32. Fantasy Suite Plus One #2
“I see.” Luna’s voice has an edge now. “Fine,” she says, her tone suggesting it’s anything but fine. “I’ll just go freshen up, anyway.”
She disappears into the bathroom, leaving me to pace the suite like a caged animal.
The bathroom door opens, and whatever speech I was mentally preparing evaporates from my brain. She emerges wearing lingerie so minuscule it defies the laws of physics. The scrap of red lace could generously be described as “there,” but only barely.
“Still want to just sleep?” she purrs, advancing toward me with deliberate grace.
I back up reflexively, my calves hitting a side table. “I really think—”
“Don’t think,” she interrupts, closing the distance between us. “Just feel.”
My back hits the wall. I’m cornered. Luna places one hand on my chest, her face tilting up toward mine.
“Luna, please, I—”
In my panicked retreat, my elbow connects with a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound is jarring in the otherwise quiet room.
“Sorry!” I yelp. “I should clean that up.”
“Leave it,” she says, undeterred.
I sidestep, nearly tripping over my own feet. “No, really, there’s glass, it’s dangerous, we should—”
A thunderous pounding at the door saves me from having to finish that sentence. Luna and I both freeze, her hand still on my chest, my eyes wide with mingled fear and desperate hope.
“He died!” Skye's voice bellows from the other side. “Hayes Burke!” The pounding only intensifies. “Open this door right now!”
Luna sighs and stalks to the door, wrenching it open to reveal Skye—a vision in a hot pink fluffy robe, her hair in massive curlers, clutching what appears to be a family-sized tub of popcorn.
“Oh, thank God you’re here, Hayes,” Skye wails, pushing past Luna into the suite. “It’s horrible. The worst news.”
“What are you doing?” Luna crosses her arms over her barely-covered chest.
Skye seems to notice Luna’s attire—or lack thereof—for the first time. “Oh, honey, you’re going to catch a chill in that. Here.” She shrugs off her enormous robe and throws it at Luna, revealing a flannel pajama set underneath.
“News?” I echo, never more grateful to see Skye in my life.
Skye flops onto the bed and spills popcorn across the rose petals. “Rob Lowe is dead .”
“What?” My face puzzles.
“Rob Lowe isn’t dead,” Luna says.
“Not Rob Lowe the actor.” Skye rolls her eyes dramatically.
“Rob Lowe, my teenage crush from summer camp 1980. The first boy who ever touched my boobs behind the archery range.” She shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth, spraying kernels.
“He died. Died ! Heart attack. Very tragic. Very sudden. I am devastated .”
Luna looks at me, disbelief written all over her face. “Is she serious right now?”
I shrug, trying to suppress the bubble of laughter rising in my chest.
“Of course I’m serious!” Skye howls, tears now streaming down her face. “Rob Lowe from Camp Minnetonka was the love of my life. He told me my boobs felt like velvet water balloons!”
Luna’s mouth opens and closes several times, no sound emerging.
“We need to honor his memory.” Skye grabs the remote control. “With a movie marathon of his—well, not his, but the Rob Lowe’s finest works. Starting with The Outsiders . Stay golden, Ponyboy!” She dissolves into sobs, burying her face in a pillow.
“This is ridiculous,” Luna sputters, clutching Skye’s robe around her. “Hayes.”
I look between Luna’s outraged face and Skye’s tear-streaked one, torn between relief and guilt. Except Luna so, so has this coming. “Skye’s clearly very upset.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “She’s my ex-stepmom. I kind of have to help her.”
“Are you kidding me?” Luna’s voice rises to a pitch that might shatter more glass.
“So kind.” Skye sniffles, patting the bed beside her. “Come, both of you. Rob would have wanted us to celebrate his life together. By watching 80s movies.”
I sit beside Skye on the bed, silently communicating my eternal gratitude with my eyes.
Luna remains standing, outrage radiating from every pore. “I cannot believe this is happening right now.”
“Grief hits us all differently,” I say, earning a subtle thumbs-up from Skye.
“Some of us need popcorn and Matt Dillon’s cheekbones to heal.” Skye presses play on the remote.
As The Outsiders begins, Luna finally accepts defeat, perching on the very edge of the bed. Skye immediately launches into a running commentary on every scene, occasionally flinging popcorn at the screen during emotional moments.
“This is where I always cry.” Skye proceeds to sob while pelting Luna with popcorn during Johnny’s death scene.
Luna’s face contorts in a display of restrained fury as buttered kernels bounce off her robe.
“Oops,” Skye says without a hint of remorse. “My grief made me do it.”
By the time The Outsiders ends, Luna’s annoyance has evolved into a silent rage. Skye, completely unfazed, immediately queues up St. Elmo’s Fire. “Another classic from Rob Lowe— the Rob Lowe,” she says. “My Rob Lowe used way too much tongue when kissing.”
“I think I need some water,” Luna grits out.
“I’ll get it.” I’m eager for any excuse to escape. In the small kitchenette, I take a moment to compose myself, close to breaking into hysterical laughter.
When I return, Skye has somehow convinced Luna to participate in a dramatic reenactment of a scene from the movie, with Skye playing Rob Lowe’s part with alarming enthusiasm.
“Now, Hayes, you be Ally Sheedy.” Skye pulls me into their impromptu performance.
“I’m not doing this,” Luna says.
“Grief therapy.” Skye grabs my hands and spins me in a dance move that nearly sends us both crashing into the coffee table.
The night stretches on, and Skye initiates a pillow fight that “Rob would have wanted,” accidentally knocking one of Luna’s hair extensions off in the process. Then she convinces me to help her build a “grief fort” out of every pillow and blanket in the suite.
By one a.m., Luna has finally passed out on a pile of pillows as far from Skye as the bed allows. I’m delirious, barely able to keep my eyes open when Skye leans over, whispering in my ear: “Meet me on the beach at six a.m. We need to talk about your little predicament.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you see what I’ve got for us tomorrow.”
“Okay.” I hope to hell she’s got a miracle up her sleeve.