“So is this how you act?” I shove his hands away. “Like, the day someone dumps you?”

“What?”

“You know.” I have no clue what I’m doing, but it’s too late now. “It’s kind of gross, that’s all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your ‘relationship.’”

“I’m not in one.”

“You were this morning.”

“I don’t live in the past.”

“I’ll say. You trying to get back at him?”

“No! No. That’s not what‌—‌”

“I think that’s exactly what it is.”

“Brandon, I swear‌—‌”

“You think you’re so much better than he is? I think you just got lucky.”

“Lucky?”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. “That he cheated first.”

“Well, fuck you very much.”

“No thanks.” I start for the RV again.

“Right. Riiiiiight. Because anyone who touches precious little you has to be completely pure, oblivious to all others, a paragon of‌—‌”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Oh, fine. It’s fine. I mean, if we did it and you liked it, then you couldn’t feel sorry for yourself anymore, and then where would you be?”

He ducks in front of me again, sticks his hands on his hips.

“Get out of my way,” I mutter.

“I’m not good enough for you anyway, right? Like, who knows what I’ll make of myself? You want a med student with perfect hair and a wine cellar. ‘Ooh, look at us! We’re pre-engaged! He gave me his promise ring and someday we’ll get married and adopt an orphan from Zimbabwe and name him Aiden!’”

“Are you done?”

“Plus what would the rest of the Thumper family think?”

“My parents are not Bible thumpers!”

“They sure had it in for me.”

“Right.”

“I saw them. The way they looked at me when I met them? Tell me they weren’t judging me.”

“Maybe you deserve to be judged a little.”

He flinches like I’ve punched him. I want to take it all back, tell him there’s a monster snarling in my throat right now and he’ll say anything, anything to keep Abel away from me.

He steps close. I feel his breath feather my forehead. He touches his finger to the tip of my chin and tilts my face to his.

“I get it,” he says. “I’m a sinner. Is that right?”

“No‌—‌”

“You’re just like them. Just like your parents. You hate yourself, don’t you?” His fingers brush the side of my face, skate the curve of my jawline. “Or do you just hate me?”

“I didn’t mean it. I was just‌—‌”

“See, I knew something was off. Right? When you said you used to be an altar boy, I was like ‘how does he not have issues?’” He claps my shoulders. “Stellar job pretending, young man. Very convincing pantomime of sanity. I was fooled.”

“Abel.”

“Like, I can’t even be mad. You know? I just feel sorry for you.”

I wriggle away, speed-walk for the Sunseeker.

“Hey!” he calls. “Brandon!”

I walk faster.

“There’s no Zander, is there?”

He knows. He knows. I confirm it when I stop too short in front of the Sunseeker steps, as if the labyrinth monster from Episode 3-8 just reared up in front of me and peeled its black lips back from eight dripping fangs.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s true.”

Sweat prickles my neck. My stomach rethinks the lattes.

“I thought all those stories you told me sounded like bullshit but you know, I was like, ehh, his first love, you always remember it in such glowing terms and all. God, everything makes sense now!”

“Shut up.”

“That’s why you never had me over. Your stupid graduation party‌—‌that wasn’t family-only, right? You were just too chickenshit to invite me.”

“Abel‌—‌”

“What a coward. Unbelievable. You’re a virgin, right?”

My fists curl up.

“What is it? Do you like, see Jesus weeping on the cross when some guy tries to kiss you?”

“Stop talking.”

“What about when you fap? You’re not supposed to do that either, right? Do you have to flagellate yourself? Wear a hairshirt to bed? I bet you confess your‌—‌”

My hands crash into his chest and he staggers two steps backwards. This weird strangled sound punches out of him and he tugs down his t-shirt, gasping in a breath.

“What’re you doing?”

Crazy. He’s staring like I’m crazy. My palms smack his shoulders this time.

“Oh God, you’re ridiculous!” He catches both my wrists. “You’re seriously going to fight me?”

I yank free, answer him with another shove.

“Great.” He’s laughing. He shoves me back a little. “Do it! Get it all out, baby. Maybe then you’ll‌—‌”

I don’t hear the rest. I run right at him, ramming him with my whole upper body until his legs give out and we’re falling together and when his back hits the pavement it sends a rude jolt through my body: oh God I’m on top of him what do I do? How do I fight? I’ve only seen it on TV. I don’t want to punch him, Dad says one punch can kill someone if you know the right spot and I don’t but what if I hit it by accident? Abel lets out this nasty snicker then, like I’m some pathetic little kid, and my whole body lights up with rage and I feel my hand shoot out and Abel grabs his face, twisting away from me.

“Owww!” He shouts at the pavement. “Son of a bitch!”

My hand tingles. Blood trickles between his fingers.

“You slapped my nose, dipwad!”

“I‌—‌”

I made someone bleed.

“Son of a bitch!”

He kicks my leg with his heavy boot, hard. I kick him back. He lunges at me and we roll over and over, scratching and pulling, a cartoon cloud of elbows and hands and knees. He won’t give in and neither will I so we scuffle like that on the pavement until we hear the Sunseeker door swing open somewhere behind us, and Bec yells: “Guys. GUYS.”

I roll off him. He shoves me once more. I spit out gravel.

“What’re you doing?” Bec says.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Nothing,” I say.

We glare at each other.

Bec studies us, shaking her head. She’s changed: cutoffs and a red soccer shirt. She sits down on the bottom step and crosses her legs sloooowly, like she’s teaching a preschool class how it’s done.

“In case you’re interested,” she says, “I know what that Hell Bells thing is.”

The fight blips out of my head. We scramble over, attack her with what and how.

“Dave and I did some research after dinner. He was really sweet and concerned, Brandon, so I think you can cross him off the America’s Most Wanted list.” She takes out her phone, starts navigating. “Membership’s closed right now. I had to write to this hey_mamacita woman to join. I convinced her I had inside information on you. My icon’s your senior picture, Brandon; do you think that’s too on the nose?”

“Bec,” I say.

“Yes, Brandon.”

“Tell us.”

Her eyes flick across the little screen. “What would you like to know?”

“Are they just hating?” says Abel. “Or are they like, actively plotting?”

“Neither, you idiots.”

She holds the phone out to face us. I see the Gothic header first‌—‌THE CHURCH OF ABANDON‌—‌and then a tagline that says “Because love is like the Hell Bells: it comes when you least expect it.” Between the header and tagline is a doctored screencap from one of our first vlog posts. Abel’s hand is on my shoulder and we’re gazing at each other, halos bursting saintlike from our heads and a blue heart blinking between us.

“They’re shipping you.”

Chapter Twelve

Bec pours us some tea and leaves us alone. We sit at the Sunseeker table with Abel’s laptop, twin plumes of steam curling from our Grand Canyon mugs.

There are seventeen members. Sixty-five fics. Dissections of every single one of our vlog posts, starting with the very first one when I joked about the sandstorm CGI in Episode 4-05 and Abel “lovingly” punched my shoulder.

The most recent post is by a_rose_knows. She has a photo of herself as her icon. We recognize her right away from the coffee shop. The tinfoil Xaarg hat, the pink-rimmed glasses.