She makes a noncommittal noise that I ignore as I continue studying the place.
The kitchen opens to the living space, divided by a waist-high island topped with sleek, pale stone, with a couple of barstools tucked beneath.A single mug sits beside a French press, like someone expected me.
This is definitely not home, but it can work for now.I might start touring soon, and this will just be a base where I visit often.It’s doable, right?In that moment, I realize that earlier I was wrong.Someonedoesgive a shit about me.My little sister.
“You really did all this for me?”I ask quietly.
She shrugs like it’s nothing.“You needed someone to show up.So, I did.”
I feel something I didn’t know I would, hope.It’s faint, but it exists.That’s when I notice the cardboard box on the kitchen island.
“What’s that?”
Cleo grins.“That, my friend, is your ticket to the outside world while you recover.”
She opens the box and pulls out a laptop.It’s blocky, industrial gray, with squared-off corners and the OmegaLink logo gleaming beneath the latch.
“OmegaLink ProBook,” she announces, patting it like a cat she doesn’t want to admit she likes.“State-of-the-art.”
I squint at it.“It looks like it should come with a seatbelt and maybe even a helmet.”
“You sound just like our father,” she shoots back with a pointed look.“This is exactly why—” Her voice cuts off mid-thought, like the words didn’t have permission to come out.Cleo sighs.“I set it up for you.You’ll enjoy it, I swear.”
She powers it on, and the screen flickers before loading a boot menu and a bright blue EchoZone welcome screen.
“Why do I need a laptop?”
“You should create your own EchoZone account,” she ignores my question but then adds, “You’ll need internet access eventually.”
“Echo-what?”
“EchoZone.”She leans on the island as if she’s about to sell me something.“It’s your internet provider—imagine that forums, encyclopedias, and message boards had a weird, socially awkward child they named EchoZone, and you can do anything with it.Talk to strangers about music, books, yell about movies—whatever you want.There’s always someone ready to listen.It’s addictive, but in a low-stakes way.”
I stare at it.I’m not sure if I’m more afraid of the thing or the world it opens up to.
“Just don’t use your real name,” she adds, sliding a Post-it toward me with a username scrawled in her handwriting.“I made you a starter one.Change it later.”
I blink.“You want me to talk to strangers on the internet?”
There’s disbelief in my voice.My stomach’s a knot of nerves, pulled tight and almost pulsing.The screen in front of me might as well be Mount Everest.She wants me to talk to people.
“I want you to remember how to talk to anyone without needing a middleman,” she says, the corners of her mouth twitching as if she’s fighting a smirk.“Even if it feels a bit anonymous and weird.”
Not sure why I do what I do next, but I do it anyway.“Why are you so ...normal?”I glance at her from head to toe.“No one would know you’re celebrity royalty.Clara Vanderpool’s only daughter.”
She scoffs.“Our mother’s name is Jenny Jones.She was born in fucking Austin, Texas, not Austria like she made everyone believe.”
I shrug.“Still.You grew up like the rest of us and look at you.You’ve got your shit together.You’re already doing a better job than many people twice your age.You’ve built a career out of the spotlight.Like a normal person.”
She rolls her eyes.“Normal?I was called weird in school.”
“Sure, but you’re not broken,” I murmur.“You can beyouin this world.No one is watching you.”
My brothers and I have been in the spotlight most of our lives, but not her.We can’t sneeze without our mug shots appearing in seedy magazines.Not her, never her.
“You make it sound like it’s terrible, Rod.”
I sigh.“Rhodes, Julian, and Alfie don’t do that bad but me ...”
