Page 22 of Even Beneath the Stars

Olive branch, meet pruning shears.

Chapter Eight

Xavier

"Maggie'shere! Maggie's here! Maggie'sheeeeeere!"Finn bursts from the coat room into the den like a tiny hurricane, attacking Maggie who's standing by the kitchen island.

I stay stretched on the couch, scrolling YouTube, even though all I'm aware of are my brother's squeals piercing through the quiet space as he launches himself at Maggie.

Rita's voice cuts through Finn's excited chatter. "Xavier, you'll help Maggie out if there's something she can't find or if there's anything she needs?"

"Yup," I call back, not bothering to look up from my phone.

The door clicks shut as Rita leaves the three of us alone. Maggie and Finn… and me, the third wheel.

"Come see my room!" Finn tugs at Maggie's hand. "And the playrooms! And Xavier's room!" He's bouncing on the balls of his feet. "You want to do that? Or you want to make alien puppets? Like at Kid’s Club. Or we can make Play-Doh.Or—"

"Slow down, buddy," Maggie laughs, and something in her tone makes me grip my phone tighter. It's too warm, too genuine. Making it sound like she actually cares. Acting like this isn't just some job for her and a chance to make easy money—off my brother, who is looking up at her right now like she hung the fucking moon.

He's still dancing around, words tumbling out faster than he can form them. "And—and we can build a fort. And play pirates. We can play in my room, 'cause my room is a whole pirate ship! You want to come see? You want to come see my room?"

Maggie takes it all in a stride, laughing and taking his hand. And I hate that as hard as I try to ignore her, the fact remains: Maggie LeClair is not the kind of girl you caneasily dismiss. She radiates this magnetic force; an energy that seems to crack open the air around her and make everything feel unfiltered. Sharper. Or like she’s peeled back a layer of the world I was perfectly fine ignoring.

And also— she's stunning. When she smiles, she's got freakingdimples.It's almost adorable. Almost makes me tongue-tied when she pulls those out. Those, and the freckles scattered across her nose, a few even dotting her forehead. Which seems unfair. Like a cheat code for being impossible to dislike. And I mean, her clothes are hideous. But they also make her more intriguing; physical proof that she marches to the beat of her own drum.

But none of that stuff matters, because the fact remains: she's an imposter, inserting herself into our lives and probably already plotting how to shift and trim and mold it all into some hard-lined gold standard she thinks is so much better. Another set of rules she can’t stand to see bent or broken.

I press deeper into the couch cushions, jaw clenching as Finn's excitement builds, glancing up for a second just as Maggie takes his hand in hers. I force my eyes back to my phone screen, but the images blur together. Finn's voice echoes down the hallway, as he drags Maggie toward the stairs, and each excited exclamation feels like a small betrayal.

They disappear upstairs, my brother's excited chatter fading… and the silence that follows feels wrong. Usually, this is when Finn would scout me out, crawl onto my bed or my lap or the couch and make me laugh with his goofy stories about the fresh nanny-of-the-month. Then he'd fall back into the cushions or shove a cookie in his mouth or something, and say, "She's not gonna stay, right? We're not gonna let her stay—'cause it's just you and me, right Xave?"

And I always promise him she won't stick around. Reassure him that we'll drive her up the wall, and he won't have to keep up with some stupid chore chart, or eat only fruits for snacks, or whatever bullshit the latest nanny wants to push on him. I pull through for him every time. And if, God forbid, one of them tries to pull her shit with me, too—starts trying to lay down the law about the parties or girls or whatever else I do in my free time, getting all upin my business—then Finn's the one who dives into action. Doubles down on the tantrums and name-calling, runs off every couple hours to hide somewhere she'll never find him, swears and calls her names and pulls out all the stops, so she'll leave twice as fast.

We drive them all away, Finn and I. It's kind of our thing—the Rockwell brothers against the world. But today, he barely glanced my way before dragging Maggie off to show her his room.

A burst of laughter echoes down the stairs—Finn's high-pitched giggle mixing with Maggie's laughter. My jaw clenches.

He's got no idea. About the way she's going to start putting parameters and rules around what he can and can't do. Minimizing the time he spends with me, under my "toxic influence". As if she knows more about what Finn needs to be happy than I do. And he'll let her because she's got him totally enamoured—after a couple of months at some freakin' summer camp. He thinks she's all that and a bag of spicy Doritos.

He likes her so much, he's forgetting she's temporary.

And that's the thing I want more than anything to protect him from. I don't want Finny knowing what it's like to feel disposable. To get attached to some new nanny who leaves him totally blindsided a few months later. Confused and fuckinghurtbecause he thought he could trust them, and that they actually liked him. That it was all real—when it was really just a fucking job.

I push off the couch, needing to move, to do something. The silence feels thicker than it did half an hour ago, knowing that one floor up, the air is filled with Finn and Maggie's laughter.

I drag myself down familiar hallways, up winding stairs, until I hit the dead zone where dust bunnies go to die. A corridor the cleaning staff don't even bother with anymore. My destination is at the end, up a final set of stairs.

The door creaks as I push it open. Hinges whine.

I take a step inside the round room that's fallen off everyone's radar and somehow dodged my mother's decorator-on-steroids routine. She's forgotten this place is even up here, and my dad's too busy playingcorporate king and schmoozing with his country club cronies to venture anywhere off route from his predictable daily regimen.

Early evening sun streams through the massive glass-dome ceiling of the Observatory, casting funky shadows across the floor. The only things on the dark oak walls are a few framed ancient star charts, interspersed between copper wall-mount lanterns—a middle finger to the over-the-top artwork covering every other vertical surface of the house. The built-in desk holds some basic writing stuff, but my dad's weird-ass collection cabinet is pure eccentric old-guy randomness. Stuff like antique keys that open nothing, a piece of meteorite, vintage dice, a row of antique spectacles—as in, old men's pretentious glasses—and a collection of colorful wooden hand-carved jesters. I shit you not.

Looming in the center of the room is a massive telescope, its brass dulled with age—the most stunning thing in this entire place, and it's hidden away and forgotten.

I crouch by the platform base where I keep a stash of guitars and slide out my favorite acoustic. The wood feels smooth under my fingers. Familiar. Comfortable. Up here, with just sky above and everything else below, I can breathe a little easier.

I settle into the old chaise cushions I retrieved from a pile mom's decorator made last year for Goodwill when she was updating one of the outdoor seating areas. Her loss. My gain. They're perfect for sprawling out, watching snow dust the glass dome. The fabric still smells a little of sea salt.

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