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Monet in her Naomi Campbell glory stands as out of place as a kitsch statue Luna would never put in her bedroom. The denim outfit Luna practically crafted from scratch -as she did with Julien’s and Zoya’s costumes- doesn’t shine the way it did barely hours ago, when Monet twirled for her in Julien’s walk-in closet, a beam on her face, her teeth white like pearls. And Luna gave herself a small applause of satisfaction as Monet directed that smile at her through the mirror, affection leaking from her rich brown eyes.
Now it’s just dead, the dress, Monet, a little part of Luna, too. Worry is not a good look on Monet, Luna decides, maybe that is why she rarely wears it, maybe this is why Luna can barely recognize her best friend, standing by her bed like she had done countless times before. The denim dress is almost worn like a piece of tarp now, a scratchy, tasteless uniform of a burdened soldier. But it is still on Monet, not thrown in a trashcan somewhere and lit on fire, in a fit of rage. Luna has to remind herself of that and hold on to it like a security blanket.
So much has happened in so little time, and she fears both of their pride will be like a nasty, germ-y jab at the wound, exacerbating what is already irrevocable.
You’re leaving? It was Julien who asked her that, the incredulity in Julien’s expression in the hospital waiting room haunted Luna like a ghost the whole Lyft ride. The way Julien’s eyes glanced at Luna’s buzzing phone, her curiosity held back by civility, and quickly shot back at her, as if she knew. But of course, she knew. Luna knew she knew that it was Monet who had been texting her. But it was like she knew , too, almost, in Julien’s intuitive ways, that Monet with her mark of Cain meant more to Luna than Audrey on the brink of a mental breakdown, meant more to Luna than all of them combined even. That it would take more than Monet scheming with and deflecting to the enemies to break them apart, that maybe nothing could break them apart at all, not the way the rest of them can be broken apart.
A match made in hell , Max used to call them after a particular mean gossip they spread about their old classics teacher. They wore that like a badge of honor, putting their heads together and giggling. A match made in hell was a match godly made nonetheless. That was what made them superior to the rest, a game they could win with no competition: their inseparable, unbreakable bond.
But maybe this was it, maybe Monet scheming with and deflecting to the enemies really did it, their Gordian knot ran its course and inevitably, eventually cornered by Alexander’s sword.
The only thing worth celebrating , Monet had told the world that about her just a few nights ago. Luna didn't like the post, it felt as though shouting their secret aloud. She only placed her phone on the night stand and smiled at the memory of their picture she committed to her brain, content. Besides, what good would a little red heart do to express how Luna really felt? And she knew Monet knew, like she always knew. The only thing worth celebrating and a little champagne emoticon, Luna is- was that.
Hospitals depress me was Luna’s lame attempt at masking the whirlwind of emotions in her stomach. We need to talk sent and lay crouched like a tiger on the screen of her phone for a minute now, and Luna squinted and squinted, as if the minute pixels would give in and told her how Monet was feeling. Audrey depresses me was another, meanner, characteristically accurate attempt to compensate for another untimely ding of her iPhone.
I’m already at yours , that was the ding that got Julien raising her eyebrow, Luna pressed the phone to her chest, somehow these texts from Monet were private. Sacred, even.
Then, another ding .
Please .
The only thing worth celebrating.
“Well,” Luna crosses her arms, puts on a face she does everyday at school although it doesn’t come that naturally when Monet’s is not matching hers. Or strutting by her side, the two of them a pair of queens. Luna sits on the foot of her bed, whatever it takes to assert the dominance she feels herself unwontedly lacking right now.“Apologize away.”
Monet blinks. Then, a scowl.
Classic Monet, to face any type of defeat with another layer of bricks around herself, finally something that isn’t a surprise tonight. Luna can breath a little at that although she really can’t, because the scowl was never directed at her, never at her without a generous hint of humor accompanied by frustrated eye-rolling, reserved for when Audrey unintelligently says something problematic or when Obie goes on another bout of performative activism as if possessed.
“You’re mad at me,” Monet says, not exactly a question but maybe Luna misjudges. Unconvinced, yes, but not a question. "But you never are."
And for a moment there is a physical pain in Luna’s heart at the possibility that Monet may never apologize, because she never will either. That dirty, dirty finger to the open wound. But there is also the even more terrifying possibility of Monet being too whatever-they-say-she-is -callous, heartless, cruel, all the things Luna knows she can be but isn’t- to even acknowledge how her betrayal has hurt Luna. What if, all along, Monet isn’t the person Luna knows her to be? The sad, sad spectral remnant of their friendship would be too haunting for Luna to even revisit then. When the empty shell of Monet smiles at her in her memories, Luna won’t know what it means.
But what was done to Julien, she knows it means nothing to her, really. Julien is her friend but Luna is not going to lose sleep over it. Monet knowingly executing a plan that throws all Luna’s hard work away? That stings a bit, sure, but it’s nothing compared to Monet keeping the plan a secret from her for days like she’s just some… person. That burns like bleach, truly.
"I am. Now," It isn't true, Luna is well aware. She is more hurt than angry, really. A lot more hurt than angry. She thinks somewhere along the course of their relationship, she learned to justify all Monet's horrible deeds. Maybe she didn't even learn, maybe it's something intrinsic that she would like to believe is intrinsic in Monet as well. A match made in all kinds of places that mean something.
“Well,” Monet throws her hands up, sighing exasperatedly. “I apologize.”
The silence that follows is almost comical in its sheer awkwardness, and the mocking insincerity is definitely comical, one Monet uses all the time with teachers she intentionally bumps as a punishment for standing in her eyesight. It isn't what Luna expected, somewhere in there a wistful thought lodged itself and poisoned her into believing that Monet would miraculously own up. To her. For her. Only for her.
A soft spot, she wishes she was Monet’s that , a sentimental weakness.
It's always you two, Julien used to whine back before she occupied herself with Obie, way before she lost him to her half-sister, when Luna turned down another invitation to a movie night with her in favor of Monet. And Luna squinted her eyes at Julien, then, confused as to what she was implying. Well, there are seven of us, but there are always the two of you.
She guesses hearing it time after time, seeing it in the indifference on their friends’ faces when she uses the same excuse, are the poison.
“You’re unbelievable,” And Luna thinks she never meant it like this with Monet before either, like you’re incredibly stubborn and you’re ruining everything and you’re driving me insane , the way Monet never sighed at her without the lightheartedly dramatic flair. She would cry, really, if she was the type to cry. In her way she is crying, she thinks.
"Oh, really?" Monet quips, a taunting smile on her face. "You're the one throwing everything away and I'm unbelievable?"
"Throwing what away?"
And this is when Monet loses her composure, her guard, the smug air around her, Luna could almost see it crack. This isn't fun for her either, Luna senses now, it is worse for her, even.
"Can't you see, Lune?" Monet whispers. Somewhere underneath her breathy tone, Luna thinks she can hear her voice waver like a candle about to go out, but Monet isn't the type to cry either. "We never fought. Not until now, because you had to go ahead and…"
Whatever Monet is going to say, she kills it in her throat.
But it isn't true. They did fight. Once. When Luna committed a crime so horrid Monet couldn't justify it for her. Or it must have been so to Monet, because why else would they fight when a single glance shared from across the school yard transpired between them a whole conversation? You don’t fight when you get someone to their heart like that, when an affinity turned sisterhood like theirs is too special to come by twice a lifetime.
They promised they would never speak of it again, how that one summer Luna wanted to spend all her time with Max, how Luna was excited with her new, finally-right body and Max knew and was eager to show her all the right places the right people hung out.
Yeah, Monet is kinda uptight , Luna remembers offering Max a piece of secret like a currency. Perhaps as a thank you, perhaps as a gift to impress Max, she can’t really remember why or why it made sense then. You know, sexually, she added after a beat.
And with Max and his loose lips after mixing too much alcohol with too many pills, he served that little piece of Monet right back at her. They argued -fought, but Luna doesn’t want to use the F word with Monet even in retrospect- the night Luna came stumbling home, the drunkest she had ever been in her 15 years of life. It only lasted twenty minutes, Luna thinks, but only because a big fire like that consumed fast. Luna woke up with a throat that felt distressingly raw the next morning. Oh, it was bad. Worse when Luna tried to call her and it went straight to voicemail. She is convinced that that was when she lost Monet, although Monet gets offended when Luna mentions that period of their lives because why would you think you could ever lose me? Like the idea of their friendship not being something written across the stars is pure, pure blasphemy.
But you’d be just another girl that hates my guts was what Monet said before she stormed out that night, I will be fine. It sounded as factual as her faith in their destined friendship. And Luna really wished she didn’t mean it (because she still has nightmares about the fight sometimes, the crushed hope in Monet’s voice and the phantom of defeat in her tired eyes,) but the thought of Monet doing fine without her was worse than the fight and the nightmares combined. Because really, did it ever mean anything at all to Monet if this whole thing was ripped from her that violently and she was fine ?
Maybe it was selfish, cruel, even, but Luna didn’t want Monet to be fine.
And it really seemed like Monet would never come back again then, like, with her, all the joy snugged inside the memories of those sleepovers binging Succession and Queer Eye went . All the to-come sneaking, knowing glances and the forever-present comfort secrets they kept for each other, too. All gone. A paper-white heart, really, all shades of red sucked out of it.
Isn’t that what she does, Julien postulated in a form of question. (oh, how Luna wishes Julien could play the mediator this time too.) Hide whatever form of vulnerability under a film of boiling hot rage? Luna didn’t need Julien telling her anything about Monet, never did, but she could appreciate Julien saying it out loud, like a reassurance of some sort.
Because Luna could feel, too, like an instinct, that Monet wasn’t really angry. Not in the way she wanted Luna to think when she pettily pushed over a decorative vase by Luna’s elevator for dramatic measure. And when Luna said she was losing Monet, she never meant it physically, half the world apart wasn’t as far and lonesome as feeling Monet slipping right out of her fingertips, watching her become a stranger from one bar stool away.
Max's a bad influence. Monet told her after three glasses of red wine and three weeks of not being on speaking terms, after Luna gathered up her courage with three shots of tequila and Julien nudging her on the shoulder. In a way, this defamation of their mutual friend was Monet's white flag, Monet’s way of admitting it was all personal and maybe, just maybe, she had been acting irrational all these weeks. It wasn’t the I-was-hurt-but-I’m-learning-to-open-up standard of emotional maturity that Julien had talked Luna into only settling for, but it had been three weeks and she was all bruised up and Monet-starved inside.
Besides, Luna had always been desperately, embarrassingly forgiving when it came to Monet anyways.
You're worse, de Haan meant you're forgiven without Monet even asking for forgiveness and without Luna knowing for sure why they hadn't been speaking for almost a month. You're gonna make me die a virgin.
Monet let out a small, drunken laugh at that. Luna joined. Everything seemed right again.
That was kids solving a kids’ problem, really, always in a big hurry to bury the hatchet. But Luna can see it now, the way Monet talks so carefully, so quietly, like her own voice could knock her tiptoeing body off the cliff edge; so carefully that she goes silent, acting like words cost gold, which is ironic because if gold was the only thing words cost, Monet wouldn’t be half this laconic. But Luna can see it now, the way the hatchet grows and grows like seeds, and still as destructive as hatchets ever are.
So, before Monet has the chance to break another vase and storm out, Luna grabs her hand, holds it, just to see if Monet will let go. It's moments like this that remind Luna how Monet is not the facade she puts on at school, how she is not all snarky remarks and displays after displays of unrestrained wealth and power. How, in moments like this, in a room where an M+L is carved into the headboard of Luna’s bed, Monet would let her guard down and Luna would hear hearty, ugly, snorting laughter, or see glistening eyes if Monet tried to turn her head a certain way. A lot of things have been laid bare in this empty, empty apartment Luna occupies.
With a little tug, Monet is beside her at the foot of the bed.
And she stays.
Luna thinks their friends sometimes see them as the same person. Julien more often than not will tell her to relay some work-related messages to Monet, and Audrey with her admirable amount of audacity thinks she can do the same and does. And on rare occasions Monet comes to her carrying words from their friends too, although she is much more visibly annoyed at the task.
Mostly, Luna thinks, it has to do with the fact that they always come and go in pairs and talk and laugh in a language that sounds alien to the rest of the group -all secrets and inside jokes they invent during their slumber parties for two- that makes their friends see them as the same person.
But, really, Luna can’t expect their friends to understand the nuances of it all, the microscopic idiosyncrasies detectable only after nights and nights of huddling together in the safety of their beds, some nights Lune’s and some nights Mon’s. There were the seven of them, but then there were the two of them, as Julien put it.
So, it is kind of understandable the next morning, the way creases form on Julien’s forehead when she sees Luna give Monet across the courtyard a little wave, and Monet Luna, as she ignores Julien altogether.
“You guys made up,” Julien speculates with a huff, her tone dismissive enough to mean that she secretly hopes for an explanation. It’s a wonder, isn’t it, what Luna and Monet have.
But did they make up? Luna racks her brain. In the dark, under the big comforter of Luna’s bed, they did talk. A reminiscence of the night Monet came out to her, a history ago now, the shadow had afforded her the courage needed then. The warm weight of the quilt, too, and the way Luna’s hand had held a side of Monet’s face, thumb running along the smooth skin of her cheek, never too affectionately. And Monet’s hand on Luna’s face, taking in how her soft strand of hair felt between her fingers.
They did all that again last night, in the dark, under the big comforter of Luna’s bed.
You don’t like that I do everything Julien says , Luna whispered, she didn’t have to rack her brain for this. Only needed to let herself see and say it out loud. And Monet was quiet, nothing but the steady rhythm of inhaling and exhaling, which meant it was true, although Luna didn’t need the confirmation. A free session with Zoya at the library, as Julien requested, must have been sitting all wrong with Monet all this time, but who could pinpoint exactly where it all went wrong. You don’t like that I walked off with Julien tonight.
I never like anything or anyone but you, Monet’s voice whispered back, soft but definite enough to be chiseled on stone.
I never like anything or anyone as much as I like you, as close to a love confession as Luna could get then, and maybe it already was, or maybe they didn’t need a confession at all. For half a second she feared Monet would put her hand away, that the soft tugging of her hair would cease and she would learn that she didn’t know Monet the way she thought she did. But the world kept spinning and Monet’s fingers kept its place in her hair.
You don’t like that I kept my plan a secret from you. You don’t like that I acted like I didn’t care about your hard work.
Monet knew. Of course, she knew.
A hint of relief plastered across Luna’s face, but it was too dark for anyone to see. But she thought Monet could feel it anyhow, when she ran her thumb across Luna’s smiling lips, felt the right corner of them curved up into a grin when she pressed her own lips there. Not even a second long, lighter than feather, really, but Luna’s heart swelled, the overflowing joy escaping as embarrassingly girlish giggles.
Monet makes it make sense to her, what Mr Caparros read aloud from The Symposium . A human blob with four arms and four legs, struck by lightning because they were too strong together , he said in class while Luna gazed out the window because it was all nonsense, soulmates . Looking back, maybe it didn't intrigue her because she knew full-well what he was talking about, knew better than him, most likely. Luna feels like that with Monet. Strong and fearless. Enough to take those patriarchal gods down, even. And even if soulmates were two bodies and one mind instead, Monet makes that make sense too.
She might not be able to pinpoint where it all went wrong, but she could pinpoint exactly that the moment Camile de Haan waltzed her daughter in for a playdate and Luna was sitting there in her living room, thumb in her mouth, was the moment everything went right.
So, “No, we didn’t make up,” Luna chooses to oversimplify for Julien, locking arms with her. “We never fight.”