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)
Donnelly speaks before I can. “But yeah, you can help, if you want.”
“I want,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. It’s just that I love his company. It’s been this way since the tour bus, and I don’t try to explain it or quantify it. We’re friends, and maybe out of all the alternate universes in existence, there really is only a single solitary universe where we can be something more—where we’d be together.
Variant Luna and Variant Donnelly might be kissing under stars and triple moons on their world. Unfortunately on mine, it’s not so kind to us.
So I take what I can get.
Donnelly leads the way, already familiar with the penthouse. I notice a small row of stitches on the back of his head. I’m just glad no one came out of that night with worse wounds. Passing the game room and my room, he easily finds the guest room. Our two rooms are Jack-and-Jill style with an adjoining bathroom that we’ll be sharing.
The thought races my pulse in a dizzying tempo, not often felt beyond Donnelly.
I appraise the room. About the same size of mine, there are splashes of Jane’s “grannie” style since she decorated. Frilly shams are perched on a floral comforter, the queen mattress a good kind of softness with no lumps or springs (already tested it).
A paisley sitting chair is nestled in the corner, an antique dresser on one wall, and a pale green weathered desk is beneath a heavy-draped window.
Donnelly sets the box on the bed.
“You could probably change the décor,” I tell him. “I don’t think Jane would mind.” Above the dresser, a humongous oil painting consumes the wall. Stormy clouds in the sky, a lush greenery backdrop, and a small hunter trekking through thick wilderness in the forefront make up the verdant, pastoral landscape.
“She told me the same thing, but I like her style.” Donnelly follows my gaze to the oil painting. “You know the name of that?” He doesn’t ask me like a quiz question. He can tell I recognize it.
“The Commencement of the Empire by Thomas Cole.” I run a finger over the ornate gold frame. “It’s the first of five paintings in his The Course of Empire series.”
Donnelly laughs. “Cobalts got you too.”
“Two of them are my best friends,” I say into a smile, and I realize he knew the name of the painting too. “I take it you know this painting because of Beckett.”
He nods. “Beckett has The Consummation of Empire hung in his room. I’d always take a good look at it every time I was there.” He eyes this painting, the one that portrays the natural world before a city is created. “It stays. Too much Cobalt history to pass it up.”
Cobalt history.
Each Cobalt kid has one of these paintings. Not originals—those are in a museum. But the replicas are still otherworldly.
Tom and Eliot share Destruction.
Ben and Audrey share The Arcadian.
And Charlie has the last painting in the series, Desolation.
Donnelly loves the Cobalts and their histories and traditions, and I don’t blame him. They have an allure and magnetism that draws me in, too, but I’m constantly reminded I’m not them. The world sees Cobalts as impenetrable immortals, and I’m just a Hale. I’m meant to bleed.
Donnelly unpacks a few shirts from the box.
“I can hang.” I open the empty closet. “I give good hang.”
His eyes flit to me, a sparkle in them. “I don’t doubt it.”
I grab one of the hangers. “Weapon of choice.” I wiggle the hanger.
“Be careful with that, space babe. I like my dust bunnies.” He tosses me one of his button-downs.
I catch it. “The dust bunnies will be mercifully spared.” I slide his shirt onto the hanger. “Just so you can parley with them later.”
He folds a pair of pants. “Trouble is I’d much rather parley with the Queen of Thebula.”
My face heats.
I know he reads my fics, but it’s not like we discuss them together. A few times, here and there, he’s mentioned that he likes my work, so I’m not so nervous to surface the topic. But I just…it’s different than talking about fandoms.
It’s a part of me.
In my silence, he watches me as I hang up his shirt. “Any new fics you’re working on?”
“Yeah, actually, I do have one.” I spin back to him and hold out my hands for another shirt.
He tosses again. I catch. It feels easy, less strained, and yet my heart is still beating a mile a minute like maybe this incredibly normal act of unpacking his clothes will be struck by a bolt of lightning.
“Title?” he asks.
I collect another hanger from the closet. “Beamed Up.”
He frowns. “Haven’t read that one yet.”
“I just posted it this morning.”
He nods slowly like that makes sense, and now I’m wondering how often Donnelly checks my account. More heat bathes my cheeks. Having an admirer feels like being chosen to board the starship and be launched to a new galaxy.