by Nikki Godwin
Emery never says much about any of the guys aside from Benji, but I feel like I know the basic gist of who they are from their tweets. Noah and Tate are goofy and immature. Jules tries too hard to keep up a badass image.
Milo is the one who stays calm and collected through everything. He talks the others down from the ledge. He gets visible tattoos although management wants to keep him wholesome. He’s only rude when he’s been pushed to the limits, and he adds a lot of extra letters to the end of words because Spaceships Around Saturn has “the best fans everrrrr.”
But he’s never once tweeted that he smells like heaven or has eyes the color of the caramel inside of a Milky Way candy bar. These are the kinds of things girls need to know, Milo! Especially before you sit down on the armrest next to them!
Dad clears his throat, takes his place at the center of the room, and introduces himself as Secret Service Agent Scott Branson. He uses his official government voice. Then he looks to Mom. She rushes over to the couch, behind us, and leans over.
“Emery, sweetheart, I need you to come help me,” she says quietly.
Emery’s face scrunches up like an ugly baby doll. Her eyes squint, and she pouts her lips. Mom doesn’t buy the sad face, and even though tears drip down Emery’s cheeks, Mom carries her out of the room. That purple pillow remains in Emery’s grip. Thank God she took it with her.
That poor child has no clue that her precious Benji Bikini…Baccarini…had shots fired at him tonight. I zone in on Dad so I can avoid making eye contact with anyone else in the room, but Milo nudges my shoulder.
“Slide down,” he mouths. He nods his head sideways.
I scoot over closer to Aralie, forcing her closer to Tate, and Milo eases down onto the couch with us. He wedges me tightly between himself and Aralie. He repositions as best he can for comfort, then glances at me and mouths, “Thanks.”
I remain as still as I possibly can because if I move the slightest inch, his skin will brush against mine, and I don’t think I can take it.
If Emery was ever right about anything, it was Spaceships Around Saturn. Yeah, it was lame and clichéd and totally stupid when she’d say they were ‘out of this world,’ but really, these guys aren’t from Earth. At least not Milo.
No human boy smells this good or has eyes that caramel-ish. I’ve never seen a guy fit so perfectly into a T-shirt. The dark gray fabric hugs every curve of his body, every muscle in his arm, every ripple of his abs. Ohmygod this isn’t happening. I am not checking out Milo Grayson of Spaceships Around Saturn.
I’m dreaming because something this insane would only happen in my dreams. Or in Emery’s dreams. This isn’t real.
Part of me wants to take a deep breath and get myself together, but I know if I inhale too deeply, his body wash will rush through my sinuses and into my brain and down through my blood cells, and then my heart will erupt into little pieces of Saturn.
I settle on shallow breaths and remind myself that he’s just a guy – a human guy – who happens to be in an internationally famous Canadian boyband. He just happens to be even more beautiful in person than on Twitter, and screw this – he’s totally from Saturn. Earthlings don’t look like this.
Dad clears his throat, bringing me back to planet Earth, and explains the situation, repeating what everyone already knows – shots were fired, government is following leads, guys have to hide out – as we all pretend like this is the first time we’re hearing it.
“But right now, we have to sort through what leads may be real and what may be rumors,” Dad says. “We have officials working around the clock to get you guys back on tour as quickly as possible. Hopefully this won’t take any longer than two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” Jules bolts off the wall with asteroid-like impact. “Do you know how many shows we have over two weeks? People schedule their summer vacations around us!”
Benji jumps up and grabs Jules’s arm, pushing him back toward the wall, but it’s useless. Jules pushes Benji away and hurries across the room, into the foyer, and out the front door. Milo forces himself up from the couch to go after Jules, but Tank holds up his hand and halts Milo from going outside. Instead, the bodyguard goes after the bad boy, and Milo squeezes himself back in between me and the armrest. I wish he’d stop moving so much.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Branson,” Milo says once he’s comfortable again. “Jules has a tendency to blow up about things.”
My dad says something about stressful situations and how it’s understandable to be tense at times like these, but I keep playing back “Mr. Branson” in my head and imagining what it’d be like if Milo was a normal Earthling who I could bring home to meet my dad. Thank the gods of Saturn I couldn’t see that moment when they first met in the foyer. I might’ve faltered witnessing that initial fatherly handshake.
Dad waits a few moments before he carries on. Jules and Tank don’t come back inside, so we venture from explanations into the “rules ceremony.”
The guys have to remain at our house, either inside or around the back patio, at all times. They cannot venture off on the property and risk being seen by neighbors, media, or passersby. They cannot access social media accounts or be present online at any time. They must turn in their cell phones so hackers cannot locate them through cell towers and reveal the coordinates of their location.
“But I met this really awesome girl tonight,” Tate says from the other side of Aralie. “She was like…the coolest girl ever. I met her at the hotel, before the show, and I promised I’d call her after the show was over.”
“You’ll have to contact her once this is all over,” Dad says. “If she was there tonight, she knows what happened and should understand the situation.”
“You don’t get it,” Tate says. “She was awesome and really pretty. Her name is Hannah, and she almost didn’t give me her number because she didn’t believe I’d actually call.”
Milo leans forward, looking past me and Aralie at Tate.
“Was she the blonde in the pink shirt?” he asks.
Tate nods his head, almost panicked.
“She reminded me of that girl whose number you got last night,” Milo says. “And the night before that.”
Tate sticks out his tongue. “I really was going to call this one, though,” he says.
Dad intervenes with some well-rehearsed spill about how this isn’t the ideal situation for anyone and having to make the best of it, but he’s just static to my ears.
Who does this Hannah girl think she is? What makes her so special that a Spaceships Around Saturn guy would ask for her number? If Milo asked for my number at a show, I don’t think I could scribble it down fast enough for him. But from the way Milo talks, it sounds like Tate gets a lot of phone numbers.
There’s something said about prepaid phones and “agents will bring them if you need to contact home” as well as management monitoring their phone calls to family members during lockdown. Luckily Aralie and I have to maintain as much of a normal life as we possibly can…just without much of a social calendar. At least we can keep our phones. I don’t know how Benji will survive a possible two weeks without Twitter.
“And we don’t want Emery, our youngest daughter, to know what happened tonight,” Dad says as Jules walks back into the room.
The bad boy walks behind us and posts himself against the wall behind the couch. He smells like rotten cigarettes.
“She’s a big fan, and she’s too young to fully comprehend why anyone would do something like what was done tonight, so if we could just keep it under wraps around her, that would be greatly appreciated,” Dad concludes.
With social media and today’s technology, Emery will know before sunrise. There’s no way to keep this a secret. Dad should know this.
The guys exit with their management team shortly after to get the last bit of their belongings from the cars outside and turn in their cell phones so we don’t have crazed lunatics shooting at our house. Or worse – crazed fans tearing our house down to get
to their favorite Canadian boys.
Moments later, Godfrey shows the guys upstairs to our many guest rooms, and Mom returns to the living room. Aralie and I don’t speak when she sits down on the ottoman across from us.
“Emery is finally asleep,” she says. “Hopefully the guys can settle in some tonight before getting the full force of her in the morning.”
Mom’s the only one who laughs, though. Emery is the least of my concerns. My entire summer is now nonexistent, and I’m lusting after Milo Grayson. Seriously? I have bigger problems. Emery isn’t an issue – for once.
“Listen, Chloe,” she says in that sympathetic mom-voice. She had the same tone the night Deacon and I broke up. “You really need to call Paige and let her know that Cancun is cancelled for this summer.”
She says all of the right motherly things – “I know how much you girls were looking forward to this.” “I hate that we have to cancel, but this wasn’t part of our plans.” “Maybe next summer you can go for even longer than we’d planned this time.”
It’s not her fault. I can’t even blame the guys of Spaceships Around Saturn. Honestly, even if it was partially their fault, they’re too pretty to blame – except maybe Jules because he really does seem like a jerk. I hope whenever the USA government catches this idiot, my dad has a very long talk with him or her about how much crap we’ve all suffered through because of those bullets.
Two hours ago, I was thanking God for sending Paige to me because she’s the only friend who didn’t abandon me after the Deacon break up. I was naïve to think anyone would stick it out with me. Deacon had the entire high school in his back pocket. Apparently, being his girlfriend meant I should’ve given him what he wanted when he wanted it. Who knew having principles would work against me?
I step outside near the pool for a moment of silence to make the call. Car doors slam shut around the house, and engines start up. The management team and last few agents are finally leaving, which means we’ll soon be alone with Spaceships Around Saturn. I scroll through my contacts, select Paige’s name, and hit the call button before I can chicken out.
“Hey!” she shouts through the earpiece. “I was just about to text you.”
She rattles off something about sneak peeks of the trailer for the final installment of the Rainwater Trilogy, and in the midst of her words, I blurt it out.
“Our trip to Cancun has been cancelled.” Ugh. That sounds so harsh.
“It’s what? Why? Since when? How could this happen?” Her questions go on without her coming up for oxygen.
“My dad told us when we got home,” I say. “Something about…terrorists…and stuff. He couldn’t give us any real details, you know, all that secret service business.”
I wonder if Paige can tell I’m stuttering through my words. I hate lying to her. I hate ruining her summer plans. This was her senior trip too, and she was only getting to go because my parents paid for it when her parents couldn’t.
“Didn’t you beg and plead?” she asks. “We’d be careful. It’d be all three of us – me, you, and Aralie. We wouldn’t let each other get hurt or whatever.”
I should’ve begged Aralie to make this phone call instead. She doesn’t like Paige anyway. She’d have no problem hurting her feelings. Aralie is blunt and brutal in ways that aren’t always good. It’ll make for an interesting summer with Spaceships Around Saturn. Ugh, this sucks. I have a world-famous boyband in my house, and I can’t even tell my best friend.
“Well, Chloe, thanks a lot for ruining my summer. After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? Really? You’re the worst friend ever.” With that, Paige hangs up on me.
Mom gives me sad eyes when I walk back into the house.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
I shrug my shoulders and say good night, then I head up to my room. I don’t want to think or lust or feel anything for the rest of the night.
Tate was right – welcome to the summer of hell.
Chapter Three
My phone buzzes on my pillow for the millionth time this morning. It’s Paige. Again. I open the message but only half-read it. It’s just a repeat of everything she’s already texted me this morning – another plea for me to talk to my parents and a well-thought-out apology for the terrible things she said last night.
I knew she’d get over it. I’m really not even mad. I just don’t feel like dealing with her on top of Spaceships Around Saturn. I can’t tell her that, though. It feels weird even thinking about having them in our house. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe Emery’s obsession has gone to my brain, and it was all an extraterrestrial dose of fiction.
But just in case it was real, I make a point to brush my hair, put on some makeup, and dress in non-pajama clothing before heading downstairs. Aralie’s complaints float up the staircase from the kitchen as I descend them. It already feels like a typical morning in the Branson household.
Typical…until I round the corner and see Benji Baccarini planted at the dining room table. Last night floods back into my brain – Milo’s body wash, Milo’s caramel eyes, Milo calling my dad ‘Mr. Branson’ when Jules stormed out. So maybe “last night” doesn’t flood back into my brain – but Milo does.
“I have to do laundry,” Aralie says.
“You can do it when you get back. Chloe will go with you,” Mom says.
Aralie has never wanted to do laundry a day in her life, so if she’s using laundry as an excuse not to do something, this ‘something’ must be pretty awful.
And Mom just volunteered me for it as well.
My sister takes notice of me as soon as I walk into the kitchen.
“Chloe,” Aralie says. “Tell Mom we can’t go grocery shopping for the band. It’s too risky, right?”
She shoots me this ‘you better agree with me’ look and waits for my reply. Grocery shopping for the band? These are five guys. Buying that many groceries would definitely look suspicious.
“She has a point,” I agree. “Someone would know it wasn’t all for us. Our family couldn’t eat that much if we tried.”
Mom sighs and turns away from her glittery picture frame project on the counter.
“You girls make everything so complicated,” she says. “I’ve already sent Godfrey out for the frozen items, and he’s picking up anything boy-related that they may need. Your dad left this morning, heading back to follow the investigation. I can’t afford to take Emery out in public right now. She’s too excited.”
I hate it, but Mom’s argument is stronger than Aralie’s. There’s no way we could let Emery back into society right after she witnessed her beloved Benji Bikini sitting on our loveseat. I sigh the ‘sigh of surrender.’
“We’ll do it,” I say.
Aralie snatches a small stack of papers off the countertop.
“You haven’t seen their lists!” she yells. “Benji’s goes on for two pages, and Noah has special instructions on his. Seriously, he described the packaging to make sure we get the right brands.”
Mom’s eyes bulge, but she doesn’t speak. We already know what she’d say, but she’s not going to scold Aralie in front of Benji and draw more attention to what was just said. I walk over to Aralie, take the lists, and look them over. She’s right – Benji’s is long, Noah’s is detailed, and…
“Well, this one is easy enough,” I say, holding up the third list. “Oreos and milk. Seriously? That’s my kind of list.”
Benji laughs from behind us. I glance over, but he’s eyeball-deep in a tattoo magazine, probably picking out his next piece of ink.
“That’s Milo’s list,” Aralie says. “He’s clearly the least complicated of the group.”
Oh, sister dear, that’s what you think. He wasn’t crammed onto the couch next to her last night, squirming around and brushing his skin against hers every few seconds. She didn’t have to breathe him in or look into his eyes or suffer the burn scars from the hot lava melt of hearing him say ‘Mr. Branson.’ Was she even in the living room last night?
Aralie grabs her keys off the table, shoots a glimpse over her shoulder to me.
“I’m driving,” she says.
Mom hands me her credit card and a list of supplies she needs for her craft classes. I fold the lists and tuck them into my jeans pocket until I can get back to my room and grab my purse. I could probably make a fortune off these lists online once this is all over and done.
But I don’t know if I could part with Oreos and milk that easily.
“Aralie!” Mom calls out as I’m heading upstairs. “Don’t forget Emery’s special request.”
I stop on the third stair and look down at my sister, who’s waiting in the foyer for me.
“Special request?” I ask.
Aralie laughs. “Oh, just wait. I’m going to let you handle that one.”
If I’d known Emery’s special request, I might have fought harder not to get groceries. I would’ve played off Aralie’s laundry excuse. I might’ve even thrown in some down and dirty yard work. But here I stand, with two loaded shopping carts, next to the birthday cards and stationery, staring at the rack of posters hoping no one I know sees me browsing the solo shots of Benji Baccarini.
Aralie plays with her cell phone from behind the other shopping cart, leaving the final decision up to me. Emery wanted one where he’s smiling because if he’s serious, he looks mean like Jules – Emery’s words, not mine. She likes him better in T-shirts because he “looks normal like us.” I pick the one with the lime green background. There’s plenty of green space for him to write personal messages to her.
I slip poster A7 into the cart, among the milk and Oreos and Noah’s low-fat angel hair pasta noodles with the green and red logo. Aralie beats me to the checkout line and unloads her cart. The items creep across the black conveyor belt.
“Big party? Or summer houseguests?” the cashier asks.
She smacks her gum when she talks, and I want to smack her across the face. It’s none of her business.
