back in high school. He’s staring at his laptop, punching the scroll buttons up and down.
“Babe, I gotta call you back, all right?” he says to Kade. “Something’s going down here.”
***
I see her fanjournal icon in my head. It pops up in my dreams: the angel statue, the halo of knives.
“It’s bad, guys,” Abel says. “C’mere.”
You knew this would happen, says Father Mike.
hey_mamacita is back. This time she’s posted a picture I’ve never seen before. Abel in his Thundercats t-shirt, pulling a stern face beside a cinder-block wall.
Under the photo it says: