Chapter 25 Intrusive Thoughts Luna
Intrusive Thoughts
Luna
There’s a very specific kind of cold that only exists in childhood bedrooms during winter.
Not just temperature-wise, though that too, but like.
.. a nostalgia chill. The ghost of high school stress, questionable crushes, and poor fashion choices.
That kind of cold. The stress hasn’t gone away.
If anything, it’s gotten worse under the increasing pressures of college life, but it’s not quite the same.
Yanking the covers over my head, I stare at the faded pattern of purple hockey pucks on the pillowcase Celeste must’ve found in a bin of backup linens.
A physical representation of seventeen years of our family’s stubborn refusal to replace anything still technically functioning.
Only difference now is, I kind of get it.
My phone buzzes with a muted text notification from somewhere in the bed. I grope under the blanket burrito for it and squint at the screen. 5:03 a.m.
Of course it's Beau.
Golden Boy: On schedule. See you soon.
I text back a thumbs-up emoji because I haven’t had caffeine and thus don’t have the emotional stamina to formulate full sentences yet. Then, I toss the phone aside and swing my legs out of bed, cringing as my feet hit the chilled hardwood floor.
The hallway is quiet except for the occasional creak of old pipes and the low rattle of the dryer downstairs. I pad past the bathroom, past Celeste’s door with the snarky letter board on it. Today it says, “Do Not Disturb. My Alone Time is For Your Safety.” Then, I’m pausing outside Mom’s door.
It’s cracked an inch. I peek through and, by the faint glow of her bedside lamp, see the curve of her body curled under a thick comforter.
The heating pad cord is tangled at the foot of the bed.
As I get closer, I see her face is drawn, jaw tight.
She doesn’t stir, even when my shadow falls over her.
“Mom?”
No answer. It’s a relief to see her finally sleeping after the pain kept her up half the night.
I know because her soft moans and restless tossing and turning kept me up with her, worrying.
I let the door drift shut and head for the kitchen.
Anytime I feel grateful that I live in my own place now, the guilt seeps in.
I should be here for her and Dad. Celeste.
They need me. But Dad told me he’d change the locks if I tried to move back home, and my sister snapped she didn’t need me cramping her style more than I already do.
She always says stuff like that. But as soon as she needs a lift to a dance competition, or help choosing a costume, she pretends like she never sassed me in the first place.
I flip on the overhead light, comforted by the familiar hum of the fridge. It’s barely seven-thirty, but this kitchen has been up since five for most of its life. Shift work jobs, young kids, hockey practices, and dance recitals have all left their mark on it.
I find the frying pan. The one that’s scratched so badly it’s probably poisoning us slowly.
And set it on the stove. The fridge is not as full as it used to be when I was a kid, but I find the ingredients I need.
Eggs, bacon and half a loaf of white bread.
Maybe not the most nutritious choice, but you can’t beat the taste of nostalgia.
I hum under my breath as I prep breakfast. Eggs, sunny-side up, a slice of bacon shaped like a smile and toast halves for ears.
The same way my mom used to make them before every game when I was a kid.
Back when she could. Back when I was the one draped in athletic wear and teenage attitude, and she was the one obsessing over the game day checklist.
Now it’s me. Of course it’s me. Dad’s at work, and even if he weren’t, he’s useless at these things. He’ll show up every time, but his hair and makeup skills are subpar, and he’s terrified of the competition moms.
Celeste appears in the doorway, dramatically yawning like a cat who’s been asleep for three quarters of the day.
Her sweats are half-tucked into fuzzy rainbow socks, and her hair is a tangled catastrophe of curls.
Not the artful kind, either. We’ve got some work ahead of us to get that hot mess competition ready.
She surveys the table, lips pursed. “Smiley faces? Seriously?” She injects as much teenage disdain into the question as she can.
I drop the ketchup bottle with a flourish. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
She flops into a chair, shoving a forkful into her mouth. “This is peak elder-sibling energy. Are you gonna braid my hair and lecture me about tampons, too?”
“Do you want a lecture? I’ve got a fantastic one about the impact of sports on the lives of women. Spoiler alert, there are segments on mental health, and economic empowerment.”
“Pass.” She chews with her mouth hanging open, but I rein myself in before I can lecture her on that. Not my role here. “You’re lucky I’m even awake. Most seventeen-year-olds are asleep at this hour. I could be out getting mysterious piercings.”
I cross my arms. “Most seventeen-year-olds aren’t competing in a dance solo they’ve been rehearsing for two months. Didn’t you threaten to stab me over the wrong bobby pins last competition?”
“You used the wrong kind. We talked about this. Short pins, Sis. Not the baby ones.”
“I swear to...”
My phone buzzes again.
Golden Boy: Here.
Right on cue. Because of course he is. Probably has an internal clock surgically implanted in his forehead.
“Shoes,” I snap at Celeste, already halfway to the hall closet. “Bag?”
“By the door.” She doesn’t even bother to look up from her phone.
“Snacks?”
“In my hoodie.”
“Water?”
“I am an athlete, thank you.” She pulls on her jacket as if she’s got beef with it.
I yank the front door open, and there he is. Black SUV purring in the driveway. He’s in a grey sweater with a plush black puffer vest layered on top, towering and serious as ever, but there’s something less uptight in his posture today. Maybe it’s the escape from his team responsibilities.
“Morning,” he says, pushing off the car to step toward us.
Before he can get close, Celeste barrels past me, straight for him.
“Ohh, so this is the infamous Beau,” she says, arms crossed, grin already predatory. “Damn, Luna. He’s taller than he looks in pictures.”
“I don’t post pictures of him,” I snap, shifting on my feet.
I don’t know what to tell her. This is technically our first date.
If you can call it a date, especially since we’ve already explored every part of each other’s bodies.
Not that Celeste ever needs to know that.
But what do I tell her? “And don’t swear. ”
She ignores me entirely. “You look less like a Whitaker and more like a suave lumberjack. That’s a compliment.”
Beau blinks. “Thanks? Is there such a thing as a suave lumberjack?”
“She’s a teenager,” I mutter. “Her prefrontal cortex is nowhere near fully formed.”
He just picks up the rolling dance bag like it weighs nothing and heaves it into the trunk as if to demonstrate his lumberjack skills.
“Exactly. I don’t need freaking smiley-face eggs for breakfast. You’re so cringe, Luna.”
Beau snorts, trying to contain his laugh, and I send him a filthy look. “Smiley face eggs?”
Celeste gives me a smug look. “I like him.”
“Of course you do.” I try to ignore the burning heat in my cheeks.
She races for the passenger door, trying to claim shotgun, but I shove her out of the way before she can squeeze her skinny butt through.
Before Beau even snaps his seatbelt shut, she’s fiddling with the high-tech display screen.
I have no idea how she figured out how to work that thing so quickly, but she’s got her Bluetooth paired before the back wheels roll off the sharp incline onto the road.
Dad’s been talking about getting that thing graded for years.
The car fills with the immediate blare of her 'get hyped' playlist. It features all the trending songs I pair with my videos to go viral.
“She controls the music,” I explain, not that I need to. Beau’s jaw tightens every time the bass drops. I reach over to at least turn it down before he kicks us out of his car. Overstimulation is very real, and there’s going to be enough of that with all the people and chaos at the competition.
Celeste scrolls through her phone. “Okay, so you’re Luna’s...?” She pauses as if she’s waiting for him to fill her in on all the gossip. Like she knows I’m hiding something from her.
“I’m the captain of the men’s team.”
“Of course you are. That tracks. Are you guys like... hooking up, or is this a poor relation carpool situation?”
Since when did my sister become a master of the long pause to extract information from someone? Maybe she’s got a future career as a private investigator. “Celeste.”
“What? I’m seventeen. I ask questions. You always tell me to be curious.”
“Yes, about climate change, not my personal relationships.”
Beau’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but to his credit, he doesn’t swerve into oncoming traffic.
“Not hooking up,” he says, calm. “Just helping out.”
“Helping out,” she repeats with a smirk. “Classic denial phrase.”
“Do you never watch my videos? We’ve been working together all semester. Raising the profile of the hockey department.”
Celeste rolls her eyes. “I hate hockey. But you know. I might be convinced to give it a chance if they all look like him.”
A flush burns the back of my neck. “Celeste. Stop it. You’re seventeen. Stop objectifying my...” I cut myself off, not even sure what I was going to let slip.
That at least gets her to drag her eyes away from her phone for a minute. “Boyfriend? You were going to say boyfriend. I knew it.” She slams her hand down on the leather seat.
I peek at Beau out of the corner of my eye, but he catches me at it. Instead of the horrified look I was expecting, his lips are twisted in amusement.
“He’s not my boyfriend, we’re just...” I pause, glancing at him again, but his wink doesn’t give me any idea what to say. “Seeing each other.” I’m not sure why I’m hesitant to share with my sister what’s going on between us.
“Naked?” Celeste asks, and a fresh wave of embarrassment crashes over me. Ah, there it is.
“If you don’t stop it, I’m going to have Beau kick you out on the side of the road. You can walk the rest of the way to your competition.”
She sighs. “You’re no fun.” But then she goes back to the never-ending scroll.
Beau’s eyes flick to the mirror and back. Then he slips his hand onto my knee, and the warm weight settles my nerves.
We get to the venue right on time, of course.
Punctuality is encoded in his DNA, after all.
The place is sheer chaos. Sparkly backpacks, aggressive ponytails, moms clutching hairspray like they’re storming a battlefield.
I duck into go-mode, directing Celeste through registration, costume bag drop, emergency bobby pin audit.
Beau trails behind, not hovering, just there. Quiet. Observing the chaos.
After Celeste disappears backstage, I find an empty bench and melt into it. He reappears three minutes later, holding out a paper cup.
“Coffee. You looked like you were gonna collapse on me.”
I take it, inhaling the sweet aroma as if it can chase away the last few weeks of exhaustion.
“She’s good,” he says after a beat.
“Yeah,” I answer. “She’s worked her ass off.”
We find seats in the auditorium. I hold my phone up to record, but my hands are shaky.
Could be the lack of sleep, or it could be the pride swelling in my chest. Watching Celeste dance is everything.
Makes it worth the hours of content I’m creating to help fund her dream.
Because she’s incredible, and I’m not just saying that because she’s my sister.
She steps onto the floor, and for three minutes, she’s not seventeen or sarcastic or impossible. She’s a force. Fluid and sharp and luminous. I don’t breathe. I can’t.
The music fades. Applause swells.
“She’s incredible,” Beau murmurs.
My throat tightens. “Yeah.” I send the video to Mom, knowing she’ll love it, swallowing past the knot in my throat. I wish she could be here to see Celeste.
Later, Beau and I camp out in the hallway, waiting for my sister. The air has a musty quality to it, and the fluorescent lights are flickering. He bought me a vending machine coffee when he noticed my energy dwindling. But it’s sitting next to me, losing heat while I rest my head on his shoulder.
“My mom used to do the eggs,” I say, mouth gaping in a yawn.
His body shifts under my head, and he strokes my hair with a slow and steady motion. It sends a shiver through me. The good kind that makes my insides melty.
“Smiley faces. On toast. My mom used to do that for me before games.” I shrug. “Now I do them for Celeste. Guess the torch gets passed, whether you want it or not.”
He says nothing for a second, letting my words soak into the stale air.
“Cece used to sit on the bench at my games. Yell at the refs. She got a warning once for threatening to break a ref’s kneecaps.”
I can’t keep the laughter in.
“She’s a lot,” he adds. “But she’s my person.”
That hits me harder than it should. I pick at the small hole in my sleeve. “I get that.”
We’re quiet again, but it’s a different kind of quiet. There’s an understanding between us now. He comes across as so together, so perfect. I thought it was true. But it’s not. He’s got his fair share of family dysfunction, but it’s nice to know he has someone to share it with.
“You’re not what I thought,” I say finally.
“Neither are you.”
I glance over. “You still might be an asshole.”
“Still might be an influencer.”
We both smirk.
Celeste takes first place in all her categories except modern. She hates modern but still snags second place. She tries to pretend she’s chill about it, but I catch her grinning into her phone as she brags to her friends.
Beau drives us home. Celeste crashes in the backseat before we’re halfway there, shiny gold trophy clutched to her chest as if she thinks we’ll try to steal it.
“Thanks,” I say.
He doesn’t look over. “Anytime.”
We pull into the driveway, but I don’t reach for the door yet.
“You want to come in?” I ask.
His eyebrows rise.
“Just for five minutes. Celeste made you a cupcake. She’ll hunt you down if you say no.”
He kills the engine and follows me up the stairs without saying a word.