“Can you guys hug and make up? Please,” Sulli says with one hand on my shoulder, her other hand on Charlie’s.

We’re in a backroom at the Chicago FanCon. The photo and signing portion went off without a hitch. No power outage. No dislocated shoulder. And now we’re minutes from going onstage for the very first Q&A.

Baskets of sweets, candy, stuffed animals, scrapbooks, and other homemade gifts tower unsteadily on a coffee table. All from fans. Reminding me that people are here for us. They’re counting on us.

And I’m not going to let anyone down this time.

“We’re okay,” I tell Sulli.

Charlie nods, both of us avoiding each other’s eye.

Sulli sighs and digs in a sweets basket. “They’re gonna notice this fucking…fuck whatever you call it.” She waves a hand between us, then dumps chocolate snowcaps in her palm.

“Tension,” Beckett defines, squatting down and rising. He tries to stretch his arms, muscles shot from lifting girls for five hours.

“You okay?” I ask him. “You can take a break.”

Charlie watches his brother keenly, concern evident.

Beckett cricks his neck. “I’m not ditching. I’ll be fine.” Sulli gives him a side-hug.

Jane has been scribbling math equations in a notebook. Something that helps clear her mind. But she shuts the notebook. And then scans our uneven huddle. “Look at us.”

My eyes drift to each of my cousins. We look like we’re five colossally different people who come from the same unconventional place.

Beckett is dressed in The Carraways merch, supporting Tom’s band, and colorful tattoos sprawl down his arm.

Sulli wears cut-off jean shorts in the winter, a dolphin pendant roped around her neck, and her dark hair cascades down her chest.

I’m in jeans and a green Halway Comics shirt. Arms crossed, shoulders squared but thankfully not sore anymore.

Janie is decked out in pastels and sequins, pants snug on her waist. Wavy brunette hair uncombed.

And Charlie always looks like he just got fucked in a bathroom. Four buttons undone on his white, wrinkled dress shirt.

Beckett gives his sister a what-the-fuck face. “We look like a hot mess, sis. This isn’t a revelation.”

“We look like we’re close. The five of us together. But somehow we’ve all come apart.” Jane doesn’t say the cause, and it’s not the rumor.

If anything the rumor brought us together with this tour—but what pulled us apart was me. And Charlie.

“Moffy and I won’t sit next to each other,” Charlie suddenly says. “Easy enough.”

We all nod.

“We shouldn’t sit next to each other either,” Jane tells me.

I spin on my best friend, my face sharpened and brows cinched. I get that this is the first time we’ve opened ourselves to questions since the secret affair rumor. But there’s a hitch. “It’s going to seem fucking weird if we don’t sit next to each other, Janie.”

She thinks for a moment, then nods. Pink bedazzled cat sunglasses shield her eyes, but her freckled cheeks pull in a smile that says I’m ready for battle.

The FanCon coordinator pops her head in and tells us it’s time.

And I assure Beckett, “It won’t be three hours.”

Charlie grabs a water bottle. As he passes me, he whispers, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

* * *

Fans pack the ballroom, every chair filled. An aisle splits down the middle and leads to a microphone where fans can ask questions.

A giant banner—FanCon presented by H.M.C. Philanthropies—backdrops a decent sized stage. Five chairs are already lined up in a row, and the tour’s moderator touches the microphone at the podium.

As soon as the moderator introduces us, we step on stage. The crowd roars. Cheering and whistling. Cameras flash, and I smile, wave.

I grab a microphone off my chair and take the second seat. Because at the very last second, we decided to sit oldest to youngest: Jane, me, Charlie, Beckett, and Sullivan. It’ll cause the least amount of gossip, but it also means I’m wedged beside Charlie.

Be nice, I try to tell myself.

Don’t act like you’d rather sit next to a Death Eater.

Excited fans make it easier. My smile grows, and I raise my microphone to my mouth. “Hey, Chicago,” I greet to another bout of cheers. I grin. “You’re all great. How are you enjoying the FanCon so far?”

They woot and holler.

Janie speaks in her mic. “We’ve loved meeting you, and we’re very appreciative that you’ve bought tickets for a good cause.”

Clapping, and someone screams, “I LOVE YOU, CHARLIE!”

The corner of his mouth inches upwards, but he doesn’t say a damn thing.

Sulli taps her mic. “Is this on?” Her voice booms. “Oh, fuck whoa.”

The crowd laughs.

Sulli reddens. “Uh, hi? It’s rad that there are so many people here, and yeah, I’m really fucking excited. What about you, Beckett?”

Microphone to his lips, he says, “Absolutely.”

More cheers.

Charlie slouches, ankles crossed, and he grips his microphone by the head, uncaring. Typical Charlie.

The moderator makes a brief introduction, and then a line coordinator ushers the first fan to the audience’s microphone.

She must be no older than fifteen or sixteen. “Um, hi…I have a question for Sullivan.”

“Sweet,” Sulli says.

“First, um…” The girl reddens. “Can you say the f-word?”

“Fuck?” Sulli says uncertainly, but people still cheer. It’s not a weird question since Sulli says fuck a lot, and her dad is known for his constant f-bombs.

The girl rocks on the balls of her feet. “And what’s it like being the daughter of Ryke Meadows?”

“He’s the greatest fucking dad…” She loses track of her thought, and she looks to us for help.

Jane raises her mic. “The Meadows family is the sweetest. One time Sulli broke a rope swing, the kind attached to a tree limb, and she bloodied her knees—how old were you, Sulli?”

“Maybe, fuck like eleven?”

“She was eleven glorious years,” Jane says triumphantly, smile brightening, and her breezy voice captivates the crowd. “But Sulli being Sulli, picked herself up, not a tear in sight, and she started climbing the maple tree to fix the rope. Her dad saw, and Uncle Ryke hoisted his daughter on his shoulders. He helped her reach a sturdier branch to tie the knot. Adventure and love for all, that’s the Meadows way.”

The audience practically swoons.

“Last question, I promise,” the girl says quickly before the line coordinator shoos her away. “Sullivan, is there anyone that you look up to like a brother since you only have a sister?”

“Yeah,” Sulli says easily and cranes her neck and waves at me. “Hey, Moffy.”

“Hey, Sul,” I say in the mic. I think it’s easier for her to speak to me than the crowds.

She keeps eye contact with me. “I know you didn’t talk much about me on We Are Calloway because I asked you not to. I kind of wanted to be…anonymous, or as anonymous as I could be, but…” She shrugs. “You’re my big brother. We went to hundreds of swim meets together, and fuck, we got busted shins and elbows from skateboarding…and you were always there. You still are.”

“Awww,” people coo.

I raise my mic. “Sulli was nervous to speak live, but she’s doing better than all of us, huh?” The crowd applauds for Sulli, and she takes a huge breath.

The line coordinator leads the girl away, and a new fan in a Halway Comics baseball cap approaches the microphone. “My question is for Maximoff. Who do you like better: Ryke Meadows or Loren Hale?”

Jane sends me a quick glance like I’ll take over if you need me.

In the past year, that question would’ve put my thoughts in a grinder. But I’m not pummeled backwards anymore.

“I love them both,” I say, my tone easygoing. “At the risk of sounding cliché, I wouldn’t be who I am without my dad and my uncle.”

I’m aware that there are hundreds of phone-cameras filming me, and I can almost feel my dad back in Philly smiling. Happy that I’m finally embracing the truth publicly.

“My dad is amazing, loving, funny and protective,” I tell the audience, “and I got to love a dad who was sober because he has a brother who’s kind, compassionate, strong and unfaltering. I honestly can’t imagine not having either of them.”

I hear people sniffling, and I catch several brushing their watery eyes.

“I LOVE LOREN HALE!” someone shouts.

Jane speaks in her mic. “We love him terribly too.” Her blue eyes smile at me like well done, old chap.

The next few questions are tame. Sulli talks briefly about the Olympics, we all banter back-and-forth about late-night sleepovers at the Meadows tree house, and Beckett tells the audience his favorite ballet: Giselle.

A twenty-something slender guy grips the microphone. “Charlie,” he says. “Are you dating anyone?”

Charlie lazily lifts his mic. “No.” He drops his arm. That’s it.

I bite my tongue, wanting to tell him he could at least try harder to care.

After about ten more innocent questions about our childhood, Jane is asked about her career. “I’m happy to be the CFO of H.M.C. Philanthropies.”

I wait for her to add for now. But she never does.

She has a whole semester of online courses before she graduates Princeton. One semester to figure out her future, but I’m not going to let her give up.

I’m still thinking about Janie when I miss the next question. Unfortunately, a college-aged girl directed it at me. Hundreds of eyes land in my direction.

I sense the awkward dead air.

Greaaaat.

Charlie puts the microphone to his mouth. “Daydreaming runs in his family.”

I turn on him, eyes hot. He didn’t just say that to the public. “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

My mom discussed all the times she got lost in her head on We Are Calloway. Fantasizing about sex. He knows this.

And if Charlie is implying—

“Luna has a vivid imagination. She’s been daydreaming about aliens and other planets since she was little,” Charlie says innocently, as though he never intended anything else. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

More phones are elevated. Recording. Pointed like pistols, but nothing can hurt me. Not online. Not in the tabloids. After what I went through with Jane, I’m fucking bulletproof.

Charlie stares flatly, but behind his eyes all I see is come at me.

So I do.

“At least being an egotistical asshole doesn’t run in my family,” I say, and as soon as the hot-tempered words leave my lips, I regret them.

Low whispers escalate like a rumbling storm.

“I think that one skipped over me and landed on you, actually.” Charlie flings back.

Jesus Christ. I scan the ballroom quickly, and I find Farrow in the back. Leaning against the closed conference room double-doors. Arms loosely crossed. Aviators on inside.

He makes a hand motion that I think is supposed to mean calm down.

And he also blows an actual bubblegum bubble.

His nonchalance helps me, somehow. I breathe. No one needs to tell me that my short fuse is fucking horrible. I know. When I’m around Charlie, I feel like he strikes the match. But I light the bomb and always detonate myself.

“Boys, behave,” Jane says lightly, garnering a few audience chuckles. “Next question?”

The college-aged girl must divert her original question because she asks me, “Do you and Charlie hate each other?”

The moderator smiles sheepishly, and the line coordinator taps the girl’s shoulder. She never detaches from the microphone.

They’re losing control of this Q&A. Much like we just have.

Charlie swivels to face me. “What do you say, Moffy? Do you hate me?”

“No,” I say flatly.

Charlie turns to the audience. “There you go.”

I’m not here to play 5D chess with Charlie, but he keeps roping me in. I try my best to reroute the conversation off us. “How about we talk about your relationship with Beckett. What’s it like being a twin?”

Charlie hates that question.

He glares at me. “What’s it like being the most beloved human on the planet?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t be so humble, Maximoff,” Charlie says. “They love you.” He faces the crowd. “Isn’t that right?” He raises his mic out, and they all cheer, scream, yell.

I catch the moderator’s gaze, and he balks and fumbles with notecards. “Settle down,” he says. “Okay, let’s get back on track here.”

Everything is out of control, and I’m not sure how to right the train on the track since I’m mostly to blame for shoving it off.

Ignoring Charlie, I say into the mic. “We’ll take a few more questions from the audience.”

Instead of being disappointed, they all raise their hands in the air.

Don’t punch your cousin.

At this point, that’s my low-bar level of success. And I’m just barely reaching it.