—
Owen and Luna stayed out of the way, huddled together on a bench next to a moss-drenched mausoleum. Owen watched the two detectives converge upon them. Luna knew exactly what Owen was thinking before he said it.
“I don’t think I can go through this again,” Owen said.
Luna was thinking the same thing.
October 2003
Owen watched Luna and Mason escape the party. He thought about chasing after them just to be sure that Luna wasn’t so drunk that she’d hook up with the sad dude. But Scarlet was right there being Scarlet. Owen and Scarlet left the party soon after and made out on a bench under the light of the moon. She tasted like strawberry Jolly Ranchers and vodka, and she smelled like cotton candy. Her skin shimmered as if it were aglow from the inside.
Like drunk, lusty men often do, Owen oversold his affection. He told Scarlet she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He told her he thought he could fall in love with her—he didn’t mention that he was already in love with this furry jacket she wore that felt like his childhood cat, Oscar.
Scarlet thought this might be the best night she’d ever had. Owen tried to remind himself that he shouldn’t fuck her. It was Scarlet who suggested they go back to her dorm. Her roommate had a boyfriend in town and she usually spent the weekend at his place. Owen reminded himself again that he shouldn’t fuck her.
Among the cheap plywood furniture and threadbare carpet, Scarlet lost some of the glow of the moonlight. For the briefest moment when she turned on the unforgiving fluorescent lights, Owen saw spots on her cheek and noticed that her lips were chapped and peeling. It didn’t help that she was a slob and he smelled the faint odor of dirty laundry. But then she dimmed the lights and tossed off her shirt. And he forgot the warnings he had given himself. He fucked her and told her he loved her breasts.
Scarlet heard only the word love.
The next morning, while Scarlet was in a deep vodka slumber, Owen dressed in stealth and made a French exit. He didn’t look back as he opened the door and laced up his shoes in the hallway. When Owen emerged from Avery Hall into the bright morning sun, he felt an adrenaline surge worthy of a man who’d just pulled off a prison escape. He purchased two coffees at the campus café, the Mudhut, and strolled kitty-corner across the quad to Blake Hall, Luna’s dorm.
Luna, half awake but still hoping for a few more hours’ sleep, heard Owen’s three assertive knocks on her door. She didn’t respond, thinking he’d go away. After the second, louder set of knocks, she sat up in bed and said, “What?”
“I brought you a latte,” Owen said through the door. “Can I come in?”
Luna made Owen wait long enough that he considered leaving. When Luna finally opened the door, it appeared as though her right eye had got stuck in a wink. One eye down, she turned her back on Owen and began stumbling around her room.
“My contact lens dried up. That always happens when I smoke weed. Do you see my eye drops?”
Owen spotted the small bottle on Luna’s nightstand and passed it to her.
“You shouldn’t sleep with them in,” Owen said as Luna shoved the tip of the dropper into her eye. “That’s not how you’re supposed to—”
“It’s eight a.m. on a Sunday!” Luna said as she blinked the drops into her dry eyes.
“Sorry,” Owen said, delivering the coffee.
Luna sipped the latte, which was excellent. But she knew if she drank the whole thing she’d never go back to sleep. She cut herself off and crawled back under the covers.
In bed, Luna closed her eyes and remembered the previous night. She recalled sitting on the stoop with Mason when he was still just Mason, the chill guy who always had pot on him, and then she remembered the conversation that changed their entire relationship. She felt at once exposed and caged.
Owen took a seat on the floor when it became clear Luna wasn’t going to kick him out.
“Where did you go last night?” Luna asked.
“Where’d you go?” Owen countered.
Luna had pocketed a lie for that very occasion. “Mason and I took a weed break. Your turn.”
Luna enjoyed asking questions when she already knew the answers. It gave her a pleasant power buzz. Owen sipped his coffee and cleared his throat. More scraps of the night assembled in his mind.
“You don’t want to know,” Owen said with a mixture of pride and regret.
“Casey told me you left with Scarlet. How’d that go?”
“It wasn’t anything. We hung out,” Owen said.
“No sex, right?” said Luna.
Owen answered with silence.
“Did you sneak out of her room before she woke up?” Luna asked.
No reply.
“Dick move,” Luna said.
Owen nodded, agreeing.
“I need more sleep,” Luna said, regretfully eying her coffee on the nightstand.
“Can I stay?” said Owen. “I won’t bother you.”
“Be quiet,” said Luna.
Luna drew the covers over her head and feigned sleep. She could rarely fall into slumber when another person was around, but there were still many substances fighting to clear out of her system. She rested her eyes for ten minutes. And then for a good fifteen she was asleep. Owen read a local rag that Luna had picked up for movie showtimes. He skimmed an article about the importance of cleaning your gutters at the end of fall. Then he thought he should use his time more wisely and plucked the philosophy reader from Luna’s shelf.
An envelope slipped out. A business envelope, addressed to Luna “Grey”—last name in quotes—the original address covered with a forwarding label. The letter was opened with a neat slice across the top. A small piece of rice paper rested inside. Owen would have put the letter back if it weren’t for the quotes.
Luna heard the rustling of papers but figured he was reading the Markham Gazette. Owen checked over his shoulder, saw the slow rise and fall of Luna’s duvet. He quietly removed the paper and unfolded the sharp creases. There was no greeting or salutation, just four words written in clean box letters.