3. Troublemakers Fireside Chat
THREE
TROUBLEMAKERS FIRESIDE CHAT
DECEMBER 2037
AFTER CHAPTER 19 IN LOVERS LIKE US
We listened to "Morning Blue" by Giant Rooks and "Connected" by Stereo MC's plus all the music mentioned in the bonus while writing this scene.
Character List:
Eliot Cobalt - 18
Luna Hale - 18
Tom Cobalt - 17
**
WINTER IS HERE.
It’s a magical time. My favorite time. Winter means something different for everyone on Earth. For me, it’s always meant the end of school.
An achievement unlocked. Winter break has begun.
But this year, I’ve screwed up so much with school that in order to graduate from Dalton Academy on time, I need to be homeschooled. Regardless of school, there are reasons why I don’t love summer break as much as winter.
I like how the chill of a falling snowflake feels like an innocent kiss on the cheek and nose. I love how every December, Xander grows another year older, and some winters, he’s happy about it, too.
There are the traditions, the happy consistent things. How Mom tries to keep the Christmas spirit alive with making gingerbread houses, even though we’re both lazy carpenters and always end up eating the walls. How Kinney secretly loves the joyful holiday tunes. How Moffy spends the most time with us. How excited Dad gets in gift-giving. His face turns childlike and youthful seeing Xander geek-out over LOTR collectibles and watching Kinney try not to beam over a makeup palette she didn’t think she’d get.
And the lake house.
It’s always here. Waiting for us during the winter.
But this year, I know it’s different. I feel different, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve fucked up so much or if it’s because I’m getting older.
We all are.
Eliot isn’t twelve anymore, being swallowed whole by his fur coat outdoors. He’s nineteen, sky-scraper tall, and his floor-length faux-fur coat seems magically made for him. Like no other human could pull off his wardrobe with the same magnificence.
He stands atop a tree stump in a small secret alcove in the woods. Moonlight and crackling fire illuminate his face, bare chest, sweatpants, and that fur coat. He holds a book like he’s about to read from it, but I know this book has blank pages.
“‘Live in each season as it passes,’” he recites Thoreau from memory, “‘breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.’” He takes a dramatic pause. “‘Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.’”
I snap my fingers while Tom strums a couple pretty notes on his guitar. He’s more bundled than his brother in a black beanie, puffy winter coat, and scuffed boots.
At least it’s not so cold by the fire. I scoot closer to the flames that swarm the charred logs, and I pull my hoodie’s hood over my head. Still on the tree stump, Eliot sucks on a blunt and then squats down to pass it to me.
I grab it and take a hit before passing to Tom.
Smoke fills my lungs, and I exhale deeply, needing the calm. “Super glad we’re not doing shrooms tonight,” I tell them. We did try that…once. “I definitely don’t need to go on a bad trip.” Weed is better. It calms me down. Eases my anxieties, and I have plenty of those lately.
I didn’t call a meeting out in the woods tonight.
We’re at the lake house.
Nighttime fireside chats are our thing. We’ve been going to this little spot in the woods for what’s felt like forever. It started when we wanted a secret club away from our older siblings and cousins. And something that the younger kids can’t join. Something that was just ours to read, to recite, to sing, to dance, to just…be. Then it turned into a “hideout” to vape away from their mom and my dad, who really despise smoking.
We’re old enough now that we don’t have to sneak out at two in the morning to come here. It’s only 10 p.m., and our families think we took a night walk around the lake.
“Bad trips can be the best trips,” Eliot jumps off the stump and sits on it.
“Or they can just be plain bad,” Tom refutes with another strum of his guitar. He passes the blunt back to Eliot without smoking.
“Not in the mood, brother?” Eliot wonders.
“There’s enough weird shit going on lately,” Tom mutters, pressing his hand to his guitar strings. The sound dies. “Our sister is icing out Mom and Dad, which I never thought would happen. Like ever.”
Eliot sobers. “She has good reason. They should’ve trusted her.” His eyes darken, even when the firelight glints against them.
“Why didn’t they?” I ask them. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I’m sure they have, too. Why did all our parents jump to the conclusion that Jane and Moffy were lying? They’ve never really lied. Not like the three of us have.
We’d be the first ones they should doubt.
I’d peg Jane and Moffy being the very last to mistrust.
Tom thinks. “Something had to have happened in that camp cabin when all the parents were there, right?” He looks to Eliot. “Jane won’t talk about it.”
“Or they just didn't believe them,” Eliot says quietly. “I would have. The moment they said it was a tabloid lie, I would’ve believed them. Hell, I did.”
Tom sets his guitar aside. “You also were the first one who said ‘maybe’ when we heard the incest rumors.”
“Shakespeare rotted your brain,” I sing-song.
Eliot points at me, the joint between his fingers. “I’ll allow the insult to the world’s greatest playwright. Only because I love you, and not in that way.”
Tom laughs.
I smile, and it is true that Eliot did somewhat believe the tabloids could be true about Moffy and Jane. Just for a moment. I didn’t think they were and neither did Tom, but after we heard that Moffy and Jane denounced the whole thing, we always believed it was just a salacious lie and clickbait.
I tug at the strings to my hoodie. “Jane’s likely still upset because it took Farrow and Moffy kissing for your Mom and Dad to believe her.”
“Ridiculous,” Eliot says darkly. “Where’s the allegiance?”
“They’re rooted in logic, dude,” Tom takes off his fingerless gloves and warms his hands over the fire. “There must’ve been some logical thing that was pointing them in the wrong direction.”
“Am I not rooted in logic?” Eliot questions, taking another hit.
“When it comes to our family, you’re all heart, brother,” Tom grins.
Eliot wears a softer smile, one that vanishes too quickly.
“It’s strange that they won’t be here for Christmas,” I mutter. They know I’m referring to Jane, Moffy, Charlie, Beckett, and Sullivan. They’re all on a tour bus for a H.M.C. Philanthropies FanCon event. It’s basically a Damage Control Tour to reestablish the crumbling fact that Moffy and Jane are just cousins.
The three of us are seniors, so there was really no talk of us joining them.
“I still can’t believe Beckett decided to go,” Tom says, staring dazedly at the crackling flames. “He almost never misses a performance—dude is an inspiration.”
I secretly hope Tom never becomes that much of a workaholic. But that’s largely why he didn’t join the FanCon tour—he’s been super focused on his band and couldn’t miss months of time.
“Charlie is more shocking,” Eliot counters. “When has he ever done anything for Jane?”
“When has he ever done anything for any of us?” Tom says, almost resigned to the fact that Charlie is the most self-centered among them.
“When’s the last time you asked him for help?” I ask them, because I wonder if Charlie just hasn’t been tested as much as he could be.
Eliot picks up a stick. “Last week. I asked him if he had a copy of Othello I could borrow.”
“And…?”
“And he said, Why? You can’t read it.” Eliot begins to smile. “I’d call him a little shit, but he’s more like a big shit since he’s my big brother.”
“What’d you need Othello for?” I ask.
Tom shakes his head. “Don’t ask.”
Eliot is quick to tell me. “I was trying to take a selfie for someone, and we talked about Othello for fifteen minutes.”
“A girl he met at Superheroes I should have better words, but it’s always been hard to articulate my feelings out loud.
I might be supporting his vandalism—but I can’t help it. He did this for me, and it feels good to have someone defend me at school.
It would feel worse having no one.
“He didn’t wear a condom?” Tom suddenly asks me, looking to me for confirmation.
My face roasts. “I didn’t think about it. I should have.”
“He should have,” Eliot refutes passionately as if to say don’t blame yourself.
But I am partly to blame. I’m just glad I’m not pregnant. I feel like the universe gave me a win, even if I chose the wrong “option” presented to me.
I’m stuck on something, though. “You got in trouble, didn’t you? That’s why you don’t have a happy ending and you can’t go on tour.”
“We weren’t exactly discreet,” Tom admits.
“You were there?” I ask. Scratch everything—they did this for me.
He nods. “Eliot did all the painting. I was the getaway car.”
“Which is why I’m taking all the blame,” Eliot says, eyes heavy on his brother. I’m guessing this has been a point of contention.
“You don’t have to do that,” Tom snaps. “Just let’s say we did it together.”
“Then we both get in trouble, and that’s absurd when only one of us has to. Give me all the credit.”
“That’s the problem, Eliot Alice,” Tom says. “You’re a credit whore. You won’t ever let me return the favor.”
Eliot doesn’t deny this. But I learn that Eliot and Tom don't know if their parents have found out yet, but they suspect they will soon. Hence, Eliot's gearing up for a punishment. No FanCon involvement.
“I’m sorry that either of you are getting in any kind of trouble. For sticking up for me.”
“Luna with No Middle Name,” Tom replies, “that’s the kind of trouble we love getting into.”
“The best kind,” Eliot agrees with another mischievous grin.
I’m smiling, and the fire is starting to die down. Tom has stopped stoking it with twigs and branches, and the moon glows brighter.
We are getting older.
Once we graduate, our lives will look mighty different, but I know no matter what, our friendship will always remain.
I admire Tom and Eliot for doing what’s in their hearts, no matter the consequence, and maybe that’s why they’re my friends. They remind me to take bigger leaps and run in dangerous directions—or maybe that’s always been inside of me.
Maybe that’s why we’re friends—not because I need reminding to take leaps—but because I’ve always had it in me to choose not the right thing, not the wrong thing, but the perilous thing. Like them.
I imagine myself driving out to the tour bus, away from the messiness of Caden and school, towards a blanker slate and the comfort of people I know and love.
And I begin to smile.