by Nikki Godwin
Oh God. It clicks in my brain, and I want to jump in my own spaceship and fly away to Saturn. He’s afraid I’m getting the wrong idea. That has to be it! He knows I’m slowly falling for him (okay, slowly is the biggest lie ever), and he doesn’t want to lead me on. He doesn’t want to be the guy who broke my heart because he didn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t want to fall into the same category as Deacon and be some jerkoff who ends up on my hate list forever.
It’s the only thing that makes sense. I can’t even hate him for it. At least he spared me, right? He didn’t lie and drag my name through the mud. He didn’t call me an Ice Queen. He was perfectly nice about it, and that makes me feel even worse. Milo knows that once this lockdown ends, he’ll go back to touring, I’ll go on to college, and he’ll be nice to me on Twitter every now and then. I’ll get a follow back out of all of this lockdown stuff. My life sucks. I’m going to make a T-shirt when this is all over that says “I Hid Spaceships Around Saturn and All I Got Was a Lousy Twitter Follow.”
I reach for the CD player to blast Sebastian’s Shadow for the rest of the drive home. Maybe it’ll drown out my insecurities and false hopes and any thoughts of Canadian boys. I feel for the CD button, punch it, and turn up the volume. But I didn’t punch the CD button. I hit FM. Milo’s voice pours through my speakers.
This is the summer of hell.
Jules meets me in the garage the moment I pull in. He’s either incredibly impatient or Aralie blew up at him while I was gone, which might’ve resulted in smoking his last two cigarettes. He rushes around to my car door and jerks it open.
“Did you get them?” he asks.
“Have you been standing there watching for me?” I ask him.
“I’m nicotine-dependent, okay?” he says. “I’m craving here. I’m being discreet. No one knows I’m out here.”
I dig through my purse, grab the pack of cigarettes, and attempt to fish out the loose change. Then he tells me to keep it, like I’m a freaking waitress or something, and darts back inside. I gather Mom’s batteries and trail inside behind Jules.
When I get upstairs, my door is free of Tate’s head – for once. I take it as a sign that maybe my luck is changing. Everyone else was downstairs when I got home, so it wouldn’t be obvious that I’m stalking Milo if I go down there.
After running a brush through my hair, just for good measure, I venture down to Dad’s game room, which seems to be the hangout these days in our house. Benji and Noah stretch out on a pallet of blankets in the floor with Emery. Aralie sits in between Jules and Tate. I guess Mom’s “please get along or avoid each other” resulted in getting along…for now. And then there’s Milo – with his godforsaken acoustic guitar.
Milo’s eyes meet mine for half a second then he looks to Noah. Noah glances over his shoulder and bolts up into a sitting position.
“Chloe!” Noah exclaims all too happily. “Are you going to join us?”
Everything in me wants to say ‘no’ because his BFF Milo is ignoring me and shattering my pathetic little heart. Now they expect me to join them in their own acoustic set…listening to Milo sing…and play guitar…and be perfect.
I hesitate a second too long, and Noah leaps up and pulls me toward the sectional.
“Sit with me,” he says.
He knows something. Milo has said something. He probably told Noah to keep me away from him, to always fill the gap between us, to hold me back if I come too close for comfort. Noah follows orders well. He strategically places himself between Milo and me – closer to me, just in case I make any rash moves toward his boy.
Benji sits up next to Emery and asks for a song request. He lets her have first pick since she’s the ultimate Saturnite.
“‘Too Close to the Edge.’” She’s all smiles after her request. “Chloe really likes that one.”
She’s so proud of herself, selflessly choosing a song she knows that I love. Maybe it’s her way of thanking me for keeping her Harry Styles secret or for introducing her to Darby. Or maybe it’s for helping her make that friendship bracelet that’s still wrapped around Benji’s wrist. Or for the humiliation I suffered buying poster A7 of Benji Bock-Bock-Baccarini.
She probably chose it because Mom gave her an extremely lengthy ‘Mom talk’ about accusations and loud announcements to the entire household. Yeah, it’s a guilt thing.
Milo glances at me but looks away the moment he makes eye contact. He strums the first few chords, and I die. I literally just die right here on the sectional, next to Noah Winters, in front of SAS and my sisters and the storm clouds.
There’s no way I can listen to them play “Too Close to the Edge” with an acoustic guitar in my freaking house. I really liked it because it was the one song that really captured how I felt when everyone turned on me, and I was the laughing stock of the senior class. I was standing waaaay too close to the edge then, and I’m standing even closer to the edge now.
I swap glances with Noah, and I think I’m getting the hang of this cosmic connection thing because he totally understands.
“Hey, wait,” he says. “Let’s save that one for last, since it’s her favorite. Let’s do something a little more upbeat.”
I quickly agree, and Emery doesn’t object. She dances around stupidly and does her best fist pumping for a few songs. I don’t move a muscle. Neither does Noah. At least someone in this room is aware that I’m breaking down.
It may be summer, but I’m thankful for that sliver of winter.
Chapter Eleven
Last night’s storm stole our electricity and forced us all upstairs before the guys could get back around to singing “Too Close to the Edge” for me. I adore Earth and its atmosphere and bad weather. I don’t think I’ll ever complain about a rainy day again.
Noah is the only one at the table when I walk through the dining room this morning. It’s a carbon copy of every other morning – Noah, silence, and strawberry milk.
“You okay?” he asks.
Well, that’s new.
“You haven’t finished your milk,” I say.
He shrugs. “I know. I don’t care. Are you okay?”
“Yep,” I say in the most monotone voice I think I’ve ever spoken. I sound manly and robotic. Eww.
He grabs his glass and follows me into the kitchen. Mom isn’t in here either. Did Noah and I miss some special memo that says we’re not supposed to get out of bed today? I pour a glass of milk for myself while Noah says that strawberry milk is better. I’m sort of hungry, but at the same time, if I dare to put anything in my mouth, I may upchuck it, and that’s grosser than my robot voice.
“He doesn’t blame you,” Noah says in a near whisper. “He was embarrassed. He’d never, ever do anything like that, and he didn’t want your family to think he’d even try. If you wanted to get Milo naked, you’d have to strip him yourself.”
I crack up, not because it’s funny or because I even want to laugh, but because I’m glad someone finally brought up the mistaken nudity. Everyone’s thinking about it, so let’s just clear the air and cut the tension already. Thank you, Noah.
He still avoids eye contact while talking about it, though. Aren’t guys supposed to be all pervy and immature about nakedness? Instead, Noah plays with a magnet I made months ago. It’s a glittery purple flower. Emery glued googly eyes to it.
“It doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” I say.
I sip my milk, but it tastes gross now.
“He’s just…Milo’s a nice guy. Like really nice. He’s that guy who everyone takes advantage of and expects him to have all the answers,” Noah explains to the flower. “He didn’t want you to think he was trying anything or that he was trying to tempt you or I don’t know. It was just a low blow for him, and he’s embarrassed.”
Someone shuffles through the house, and we both stand still, holding our glasses of milk and lingering by the fridge like two total weirdoes. Milo and Jules round the corner and stare at us – like we’re two total milk-drinking weird
oes.
“Morning,” Milo says.
He brushes past me, completely ignores me, and grabs the milk from the fridge.
Jules waves a cigarette at us and ventures onto the back patio for his morning nicotine fix. Milo pours a glass of milk, digs through the cabinet for the Oreos, and walks back into the dining room. He doesn’t say a freaking word.
Noah chugs the rest of his strawberry milk.
“I’m gonna try to talk some sense into him,” he whispers.
He puts his glass in the sink and leaves me with the fridge and its many glittery magnetic picture frames. Emery’s goofy grin flashes from all of them. Someday, I hope she has a toweled boy in her bedroom, and I hope someone mistakes it for more.
I can’t make out the whispers in the adjoining room, and Jules makes more noise than necessary when he comes back inside. He joins them at the table, asks something about sports, and a normal conversation resumes.
I’ve halfway worked up my nerve to run past them and return to the confinement of my bedroom. Even though I’d watch Darby’s Daily Dose of Drama and obsess like a typical Saturnite, at least I wouldn’t have to look at Milo in person.
Mom enters the kitchen and shreds away all of my half-courage.
“Chloe, sweetheart, I need to talk to you,” she says.
There’s not a single social event I can think of that I may need to cancel today. No parties. No festivals. No lunch dates. Maybe Aralie had something planned, and I have to do damage control.
“This is really hard for me to say, but Ms. Sue called me this morning,” she says.
Who in the world is Ms. Sue?
“She said you stopped by their store last night,” Mom continues. “She wasn’t trying to rat you out, but she was very concerned and wanted me to be aware of what was going on.”
Oh God. The cigarettes! I ease over a few steps and look into the dining room. Jules stares back at me, wide-eyed and stupid. Then he looks away and buries his face. Noah hits Jules’s arm, and Jules motions for them to shut up. He’s seriously going to let me take the fall for this! I turn my back to the dining room because I have to keep my composure through this, and seeing Jules Rossi right now is not helping my composure.
“Chloe, I know things have been rough these last few months,” Mom says. It’s the sympathy tone. “But smoking isn’t the answer. If you need to talk to someone, you can always come to me or Dad or even Godfrey. Or we can pay for therapy sessions.”
“Mom, I’m not smoking,” I insist. “And I don’t need therapy. I’m completely fine. Really.”
She tilts her head and studies me like she did on graduation night, while she cried because her baby was all grown up. She has those same worried eyes now that she had when she talked about setting her baby bird out to fly on her own. Please, Mom. Don’t call me a baby bird while 3/5 of SAS is listening.
“Sweetheart,” she says. “I just know you went through a lot with that break up, and seeing Deacon the other day couldn’t have made things any easier, especially when he acted like he did. I know you had big plans this summer, and I wish things could’ve gone as planned.”
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say through my teeth.
“Then why were you buying cigarettes, Chloe? Ms. Sue wouldn’t just make that up,” she says.
Her voice pleads with me, like she’s truly heartbroken and worried. She doesn’t even seem mad about it. I don’t know who this Ms. Sue woman is or where she was hiding at that service station, but damn her all the way across the universe for running her big freaking mouth.
“They were for me.” The voice is directly behind me.
But it’s not Jules.
It’s Milo.
“I’m really, really sorry,” he says, looking at Mom instead of me. “I shouldn’t have asked Chloe to get them for me.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and makes real, caramelizing eye contact with me.
“I’m sorry, Chloe. I shouldn’t have done that to you, and I really wish I could take it back,” he says.
I blink my eyes a few times, quickly, like an idiot who just rammed a mascara wand into her eyeball, but it fights back the tears. Mom may not be reading between the lines, but this is a real apology – just not for cigarettes.
“Milo,” Mom says, almost shocked. “Your voice…Why would you risk it with cigarettes? I didn’t know you smoked. I just never would’ve imagined.”
He clears his throat and pulls his hand away from my shoulder.
“I, uh, normally don’t,” he stammers. He’s a terrible liar. “It’s just, with the lockdown…and everything else…I’ve just been really stressed. It’s a lot of pressure, and I take on too much, and I just needed something to calm my nerves.”
His words run together at rapid speed. I wonder if Mom knows he’s lying. Panic floods his face, like he might deteriorate any second and confess that the cigarettes aren’t his after all. If Mom knows he’s lying, she doesn’t show it. In fact, she plays along – or believes him – and gives him the lecture about lung cancer, not smoking in front of Emery, and not littering outside.
He just nods his head and says, “Yes ma’am,” the entire time.
Jules really will need reconstructive facial surgery by the time I’m done with him. It’s been an hour since he sat at the table, looking away, letting Milo take the fall for his nicotine habit, and my blood is still boiling.
I fall back on my bed and glance at my cell phone. That little voicemail symbol stares back at me. Paige called while Milo was defending my honor. Luckily my phone was still upstairs, so it couldn’t ruin the moment for me.
Milo Grayson played my knight in shining armor this morning, and I can’t even tell Paige about it. I hate ignoring her, but I also hate lying to her. The longer Spaceships Around Saturn is locked down in our house, the bigger a web of lies I have to weave.
I pull my cell phone to my ear and dial into my voicemail. The robot lady tells me that I have one unheard message. No kidding.
“Hey Chloe, it’s Paige. Um, I hope you’re not still mad. I thought giving you a few days to cool off might help, but um, I wanted to hang out, just to talk or whatever. Could you please call me? I really miss you…okay, uh, bye.”
A few days? It feels like the SAS guys have been here for three weeks! Ugh. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her. I do – I just can’t talk to her about anything that’s going on. There’s no way I can see her. I’m on lockdown. Okay, that’s an excuse. I could slip away for a few hours. But who’d want to?
I decide to suck it up and call her back. She answers on the second ring.
“Chloe! Hey!” she shouts through my earpiece.
She instantly rambles off a long apology for calling me the worst friend ever, says she’s going to Florida later this summer with Lauren’s family since Cancun got cancelled, and then she asks how Emery is doing.
“Emery?” I question.
“Yeah, her summer pneumonia or whatever?” she says, like I should know what she is talking about.
“Ohhh,” I say, remembering the little white lie. “She’s better. Definitely back to her usual annoying self.”
“Is she freaking out about Spaceships Around Saturn?” Paige asks.
My throat feels like the Sahara Desert, dry and scorching. I suck my cheeks in and out like a delirious puffer fish, trying to build up some sort of moisture in my mouth.
“What do you mean?” I eventually croak out.
“The shooting,” Paige says. “The hiding out thing. Isn’t she freaking out to know where they are and if they’re okay? I heard that one guy got shot.”
I’m filled with mixed emotions. There’s relief – Paige doesn’t know, and Paige doesn’t suspect. But then I’m pissed! That one guy has a name. It’s Milo Grayson, and no, I will not share. I fake a laugh even though I’m sure I have my angry face on.
“We’ve tried to keep her away from the news as much as possible. She doesn’t understand why someone would shoot at them,” I sa
y.
I wish she’d change the subject.
“How can you?” Paige speaks like I’m insane. “It’s everywhere – literally freaking everywhere. I can’t turn on the TV or get online or go anywhere without seeing them. I guess Emery will be fine as long as her Benji boy is okay, though, huh?”
Right. Long live Benji Baccarini. Who the hell cares about Milo Grayson?
“Oh God!” Paige shrieks into my ear. “Speaking of Benji, I heard about your Deacon drama at the grocery store. Actually, everyone heard about it, but what an ass. Why does he do this shit? He only makes himself look like a fool.”
Great. Everyone heard about it. Everyone knows that I, Chloe Branson, bought the A7 poster of Benji Bock-Bock-Baccarini, formerly known in our household as Benji Bikini. The saddest part about it is that everyone is laughing at me rather than at Deacon. I wasn’t even the one clucking.
I open my mouth to agree that Deacon is stupid. There’s a knock on my door, so I immediately tell Paige to hold on and mute the phone, just in case. As I walk toward the door, I seriously hope it’s Jules on the other side so I can kick him across the galaxy. Or worse, into Aralie’s bedroom. She could do more damage than a black hole or asteroid collision.
Instead, I open my door to a clean-cut brunette with caramel eyes, a perfect smile, and a tight T-shirt. That same dark gray T-shirt he was wearing the night he arrived and I wanted to melt into his arms on the couch. It takes every bit of strength I have not to let my jaw hit the floor. He starts to say something, but I halt him with my hand and wave my cell phone at him.
“Hey Paige?” I say, as soon as I un-mute my phone. “I’ve gotta go, but you can text me.”
I end the call before she ever gets a goodbye out of her mouth.
“Hey,” Milo says, lingering outside of my bedroom. “I’m fully-dressed this time. You think I could come in?”
