We’re in the middle of nowhere Kansas, and Farrow refuses to come to bed. Lawyers sent him another zip file of NDAs, and he’s still searching. Still not getting any sleep. It will end, I remind myself.

I’m not going to hound him. So I let him work, and I crawl into my bunk and shut the privacy curtain.

There’s only one person I want to talk to at midnight on a Saturday. And yeah, I know it’s late in Philly. But I’m pretty sure he’ll be awake. I’m just hoping he answers.

He does on the third ring.

FaceTime connects, and my fifteen-year-old brother fills the screen. His straight brown hair is longer, hiding his ears, and pieces fall over his forehead. Bulky red headphones around his neck, he rests his head on a pillow. He’s in bed but still awake.

“You’d probably get better sleep if you didn’t nap all day,” I tell him.

Xander adjusts a pillow against the headboard, sitting up, more comfortable. “Are you learning medical shit from your boyfriend now?”

“That’s just big brother advice,” I say easily.

Xander tucks some of his hair behind his ear. “I’m glad you called.” He flips the camera, his door gone. “Please tell Kinney’s girl squad to stop putting crap in my room.” He zooms in on a BMX bike and rock climbing gear. “Vada thinks I’ll go dirt biking with her. I won’t. Winona thinks I’ll actually climb a goddamn mountain. She’s crazy.”

Everyone’s been worried about him. “I’ll pass the word,” I say. “How’ve you been?” Our parents made him add an extra day of therapy to his schedule.

Xander flips the camera, relaxed against a mound of pillows. “Alright.” He shrugs. “Not as…I don’t know.” He chews his bottom lip, then shrugs again. “Anxious, I guess. I’m not about to do anything, you know.” He rolls his eyes at himself, then sighs. He’s been suicidal before, more so when he was younger.

“That’s good, Summers. I’m proud of you.”

He drops his gaze. “For what?”

“Waking up this morning,” I say seriously.

“Yay me.” His sarcasm clear. “I’m full of accomplishments.”

“Hey, that’s fucking big.” I watch his chest rise in a deeper breath, and then the camera careens a bit.

He leans over to a nightstand and grabs a Sprite.

My brows scrunch. “What the fuck are you drinking?”

He takes a sip. “Can you not read?” He angles the green and blue can at the camera. The label in sight.

“I see a Sprite. A Coca-Cola product,” I remind him, “our family’s competitor.”

Xander chugs, then burps. “I’ve got a whole case under my bed. I keep telling Uncle Stokes to make a clear-colored Fizz drink. But he’s not having it…so…” Xander hoists his can to the camera.

All four Calloway sisters have shares and stock in Fizzle. The soda empire ties the Cobalts, Hales, Meadows, and Stokes together. But after my grandpa stepped down as CEO, he handed the reigns to Sam Stokes.

You know nothing about the Stokes family. Poppy Calloway, the oldest sister, and her husband Sam Stokes managed to steer clear of the media. Their only daughter is an actress, filming a movie in Canada right now, and I keep in touch through text. But we’re all in different stages of our lives.

Xander pops open a second Sprite can.

“Traitor,” I say into a smile.

His lips almost lift, but honestly, I’m not sure the last time my little brother had a full-blown smile on his face. Maybe when we went LARPing a few years back.

He pries the tab off his can, his mouth down-turning, and his amber eyes drop again. “You deserve being called a traitor more than me right now.”

What? I see myself in a tiny box on the FaceTime screen. My brows pull together, face sharpened. I shift uncomfortably on my bunk. The space suddenly feels cramped and small.

“Why is that?” I ask, my voice tight.

“You’re not attending Mom and Dad’s vow renewal,” he says with a shrug, like it doesn’t really matter, but he looks sad. “Just like you missed my birthday.”

My muscles bind. I try to sit up a bit more.

I should’ve fucking known he’d surface this. Our parents just announced a second wedding in April to renew their vows. The media published the story like American royalty just declared the biggest ceremony of the year.

It made so many headlines that paparazzi raced back to Philly. Like ants returning to their mud hill. And about five hours ago, we lost the last van that’d been trailing our tour bus.

My mom and dad—they did that for Security Force Omega. Knowing a wedding announcement would reroute the media’s attention. And seeing the look on the bodyguards’ faces when the roads cleared…it made me immeasurably proud to call them my parents.

Maybe in Xander’s eyes, if I really loved Mom and Dad, I’d be at their vow renewal. But it’s not that easy.

The FanCon ends the same day as the wedding. It ensures that paparazzi will stay in Philly during the rest of the tour and not bombard us. Our parents chose that wedding date, knowing I wouldn’t be able to attend.

“I made a commitment to this tour,” I tell my brother. “If I could be there, I would. You know I miss you a fucking ton.”

He squeezes the soda can, the aluminum crushing a bit. “Yeah, me too, and I get it. I guess.” He sighs heavily, his hair hanging in his face as he slumps. “Hey, so I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He glances to his right, checking for any eavesdroppers where his door used to be.

“Yeah?”

He chugs his soda and wipes his mouth on his arm. “I know Mom was addicted to masturbating or whatever. That means we could be addicted to that kind of stuff, too. So what’s like too much?”

“Too much jerking off?” I ask.

“Yeah. Is there…like a number or something?” He tucks his hair behind his ear again. I see myself at fifteen, questioning every damn thing.

“Are you having sex?” I ask, realizing we haven’t talked about this stuff in a while.

“With my hand,” he replies.

“That doesn’t count.”

“Then no.” He tosses his crushed can somewhere. It sounds like it lands on hardwood. “If you don’t give me a number, I’ll just ask Luna, and she gives shitty advice, so I know you don’t want that. Take pity on me.” He belches.

I smile, about to tell him there’s not a number, but the bus comes to a rocky, abrupt halt. A mechanical screech pitches the air.

Great.

Xander reads my face. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say quickly. “Something with the bus. Can I call you back?”

“Bro, just give me a number first. It’s killing me.”

“One million,” I say.

He flips me off, and I reaffirm I’ll call him back and then I hang up. I swing my legs off the bunk and jump down. Entering the crowded lounge.

From the driver’s seat, Thatcher cranes his neck over his shoulder. “Everyone okay?”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

The next words are ones I didn’t ever want to hear.

“The bus broke down.”

* * *

Prognosis: no one knows what the fuck happened.

The bus just kind of died, and now we’re waiting for a mechanic to drive out into the middle of absolutely nowhere.

All of my cousins and Donnelly, Oscar, and Jack sit on the pavement across from a wheat field. A plume of gray smoke sputters from the rear of the bus. I’ve helped my uncle fix up an old Jeep several times. So I understand cars, but this is a bus. There isn’t even a hood.

Farrow laces his boot, and I check my phone for reception again.

No signal.

I remember how Quinn and Luna flew back to Philly after crowds cleared in L.A., and right about now, I’m fucking glad she’s missing this.

After talking in private, the co-Omega leads return to our spot, and Thatcher tells us, “You all should get back on the bus.”

I give him a look. “You want my family and SFO to get on the thing that’s smoking and may catch on fire? That’s a hard no.”

Akara fits his baseball cap on. “It’s late. No one is coming until morning.”

Fog rolls in from the distance. No street lamps. Only the bus headlights illuminate our eerie setting. Pitch black. Endless empty wheat fields. It’s already the start to a bad horror movie.

But I feel safer keeping everyone out here than on an exploding bus.

Thatcher reads my resolute expression, then nods. “Okay. We’ll stay outside.”

Frogs croak and crickets chirp in the unnerving silence.

While on the ground, Beckett stretches out his legs and nods to me. “Virgins die first, right?” He doesn’t watch horror movies, but he knows I do with Kinney.

I’m about to answer, but Donnelly muses, “Protect the virgins at all costs.”

“Virgins raise their hands,” Oscar says.

Only Sulli raises her hand and scrunches her nose. “What? Really? I’m the only fucking one?”

Jane squeezes her in a side-hug. “We love you most. But not because you’re a virgin. That’s just a coincidence.”

We laugh.

Beckett smiles. “We’ll all protect you, Sulli, just try not to outrun us.”

“Virgins don’t die in horror movies,” I say and cross my arms as a breeze whips through. “You have it backwards.”

“Sluts die first,” Charlie says on the ground. He unbuttons another button on his white shirt. Even with the cold.

“Well, most of us will die then,” Oscar says, tying a bandana around his forehead.

I catch Charlie’s gaze. “Yeah, you’re right.” I nod, and everyone quiets as Charlie and I agree on something. A rarity on this damn trip. “Death by sex,” I explain. “It’s a trope, especially in older horror movies.”

Farrow ties his other boot. “Moral takeaway: sex is bad, kids. Protect your virginity.”

Charlie leans back on his elbows. “But if the virgin does die, it’s usually a girl and she’s always the final kill.” He smiles at Sulli. “Congratulations, you’ll outlive us all.”

“Fuck that.” She stands and wipes the gravel off her legs. “We’re all surviving.”

“Goals.” Donnelly blows smoke in the air. He tosses the cigarette pack to Beckett.

Farrow rises and stuffs his hands in a green Philadelphia Eagles hoodie. My hoodie.

I rub my mouth, trying to tell myself to look away. Stop staring like I’m fucking obsessed with him.

But my childhood crush is wearing my clothes. It’s the first time he’s dressed in something of mine. Maybe being in the middle of nowhere without paparazzi is the cause.

I skim him. Head to fucking toe. He took out his brow piercing, but he still has an earring, hoop in his nose and lip—and he has on my hoodie. Jesus.

Christ.

Fuck me and my short-circuiting brain. It’s just a fucking hoodie. He’s not wearing the meaning of life.

Farrow suddenly catches me staring. His lips quirk.

My neck heats, and I look away.

More smoke guzzles out of the bus. We all watch.

“Maybe we should put some distance between ourselves and the bus,” Jane suggests. She hops to her feet and takes off down the deserted, dark road.

I quickly follow suit. Jogging to catch up. “So I gotta tell you, this is the part of the horror movie where we both die. We’re the first to leave the group.”

She smiles softly. “On the contrary, old chap. We’re leading the group.”

I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, my cousins, their bodyguards, and Jack are following our trail.

Bodyguards click their flashlights, and I notice Farrow keeping pace with Oscar. He nods to me, but he doesn’t run ahead. Maybe to give me some alone time with Janie.

The further we are from the bus, the darker. My best friend powers on her phone light, and I unclip my carabineer on my jeans, an emergency flashlight attached.

I look at Janie. “What’s the chances we’re leading them to their deaths?”

Jane ponders this. “With your survival skills and my wit, we’d put up a good match against any adversary ahead, but we’re hopelessly unlucky, you and me.”

I put an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into my build. Almost like old times.

Shining my flashlight on the street, I ask, “Did you talk to your mom today?” Aunt Rose has been calling Janie every single day since the tour began, and every single day, Janie has ignored the call and replied with a text: not yet.

“No,” she says. “I thought about it. I did.” She ties her wavy hair in a low pony. “But so much time has passed, now I don’t even know what to say. They wrote those essays for me, and they both apologized. Now I feel like the brat that’s icing them out.”

“They fucked up,” I remind her. “You can take however long you need. That’s not being a brat.”

Her long lashes lift up to me. “You forgave your parents in a couple days, Moffy.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

“My parents are…” I lick my dry lips, trying to step on the right word. I think about how people see the Hales. Fragile, breakable, humans—a row of dominos that topple with one blow. But that row of dominos always uprights again.

And again.

Again.

Strong.

My parents are strong, I remember, but it’s a kind of strength that appears after raw vulnerability. Like a scar after a wound.

I don’t like hurting them before they’re healed. “They don’t need me adding to their stress,” I end up saying. “Your parents eat and breathe loyalty. It’s okay to feel betrayed.”

“I don’t anymore though,” she says and kicks a loose piece of gravel with her ballet flat. “I understand why they did what they did. They love me. We received the royal interrogation treatment that they’d give each other. It’s actually quite flattering in this odd way.”

I frown. “Then why aren’t you talking to your mom?”

The wind whistles and wheat sways beside us. A cold chill snakes down my neck, and I zip up my gray jacket. Since we’re ahead of everyone, the landscape is fucking creepier.

Jane presses closer and hooks her arm with mine. “Like I said, I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with hi,” I suggest. “Your mom will probably fill in the rest.”

“Next time she calls, I’ll pick up,” Jane says with a determined nod. “I will.” She smiles up at me. “Can you believe we got through a horrendous rumor unscathed?”

“Are we though?” I ask.

“Lightly scratched,” she amends.

“Gently used.”

“We’re in the bargain bin now,” she agrees. And we both smile.

“This tour—it helped, right?”

“Most surely,” she says. “I don’t think I could’ve stayed in Philly, and the money you raised, Moffy…it’s incredible.”

“We raised,” I correct Jane.

Her big blue eyes say that I’m wrong and I’m the one who deserves the credit, but I’ve had too much help from too many fucking people to accept it.

Loose pavement crunches beneath my Timberland boots. “What’s been the worst part?” I ask.

Jane doesn’t even hesitate. “The sexual frustration. It’s strong, and I can’t even commiserate with you.”

I actually feel bad about that. “Why don’t you call your AWB? He can tag along for the last part of the tour.”

Shock arches her brows “You want Nate on the bus?”

I grimace. “Not really, but I also don’t want you to be sexually frustrated.”

“And I don’t want nine guys grilling him,” she says into a sigh. “My options include me, myself, and my vibrator.” She brightens her phone light. “Nate and I have sexted some, so I’ve had that.”

I kick some gravel. “You could always ask your new bodyguard to help you out.” I start smiling. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Jane snorts. “Oh yes, in your life, bodyguard duties include giving head.” She narrows her eyes at the dark road. “God, could you even imagine? What would I say? Hello Mr. Moretti, I’m in need of some oral assistance. Would you be so kind to spread my knees?”

Someone clears their throat behind us. “Maximoff.”

That’s not Farrow.

Fuuuck.

Jane and I suddenly freeze, her eyes about to explode out of her head. She flushes, fumbles with her cell, and the light blinks on and off. She curses in French before we both turn and face Thatcher Moretti.

“Yeah?” I answer him and glance over his shoulder. The others are further back. Not matching our pace.

Thatcher doesn’t acknowledge Jane. Just speaking to me. “There’s a small town a mile up. We’re all heading that way.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

Jane is radiating embarrassed heat. But where other people tend to shy from it, she steps further into the light. Like that will be better.

“Thatcher,” Jane greets. “I’m just going to come out and ask. Did you hear what we were talking about?”

His brooding, stern face is exactly the same. But he finally looks at Jane. “I did.”

Jane crosses her arms, not breaking eye contact with him.

I’d like to make some posters, hoist them high, and they’d have an arrow to Janie and they’d say: that’s my best fucking friend.

“And?” she asks him.

A gust blows through.

Thatcher unrolls the sleeves to his red flannel shirt. “And if you need any kind of oral assistance,” he says, using her words which just entrances her more. “Then I can call someone for you. Nate or—”

“I can make my own phone calls, thank you,” she says breezily. “That’s all.” She rotates on the tips of her toes, facing forward, and only I’m able to see her wide eyes that pretty much shout what just happened?

Thatcher looks to me. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I nod.

He stays an awkward beat longer before leaving.

When I turn back to Jane, she says, “He offered to find a guy to go down on me.” She pauses. “It’s actually sweet. Why do I think that’s sweet?” She touches her forehead like she’s running a fever. “Merde.”

I think a lot. How Farrow can’t stand Thatcher. How Thatcher can’t stand Farrow. How I’m always going to take Farrow’s side in that rivalry.

But if Jane is into Thatcher, it’d complicate everything. So I just need to know… “Jane, do you have feelings for—”

“No,” she denies quickly. “No.” She shakes her head. “We’re on a smooth trajectory, Moffy.” She clasps my hand. “Don’t you feel it?”

There’s a leaker and a stalker out there, and I’m still on a bus with Charlie. “If by smooth, you mean an asteroid is headed our way, then yeah. We’re on the smoothest trajectory there ever could be.”

Jane laughs, but the noise fades fast and she points at the wheat field. Orange speckled light in the distance. “That must be the town up ahead.”