“No thanks.”
He takes a big swig. “—and so this one time in college I took one of her t-shirts, like that exact shirt, and I left it at the beach like an effing moron and oh my God you’d think I murdered her dog ‘cause she never let me forget it. This is authentic, right?”
“Yeah.”
“From the ‘88 tour or whatever?”
“I guess.”
“Where’d you get it? It’s super-rare. I’ve looked seriously everywhere!”
“I don’t know. My sister got it for my birthday.”
“Birthday. Exactly. Mom’s birthday’s in two days.” He claps his hands and rubs them together. “So how much you want for the shirt? Two hundred?”
I glance from Abel to Manners. The character I am in “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart” clicks to life. Brandon realized that the man looming before him was just a person, not a god. He felt a white streak of power surge through him. He could say anything. Do anything he wanted.
“It’s pretty sentimental, sir,” I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Two-fifty. And my shirt, here—” He starts peeling off the surf-shop tee, unveiling his pale freckled chest. “You can sell it to some fan or whatever. My sweat’s all over it.”
I glance at Abel. Vibrating, sucking his lips in.
“Well, that’s a generous offer,” I say. “But—”
“Your sister would freak, Brandon,” Abel tsks. “You know how Natalie gets.”
“Mm. You know she just had another breakdown, right?”
“Did she? No! I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head. “I thought she’d gotten so much better since the staple gun incident.”
Augie Manners gets this shifty, desperate look on his face. “Okay. Okay okay oh-kay.” He peers outside the curtain, and then he goes, “THREE-fifty, plus my shirt, plus my official Series 1 action figure, still in the box, which I will autograph RIGHT NOW, plus this—” He digs deep in his army-green rucksack and pulls out a wrinkled envelope with a coffee ring and a smudged Happy Birthday! on the front. He leans close to me and talks through his teeth. “Keep this on your person and if anyone asks, I didn’t give it to you. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” I peek inside. Six thin homemade cigarettes rolled in blue paper.
“They’re Spaceman Straws. You drink in some serious wisdom with these.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. I’m not responsible for what happens if you decide to partake.” He claps me on the shoulder like a grandpa, stuffs the envelope in my shorts pocket. My eyes trace the Big Dipper in his chest freckles. “Just make sure you’re someplace safe. Comprende?”
***
I don’t plan to exit the Actors’ Lounge naked from the waist up. It just sort of happens. When we pass Johnny Law he barely lifts an eyebrow, which kind of makes me wonder what kind of deranged stuff a hotel security guard sees on a daily basis. I button my shorts pocket over the joints.
Abel’s dying. He’s absolutely losing his mind, bouncing all over the corridor like a sheepdog on uppers.
“Ohmygodohmygod,” he says. “Augie Manners gave us—”
“Shhhhhh! Don’t broadcast.”
“Brandon. Brandon. Tell me you’re going to do it!”
“Smoke?”
“Walk back through CastieCon shirtless.”
“Well,” I spin the Augie Manners shirt on one finger. “retro robot’s probably still hanging around, right?”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
“So let’s give her a show.”
He skids to one knee and grabs my hand.
“Brandon Gregory Page,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Will you have my fictional space-babies?”
“What will the neighbors think?”
“Do we care?”
Brandon planted himself behind the wheel and gunned the engine, says hey_mamacita. He knew the torments of his past might trail them all the way west, but for now they shrunk in the rearview and he surrendered every last care.
I grab his hand and run.
Chapter Fifteen
SAN ANTONIO.
SHIRTLESS. HAND. HOLDING.
*OMG DEAD.*
(photos inside!!)
amity crashfuclass="underline"
ABANDON IS REAL OMG OMG I’M STROKING OUT
doomerang:
*ovaries exploding*
whispering!sage:
baking celebratory snickerdoodles!
sorcha doo:
retro robot how are u still alive
retro robot:
haha I don’t know! I saw them run right in front of me holding hands and I was like OMG I just wrote porn about you an hour ago…sooo surreal
a_rose_knows:
Can we call it official yet??!?!?! obvs something going on
sadparadise:
idk idk it seemed like just a joke. or a dare maybe. brandon’s way too neurotic to do that on his own.
doomerang:
Still, you guys. SHIRTLESS. HAND. HOLDING.
retro robot:
They are legit doing it. That is all.
lone detective:
They may be getting closer but I don’t think it’s a done deal yet. And I hate to be Debbie Downer but Disturbing Thought: ***could*** it be fanservice?
thanks4caring:
omg. what if Miss queen bitch Maxima spilled about us???
whispering!sage:
nope. no way. she’d never ever mention us to them. she’s uber creeped out by real-person shipping.
sorcha doo:
if they get together global warming will stop and wars will end and kevin will love me again.
amity crashfuclass="underline"
hey_mamacita are you here?? we neeeeeeeed you.
hey_mamacita:
OMG SOBBING AND SHAKING AND VOMITING RAINBOWS. LIKE WHAT IS THIS LIFE EVEN.
amity crashfuclass="underline"
your last fic made me cry like a bb
hey_mamacita:
LISTEN: it’s not fic anymore. okay? It is PROPHECY. i mean SHIT ON A SHINGLE, SON it is SO CLOSE to happening and I don’t give a porcupine’s bumhole what maxie & her minions at Cadsim think. anyone can see how far they’ve come. look at brandon’s body language in Photo 1: looser, more open. examine abel’s eyes in Photo 4: they have that silvery sparkle now when brandon looks at him. THINGS. HAVE. EVOLVED.
amity crashfuclass="underline"
omg I worship you. Never stop saying words.
hey_mamacita:
I won’t!! EVER. not until they’re together for 10000000% sure. SWEET FANCY MOSES IN A HULA SKIRT, BOYS, just freaking do it already! We are…
“…Dying over here!” Abel rakes his hands across his chest and slowly teasingly trails them downward, his second Spaceman Straw dangling from his lips. I cough out smoke and we laugh laugh laugh and our laughing sounds huge as if there are a hundred of us in the Sunseeker, communing with the Abandon shippers and huffing in some serious wisdom.
“How are u still alive?” I ask Abel and he giggles.
“IDK, IDK.” He flops down on the pinecone rug. “I saw you shirtless and OMG, dead! Vomiting rainbows!”
“Ooh, turn over, turn over.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah…”
“Why?”
I shake my head and whistle. “DAT ASS.”
We explode again and it hurts this time, like the laughing is turning me inside out. Bec is perched up in the loft with her ankles crossed and my Phillies shirt on and she watches us like a wise old owl in a children’s story who hoots about danger to kids who won’t listen. She stopped after a couple puffs. I probably should’ve too but oh well.