Page 13 of #Moonstruck

If my phone was on, it should buzz, and the message would be visible on the locked home screen. That would mean somebody had to be standing by my phone, ready to answer. Which was why I alternated my texts with calls. Call, text, call, text. Losing my phone so often had made me something of an expert on strangers and cell phone behavior. Talking on a random phone completely freaked out some people, but they had no problems texting. It was why I alternated, not knowing who would be on the other end. If they were weirded out by talking, hopefully the ringing would get them to pick up. Once I had texted and called my phone for two hours straight until somebody responded.

I tried to do a search for “Diego De Luna” and “Calabasas” on my computer. If he didn’t get my texts, maybe I could find his address and drive up there. Unfortunately, we had the crappiest internet service known to man, which made the page just hang and not load a response. It seriously would have been faster to drive to Google and ask them my questions in person.

Thankfully, ten minutes later Diego answered my text.

CHAPTER FOUR

How quickly I’d forgotten that he thought he was hilarious.

I saw three dots scrolling while he typed his response.

Was he serious?

I always liked sparring with someone who could keep up with me. And despite his ridiculous assertions, Diego was staying with me, quick with his retorts.

I was enjoying this way more than I should, especially given Rule #1.

I would never keep a diary on a device I lost on a regular basis. I quickly racked my brain, trying to think if there was anything mortifying on there.

Especially because I couldn’t recall everything I stored on it. Did I have sappy song lyrics on there? Pop songs in my library that I hadn’t yet deleted? I really should pay more attention to the kind of stuff I put on my phone.

My devotion? What was he doing?

I opened Facebook on Cole’s phone and searched for my name. There at the top of my page was a picture of Angie, Ryan, and me. The caption read:

He’d followed it with a bunch of heart emojis. I would lose what little street cred I currently possessed, and my brothers would never let me hear the end of it. Like if I died before them, they’d make it a point to drive to the cemetery and hang Ryan De Luna posters on my tombstone.

What could he be watching? I’d never once taken a naked or risqué photo of myself, and since I hadn’t slept with anyone, there obviously wasn’t a tape that could be leaked, but I found myself strangely apprehensive all the same. What was he looking at?

Ack! Therewassomething completely humiliating on there! I typed quickly.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t typing. He just left me hanging, not knowing what he would do next.

The reason I’d created that clip was because I had noticed that other singers had success by doing covers of famous songs and earned a decent income through YouTube. I’d thought maybe we could do the same. So I had uploaded all our original songs and done a few solo covers. I kept trying to get my brothers to do a song alone or a duet with me, but they just mocked me instead.

Anyway, I’d turned Ryan’s dance/pop hit “One More Night” into a slowed-down acoustic version. Even though the lyrics were about a girl staying at a club to dance one more night with the guy singing, I sang it thinking about my mom. How I wished I could have one more night with her.

But the videos made us only a few bucks a month. Nothing that would help, especially given our current situation.

I could explain it easily. My fingers flew over the buttons.

What could I say? That it was the song I put on repeat when my musician father permanently walked away from us and my mom stopped being my mom? That I wanted something happy and upbeat to counteract my sadness? That I desperately wanted to believe in fairy-tale romance and love at first sight? That when I finally felt like I could get out of bed and face the world, I never wanted to listen to another false, lying pop song ever again?

I finally settled on:

Then I added:

Why did that make me smile?

It was true—I’d seen many a failed relationship between a musical person and a nonmusical person. They didn’t get the drive, the need to create, and how that usually came first before everything else.

But I was not going to be my mother and blindly devote myself to an unreliable, cheating musician, ruining my life and the lives of everyone around me. I had to draw a line in the sand somewhere.

He seemed to think about that one; it took him a bit longer to respond this time.

Why did that make me blush?

Ha. I just bet he wouldn’t.

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