Chapter Seventeen. Riley
Chapter Seventeen
Riley
The next day, when I get Luna’s lunch tray back, there’s a room key underneath her plate. I’d been waiting to listen to her voice memo until I was done with the marinade I’d started on, but as soon as I see the key, I set it aside and pick up my phone.
“Sooooo I’m putting a key to my room on the tray.
If you’re not too tired tonight, maybe we could have, like, a nightcap?
I was thinking that you’ll probably get there first, and you could sneak into my room and wait for me there.
Then we could talk in person, and we have a later start tomorrow since it’s a travel day.
But also, no pressure! Anyways, maybe I’ll see you tonight. …”
I’ll be there, I text back, not sure if I can trust my voice not to shake if I send a voice memo.
Just the thought of waiting in Luna’s hotel room for her feels unbearably intimate.
It’s terrifying and thrilling, and when I go back to whisking my marinade, it takes a concerted effort to stop my hands from shaking.
The rest of the day I’m counting down the minutes until I see Luna, and I must check to make sure the plastic room key is still in my pocket at least twenty times.
As soon as the show ends, I slip out the crew exit and walk the three blocks to our hotel.
I almost expect Luna’s security to stop me when I lift the key card to her door, but nothing happens.
It flashes green, and I slip inside the room without fanfare.
There’s something illicit about seeing Luna’s room when she’s not there.
There’s an unopened bottle of Spanish Rioja wine on the table and two glasses, and Luna’s notebook is stacked neatly on the side table with a retainer case and phone charger.
It’s weird to think of Luna packing something as mundane as a retainer.
But the rest of the room is an explosion of clothes.
There are discarded sweat sets, probably from the past two nights here, and racks of options for going-out clothes—when Luna would even have the time to wear those, I’m not sure—as well as a pile of casual outfits I assume are for going into set each morning, and pajamas.
Thongs and bras are scattered around, and I’m actually amazed Luna has gotten the room to look this lived in after only a few days.
Every surface, aside from the unmade bed, has clothes on it.
I look around, wondering where to sit, and eventually decide to clear a pile of sundresses off one of the armchairs.
I carefully fold them and put them in a stack on the other chair, only to move them to the floor and fold the pajamas that were strewn across that chair too, to leave Luna a place to sit. And then I wait.
After thirty minutes I wonder if I should have brought a dessert.
After forty, I pour myself a glass of wine, hoping it will calm my nerves.
And at the hour mark I wonder if I should just leave, but then I’d just be the weird girl who moved around Luna’s dresses, drank her wine, and ran away. And so I stay.
Eventually Luna rushes through the door. “You didn’t leave,” she blurts out as soon as she sees me. “I was sure you would’ve left by now. My phone died and the traffic was horrible and I had to do the cart again and—”
“Luna, it’s okay,” I say quickly. I’m surprised she doesn’t realize it yet. But I’ve put my whole life aside, for years now, to be the kind of person who stays.
Luna stops rushing to speak, and I can see her shoulders relax, her upright posture settle into something more comfortable. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, and she drops into the chair across from me.
“What?” I ask. She’s smiling so widely, I wonder if I have something stuck to my face.
“It’s just that you’re here. I get asked all the time in interviews how I celebrate after a show. But I don’t. I just go back to my hotel room, alone, and so I’m happy that tonight I’m with you.”
I stare at her, unsure what to say. How to act. Whether to admit I like her, when I know she has Hudson and so why am I who’s here? “How do you usually decompress after a show?” I ask finally.
“I lie in bed and watch YouTube videos,” Luna says with a grin. “Shall we?”
I leave my glass of wine that I’ve only had a few sips of and heed Luna’s invitation. She pulls back the covers and climbs in, in her sweats and T-shirt, and I do the same, still wearing the shorts and tank top I had on all day. I’m suddenly hyperaware that I don’t have a bra on.
“You know, hotels have this service. It’s called housekeeping. They have people who come in and clean your room and make the bed,” I tease.
“Are you saying I’m … messy?” Luna retorts playfully.
“Only charmingly so,” I say as I settle against the pillows, trying to be as upright as possible even though it’s extremely challenging with the soft down.
Luna settles in next to me, her arm touching mine. “PR nightmare waiting to happen. I can already see the headline: ‘Has America’s sweetheart lost her sparkle? Luna Leya fans shocked to learn she performs in racy thongs.’”
“Hmm, you’re right. That’s on a need-to-know basis.” I blush. I sound like I’m flirting. I am flirting. But Luna just laughs and turns on the TV.
We watch videos of travel YouTubers riding planes for hours, talking over them and then going back to see what we missed, and after about an hour Luna suddenly lays her head on my shoulder. I freeze.
“Is this okay?” she asks so quietly, I barely hear her.
“I—Of course,” I stammer. “It may be more comfortable if…” I trail off, but Luna nods encouragingly and lifts her head a little, as though she knows what I’m trying to do. Awkwardly, I shift so my arm is around her. It was one thing when this happened in the car. But this is undeniably intentional.
“Is this okay?” she asks again.
“Yes,” I say firmly. In fact, I would give anything right now for it not to stop.
We keep watching videos, and now when we talk, Luna’s voice is a low rumble into my chest, and mine a tender whisper down to her.
We slouch lower until we’re nestled together and my head rests on hers and I don’t think anything has ever felt this good.
Forget sex. Just holding her feels terrifyingly great.
Despite us being in an in-between where we’re not admitting this means something, where I may be left in pieces when she in all likelihood turns around and actually kisses Hudson in front of thousands of people, when all she’ll do with me is this.
But I don’t care. I want this. I want anything I can get with her.
“Remember how you said ‘you can’t get stuck on those days’?” Luna asks after being quiet for so long that I wondered if she’d fallen asleep.
“Yeah,” I say quietly.
“What’s that day for you? The bad day that you fixate on?”
I know immediately. But I hesitate.
“If there is one,” Luna adds.
“There is,” I say. “There definitely is.” And I tell her.
I set the final dish down on the table and exhaled in exhausted satisfaction.
For the Fourth of July, my dads closed You’re My Lobster at 6 PM, and we were having a dinner for staff and their friends and family at 8 PM before the fireworks.
I’d been campaigning since May to do the menu for the dinner, which we served family style from the long picnic tables on the beach side of the restaurant.
Typically, we just had burgers, sides, and s’mores and called it a day.
Everyone was so sick of working with lobster every day that they didn’t want to eat it, and this was something different and easy.
But I’d been experimenting with more complicated recipes during the offseason, and I wanted the chance to try them out on someone besides my family.
Besides my dads, really. Liv had been hard to get ahold of ever since she’d started doing real restaurant work in Boston.
I’d sent her a million texts that went unanswered, and the last few times I visited her she was doing lines of coke at the end of her shift and drinking a ton.
I couldn’t remember the last real conversation we’d had.
I knew kitchens could get rowdy, though, and I kept her partying a secret from our dads like she asked. But I missed her.
I’d invited her to come to the cookout tonight, but I’d have been surprised if she showed up.
Even though I knew that, as I prepped the food I couldn’t help but imagine Liv’s reaction to what I was cooking.
I knew she’d appreciate the simplicity of the miniature burger sliders.
Homemade buns and high-quality beef made the base, with pickles I marinated in dill and sliced carefully, and homemade aioli.
The prosciutto-and-melon skewers were artfully presented, which she’d actually appreciate, while my dads refused to help me cut melon into perfect cubes that they said no one would notice.
Instead of a pasta salad I made an arugula, strawberry, baby kale, feta, and walnut salad, with crusty delicious bread to dip in the dressing at the end.
And while I did get classic s’mores ingredients for the kids, I also made several s’mores tartes with toasted marshmallow meringue.
It was all the normal flavors everyone loves from the Fourth of July cookout, just … elevated.
“What do you think?” I said happily when my dads came over to survey the platters on all the tables. I wiped sweat from my brow and looked at it proudly.
Nick’s brow furrowed as he took it all in. “Sweetheart, I think it’s all going to be destroyed in about ten minutes.”
“Dad, I know. It’s food,” I retorted, irritated. “It’s meant to be eaten.”
“Then why bother making it … like this?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because it’s nice.” Every table had a platter of each dish, and the food was arranged on the tables artfully. There were lit candles and twinkle lights draped between the dishes, and it looked artsy and chic.
“It’s not nice, it’s divine. It’s perfection. A work of art!” Anthony declared. “Let me get a picture of you in front of it.”