Lovable Beck to do the work that needs to be done, then everything Luna did for us is going to go to waste. You’re already stepping into it. Doing the things Luna would want you to do. What’s keeping you from being with her, really?”
Wes didn’t have to say it. It was another bull’s-eye.
“Money. Our differences. My family. Her reputation,” I said. I’d been repeating this list to myself for weeks now—a reminder.
“Except,” Elián said, “when you were with Luna, you’d never been so happy and comfortable. We all recognized it. Luna’s the one.”
The one.
I mean, I fucking knew that. Knew it deep, deep down.
“But going all in,” I managed, “being with… with Luna would mean…” I blew out a breath, stalling. “Trust.”
“All of the trust,” Elián agreed.
“It’s scary shit,” Wes said. “You can do it though. Look at Beatrix over there.” I did, watched her trotting around the campus with her eyes on Victoria. It was a leap—a risk—but it was going to pay off for her. She was going to be loved. Forever.
“If Lucky Dog had a heart, it would be you,” Wes said.
“That true?” I asked, coughing through a knot of emotion lodged in my throat.
“Yes,” they both said again.
“Okay, Jesus, I get the point.” I was trying not to smile, but their faces were so serious I couldn’t help it.
“In case it’s not, you know obvious or whatever, I love you guys.”
“Ah man, I love you too,” Wes said, hugging me hard.
Over his shoulder, I arched a brow at Elián, who was grinning.
“I love you too, Beck. And you should go get Luna back.”
61
Luna
Heartbreak was going to be my reality forever and ever and ever.
I knew that because I was at our monthly Drag Queen Brunch at Mordecai’s Bistro—my absolutely favorite day—and I was a hot mess of misery.
Daisy, Cameron, Emily and I sat in our usual horseshoe-shaped black booth in the very back of the restaurant. They had looks of extreme concern on their beautiful faces. Lady Raquel, our favorite server, diplomatically placed a mug of steaming liquid in front of me. It was frothy, with a design of a flower in the middle. “Chamomile, cinnamon and almond milk,” she said. “Healing for a broken heart.”
“I don’t have a broken heart,” I said with faux cheeriness. “Everything is great. Wild Heart’s doing super well—”
“Shhh. Drink your drink, honey. You’re so sad you’re making everyone else in here cry into their food.” Lady Raquel said.
“I’m really fine,” I said, voice cracking at the end. “You guys can stop looking at me like you all just re-read Where the Red Fern Grows and sobbed at the ending.”
“Grown women don’t read children’s books where dogs die in them,” Daisy said. “That’s only you, Moon. And you need to go talk to Beck and force that big biker to realize he’s your soulmate.”
“I know,” I said. And that was even sadder. “But he doesn’t think we belong together. He believes he’ll hold me back or whatever else nonsense words he spouted at me that night. But they were… they were just words. And Beck’s a man of action—”
I stopped because the romance authors were streaming into Mordecai’s and taking the booth right next to ours. Cameron’s eyes widened and Emily craned her neck to see if they had paperbacks with them. Usually they came bearing notebooks and sticky notes and highlighters, with messy hair and wearing old sweatpants. On deadline, they’d all complain, and then we’d all listen in as they untangled messy plot holes and brainstormed conflict ideas. The four of us had been low-key stalking these authors for the six years we’d been coming here. I personally had improved my oral sex technique from listening to the author with giant blue glasses scream about blow jobs at a volume completely inappropriate for a restaurant.
And now she was complaining about the book she was writing. As we quietly drained our mimosas while super obviously listening, blue-glasses-author dropped her head on the table while another author, wearing a shirt with a giant taco on it, patted her back sympathetically.
“My book is basically all telling and not showing,” she was saying.
“You’ll fix it. You always do,” taco-lady murmured.
“I’ll never fix it and it’s garbage,” blue-glasses-author wailed.
“You need ways in which the hero can show the heroine how he feels,” taco-lady said. “You know he needs to do some—”
“Actions.” I blurted the word out just as taco-lady said it. I caught her eye and I flushed.
“Unrelated to what you’re talking about,”