Be very safe! Remember, we love you.

Mom (and Dad)

P.S. Helped Fr. Mike with the ice cream social yesterday – he says a big hello.

I reply Sorry! All’s well, having fun! and delete their email fast. Not going to bother me.

“You’re missing some quality flailing over here,” says Abel.

“Yeah?”

Remember, we love you. What was that? The sneakiest guilt trip ever.

“What’s wrong?” Abel says.

“Just‌—‌annoying emails.”

“Well, the night after our little afterglow video went up, there was an all-night party post that hit thirty-six pages by morning.”

I grin. “We are legendary.”

“The bards sing of us. whispering!sage wrote a series of haiku about how their community brought us together.”

“Wow!”

“Then a_rose_knows tried to make the #abandonship hashtag happen in our honor.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Several reports of heads exploding, lady parts combusting‌…‌doomerang theorizes that she’s actually dead and this is her heavenly reward‌…‌lone detective pops in her cynical head to say we’re clearly playing them like a fiddle and laughing our asses off.”

“Mm. I don’t care for her.”

“Me neither. You will also be pleased to know that due to our hookup, sorcha doo melted into a pink puddle of happiness and is now typing with her disembodied eyeballs.”

“This pleases me.”

“It’s so great, Bran. Everyone capslocked the whole entire night and they posted gifs of fireworks and Kermit the Frog flailing, and‌—‌Oh.”

Abel’s whole face changes. His eyebrows push together and he cocks his head. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just‌…‌” He hands me the phone, tries to keep it light. “Their fearless leader appears to be M.I.A.”

retro robot:

Um, so‌…‌I hate to stop flailing for even a second, but WHERE IS OUR MAMACITA?? Has anyone heard from her?

whispering!sage:

omg literally not a thing. like I said, she was supposed to meet up with us at the ball but she never showed.

sorcha doo:

u guys. that’s weird. really.

a_rose_knows:

I know. BIZARRE. Packs of rabid wolves couldn’t keep her from this place after official Abandon hookup. It is known.

amity crashful:

I’m worried, people. I gotta admit.

A little chill flashes down my back. The biscuits and gravy sink in my stomach.

“You don’t think‌…‌” Abel clutches my arm. “‌…‌her head literally exploded, do you?”

I tap the second page of comments. I scan it, scrolling fast with my thumb.

“Two hot boys are being sought for manslaughter in connection with the cranial detonation of one hey_mamacita,” Abel says into a salt-shaker microphone. “The boys should be considered armed, dangerous, and extremely‌—‌”

“Oh God. Look at this.”

retro robot:

Guys. Guys. Look. HER JOURNAL’S GONE.

amity crashful:

no.

sorcha doo:

ok I’m seriously freaked now. WTF??? :-(

lone detective:

It’s true. She pulled all her Abandon fic down. Every single story. It’s like she never existed.

amity crashful:

omg you guys. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK is going on?

lone detective:

She abandoned Abandon. Heh.

I find her last post, from right before the Castaway Ball, and try to click through to her personal journal. I get a blue screen with an error message.

This journal has been deleted and purged.

She’s vanished. Every single chapter of “How to Repair a Mechanical Heart”: gone with the rest of her.

“O lamentations,” Abel sighs, hand to forehead. “hey_mamacita doesn’t love us anymore.”

I try to swallow. “Guess not.”

“Maybe Miss Max ordered a hit on her.”

“Heh.”

“Whatever shall we do without her literary genius to write us into being?” he snorts.

I hand his phone back and wipe the sweat off my palms, playing it off like I’m scratching my knees. I can’t let him see I care. Not this much. “Hope she’s okay,” I shrug.

“Are you kidding? She’s probably passed out from happiness somewhere.” Abel flops on his back and hangs his tongue out the side of his mouth. “I mean, what else is she going to do? We’re together now. Mission accomplished.”

Or maybe‌…‌

“What if something bad happened?”

“Pssh. Like what?”

“What if we embarrassed her when we told them we knew about them, and she got in her car all upset, and then‌—‌”

It would be your fault.

“Yeahhh, okay,” Abel smirks. “And what if she stayed in her house five minutes longer to watch our post, and then when she got to Starbucks the guy in front of her took the last scone so she had a bran muffin instead and choked to death on a raisin?”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. That’s your whole problem.” He kisses me on the cheek and yanks my Vegas cap over my eyes. “I’m sure your little fic friend is fine.”

“Why would she stand them up, though?”

“I don’t know.” He swings his legs off the bed. “She probably got bored. Maybe she found some repressed Star Trek vloggers who are even hotter than us and‌—‌ow! Dammit.”

He rubs his heel.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grabs something off the floor.

“Ugh, these things are so cheap. Can’t believe I paid ten bucks for one. Think fast!”

He throws it to me. It’s the mechanical heart from the Castaway Ball, a wide jagged crack exposing its insides.

“Do us both a huge favor, okay?” Abel says.

I flip the switch. The blue heart-light stutters, then winks out.

“Don’t get superstitious.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m shut in a bathroom stall at the Royal Court Inn & Conference Center in Salt Lake City, rubbing Plastic Sim’s head for luck.

Q&A with Della Wolfe-Williams. Fifteen minutes away. Since we woke up this morning, I’ve checked the Church of Abandon four times from my phone, trying to do it in secret places like these. I thumb through the few new posts.

Still no sign of hey_mamacita.

And this is on page 1.

thanks4caring:

you guys plz don’t flame me but now that b&a are together for real I’m like a little bit over them‌…‌I think I just shipped them cause I thought it would never happen but now that it did I actually think they make kind of a bad couple‌…‌like there’s no way it’s actually going to last w/ them‌…‌probly mamacita thought so too lol

I just stand there with my back up against the door, reading and rereading that post and the eight others that “surprisingly, sort of agree” with her. I’ve seen this kind of thing before in fandom. Shippers slowly jumping ship, communities unraveling once their leaders disappear.

I shove it out of my mind. None of this matters. It’s fiction. You have a boyfriend, for real.

My phone shrieks at me. HOME CALLING.

I stuff it in my pocket and bang out of the stall.

***

“I’m so freaking nervous,” Bec says. “I’ll babble like an idiot. I know it.”

The three of us huddle by the stage in the cold Q&A room, ticking off the seconds till Della Wolfe-Williams. Bec’s Zara Lagarde action figure peeps out of her shirt pocket. She’s debating whether to wait in the autograph line after the Q&A, but I’m only half listening. The crowd is almost too calm. I glance back at the closed doors. Pull my sweatshirt tight around me. I feel like I’m waiting for something besides Della: a random gunman, a fire breaking out in the corner.