How to Repair a Mechanical Heart - By J. C. Lillis Page 0,23
queasy. Her phone chirps in the pocket of her plaid pajama pants.
“That’s your mom,” I say.
“Oh, piss off.”
“She hears your ungodly—”
“—Eep! No way.” She covers her mouth.
“What?”
“It’s from that Dave guy. With the Cookie Monster shirt?”
And the stupid hair, I almost say, but I keep my mouth shut. “Why’s he texting you?”
“Because I’m awesome? Listen: ‘You definitely cool girl. Me going to Atlanta con. Me want to know if me see you there.’ That’s kind of cute. He even spelled definitely right.” She starts texting back. “Me see you there. You bring COOKIE.”
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