What the Moon Made

There are exactly three things I hate doing before nine in the morning. Talking to strangers. Wearing heels. And pretending I know what the hell I’m doing. Today, unfortunately, requires all three. “You’re going to be fine.” I look across my desk at Jamie and narrow my eyes. “You’ve said that four times.” “Because you’ve looked like you’re going to throw up for the last twenty minutes.” “I’m not going to throw up.” “You Googled whether anxiety can cause vomiting.” “That was research.” “That was WebMD.” I close my laptop. Jamie grins. I hate him. Not actually. Jamie Mercer has been my best friend since our sophomore year of college, which means he has earned the privilege of irritating me without consequences. Most of the time. Today, I’m considering revoking it. “You’re interviewing a businessman, Willa. Not a serial killer.” “We don’t know that.” “We actually probably do.” “You don’t know what rich people do in their spare time.” “Golf?” “Murder.” Jamie blinks. “Tax evasion?” “Also murder.” He laughs, and I glance at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. 8:17. My stomach tightens. Forty-three minutes. In forty-three minutes, I am supposed to walk into the corporate headquarters of De Luca Holdings and interview Theodore De Luca. Yes. That Theodore De Luca. Thirty-four years old. Billionaire. CEO. Philanthropist. Frequently photographed exiting expensive cars in expensive suits while looking vaguely irritated that the rest of humanity exists. The man has been on the cover of Forbes twice. I’ve written exactly one front-page article in my entire career. It was about a zoning dispute. “You know,” Jamie says, leaning his hip against my desk, “most people would be excited about this.” “I am excited.” “You’re sweating.” “Excited people sweat.” “Your hands are shaking.” I shove them under my desk. “They are not.” “They absolutely are.” “Why are you here?” “Emotional support.” “You’re doing a terrible job.” “I brought you coffee.” I glance at the iced coffee sitting beside my keyboard. “You’re doing an adequate job.” “Thank you.” I take a sip. Vanilla. Extra cream. Jamie knows me too well. Unfortunately, that also means he knows exactly how nervous I am. The interview landed in my inbox three days ago. Technically, it landed in my editor’s inbox first. Apparently, De Luca Holdings is announcing a massive redevelopment project on the north side of the city. Apartments, retail spaces, parks, some enormous community center they’re donating, the usual billionaire-is-definitely-not-trying-to-improve-his-public-image package. Every major news outlet requested an interview. Somehow, our newspaper got one. Not just a press conference. Not a statement. An actual one-on-one interview. With Theodore De Luca. And for reasons I still don’t understand, my editor gave it to me. I write a weekly column. Mostly local pieces. Human-interest stories. Community events. Occasionally, when the universe decides I have grown too confident, city council meetings. I don’t interview billionaires. I interview people named Martha who grow award-winning tomatoes. Martha was lovely. Martha did not have a net worth larger than the GDP of several small countries. Martha also didn’t have cheekbones that could probably open envelopes. Not that I’ve noticed Theodore De Luca’s cheekbones. Obviously. “You looked at pictures of him again, didn’t you?” Jamie asks. My head snaps up. “No.” His eyebrows rise. “I was researching.” “His face?” “His professional background.” “Was his professional background shirtless on a yacht?” My mouth falls open. “That picture came up on Google!” Jamie starts laughing. “I didn’t search for it.” “Sure.” “I didn’t.” “Willa.” “It was attached to an article.” “About?” I hesitate. Jamie waits. I take another drink of coffee. “His vacation in Greece.” He loses it. I grab a crumpled sticky note and throw it at him. “You’re the worst.” “And yet you love me.” “Unfortunately.” He catches the sticky note and sticks it to his chest. “Listen.” His expression softens. “You’re good at this.” The humor leaves me almost immediately. Jamie has an annoying habit of knowing when I actually need him. “You ask good questions,” he continues. “You listen to people. That’s why Ryan gave you the interview.” “Ryan gave me the interview because Carla has the flu.” “Details.” “And Steven is covering the mayor.” “More details.” “And apparently nobody else wanted it.” “That is absolutely not true.” I stare at him. Jamie stares back. “Okay,” he says. “I don’t know if that’s true.” “Thank you.” “But you’re still good.” I look down at my notebook. My questions are written neatly across three pages. Then rewritten on another two because I decided the first questions sounded stupid. Then typed on my phone in case I lose the notebook. I have backups for my backups. I am prepared. Preparation has never been my problem. It’s the part where I actually have to open my mouth. “I just don’t want to embarrass myself.” “You won’t.” “I called the superintendent ‘Mom’ during an interview last year.” “That was incredible.” “I wanted to die.” “I still think about it when I’m sad.” “Jamie.” He grins. “You recovered.” “I hung up.” “You recovered eventually.” I check the clock again. 8:22. “Okay.” Jamie pushes himself away from my desk. “Get up.” “Why?” “Because we’re doing a final inspection.” “A what?” “Stand.” I sigh but stand anyway. Jamie circles me. I immediately cross my arms. “Don’t.” “I’m checking the outfit.” “You helped me pick the outfit.” “And now I’m verifying my work.” I’m wearing black trousers, a cream blouse, and the only blazer I own that doesn’t make me look like I’m attending a funeral. My heels are modest. My hair is down because Jamie said the bun made me look like a substitute teacher. I disagree. I thought it made me look professional. Apparently, it made me look like I was about to confiscate someone’s vape. “You look good,” he says. I glance down at myself. “Good like professional?” “Good like Theodore De Luca might fall desperately in love with you and give me a vacation home.” “Please don’t say things like that.” “Why?” “Because now I’m going to think about it when I meet him.” “Perfect.” “No. Not perfect.” Jamie reaches over and straightens the collar of my blouse. “You need a little chaos in your life.” “I have a sourdough starter.” “That is not chaos.” “It almost died last week.” He gives me a long look. “Wild.” “I was devastated.” “Willa.” “What?” “You’re twenty-eight years old.” “I know.” “You go to work.” “Yes.” “You go home.” “I like my home.” “You watch documentaries.” “They’re educational.” “You read.” “I like reading.” “You bake.” “Sometimes.” “You have been working on the same thousand-piece puzzle for six months.” “The sky is very difficult.” Jamie closes his eyes. I know that expression. He’s asking God for patience. “I’m happy,” I tell him. His eyes open. “I know.” And that’s the thing. I am. Mostly. My life is quiet. Predictable. Safe. I like knowing what tomorrow looks like. I like Sunday mornings with coffee and a book. I like grocery shopping late at night when the store is empty. I like my tiny apartment with the radiator that knocks every time the heat turns on. I like my job. I like Jamie. I like my life. Maybe it isn’t exciting. But exciting has never particularly appealed to me. Exciting usually comes with consequences. My phone buzzes against the desk. I pick it up. UNKNOWN NUMBER My stomach drops. Jamie notices. “What?” I turn the screen toward him. “Answer it.” “What if it’s them?” “Then answering would probably be wise.” I glare at him and swipe. “Hello?” “May I speak with Ms. Bennett?” The woman’s voice is crisp and professional. “This is she.” “Ms. Bennett, this is Elena from Mr. De Luca’s office. I’m calling to confirm your nine o’clock appointment.” My spine straightens. “Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be there.” “Wonderful. Please check in with security in the main lobby. They’ll escort you to the executive floor.” Executive floor. Of course he has an executive floor. “Okay. Thank you.” “And Ms. Bennett?” “Yes?” “Mr. De Luca values punctuality.” My eyes flick to the clock. 8:27. “I’ll be there early.” “Excellent. We’ll see you shortly.” The call ends. I stare at my phone. Jamie waits. “Well?” I grab my bag. “We have to go.” He laughs. “You have thirty-three minutes.” “He values punctuality.” “So do airports. We still don’t arrive three days early.” I shove my notebook into my bag. “Where are my keys?” “Your hand.” I look down. They’re in my hand. Fantastic. This is going extremely well. . . . De Luca Holdings occupies forty-seven floors of a building that appears specifically designed to make poor people nervous. Glass. Steel. Marble. Everything gleams. Even the revolving doors look expensive. I stand on the sidewalk and stare up. And up. And up. “No,” I whisper. Jamie, standing beside me, follows my gaze. “No what?” “I changed my mind.” “You can’t change your mind.” “I absolutely can.” “You’re already here.” “I can leave.” “You cannot leave.” “I could fake an emergency.” “You’re interviewing one of the most powerful businessmen in the country, not escaping a Tinder date.” “My apartment could be flooding.” “You live on the fourth floor.” “The apartment above mine could be flooding.” “Willa.” “Gas leak?” He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me toward the doors. “Go.” I dig my heels into the sidewalk. “Jamie.” “You’re going to be fine.” “What if he’s horrible?” “Then write that he’s horrible.” “I can’t write that.” “Use journalist words.” “Like what?” “Controversial.” Despite myself, I laugh. Jamie smiles. “There she is.” I inhale slowly. Then exhale. “Okay.” “Okay.” “I can do this.” “You can.” “I interview people all the time.” “Exactly.” “He’s just a person.” “An obscenely rich, suspiciously attractive person.” “Jamie.” “Sorry.” I adjust the strap of my bag. Then I walk inside. The lobby is somehow worse. There are ceilings high enough to house weather systems and marble floors so polished I can practically see my future reflected in them. It looks expensive. It smells expensive. I’m pretty sure the oxygen is expensive. A security guard checks my identification and gives me a visitor badge. “Thirty-ninth floor,” he says. “Someone will meet you at the elevators.” Thirty-nine. Perfect. Plenty of time to contemplate my death if the elevator cable snaps. The doors slide open. A woman in a navy suit is waiting inside. “Ms. Bennett?” “Yes.” She smiles. “Elena.” The woman from the phone. We shake hands. “Mr. De Luca is finishing a meeting. It should only be a few minutes.” “No problem.” I step inside. The doors close. The elevator begins moving. Fast. My stomach stays somewhere around floor twelve. Elena doesn’t seem bothered. She probably does this every day. I stare at the numbers. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. “You’re with the Chronicle?” she asks. “Yes.” “How long have you been there?” “Almost four years.” “Do you enjoy it?” “I do.” Thirty-three. Thirty-four. My palms are sweating again. I discreetly wipe one against my trousers. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. The elevator slows. Thirty-nine. The doors open. And everything changes. Not dramatically. There is no thunder. No lightning. No choir of angels warning me that I should turn around immediately. Just a hallway. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A reception desk. A few pieces of art that probably cost more than my apartment building. Normal. Completely normal. “Right this way,” Elena says. I follow her. My heels click softly against the floor. One. Two. Three. My heart is beating too fast. I tell myself it’s nerves. Obviously it’s nerves. We’re halfway down the hallway when a strange sensation moves across the back of my neck. I stop. Elena turns. “Everything okay?” I touch my neck. The skin feels warm. “Yeah.” She gives me a polite smile and continues walking. I follow. But the feeling doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets stronger. Heat. Not painful. Just strange. It crawls slowly down my spine. My pulse stutters. Maybe I’m getting sick. That would be fantastic. Imagine vomiting on Theodore De Luca. Jamie would never let me die. He’d resurrect me specifically to make fun of me. Elena stops outside a set of enormous black doors. “Mr. De Luca’s office.” My stomach flips. She knocks once. A man’s voice answers from inside. “Come in.” Two words. That’s it. Two completely ordinary words. Except every hair on my arms stands up. I stare at the door. What the hell? Elena opens it. “Mr. De Luca, Ms. Bennett is here.” I step inside. And see him. Theodore De Luca stands behind an enormous desk near the windows. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black suit. Dark hair. The photographs hadn’t prepared me for him. Not even remotely. Because photographs don’t move. They don’t breathe. They don’t look at you. His attention is on a document in his hand. Then he lifts his head. His eyes meet mine. And he freezes. Completely. His hand tightens around the paper. For one strange second, nobody moves. I forget every question I’ve prepared. Every article I’ve read. Possibly my own name. His eyes stay locked on mine. Dark. Intense. Unblinking. I swallow. “Mr. De Luca?” Something changes in his face. Something I don’t understand. Shock. Then disbelief. Then something else entirely. Something darker. Hungrier. He takes one slow breath. His nostrils flare. And Theodore De Luca whispers one word. So quietly I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear it. “Impossible.”