هووی

HOWIE MALDONADO

5:23 p.m.

Death-Cast called Howie Maldonado at 2:37 a.m. to tell him he’s going to die today.

His 2.3 million Twitter followers are taking it the hardest.

For the greater part of the day, Howie stayed in his hotel room with a team of security guards outside his door, all armed; fame gave him this life, but it won’t keep him alive. The only people allowed inside his hotel room were his lawyers, who needed wills created, and his literary agent, who needed his next contract signed before Howie could kick it. Funny how a book he didn’t write has more of a future than he does. Howie answered phone calls from costars, his little cousin whose popularity in school is tied to Howie’s success, more lawyers, and his parents.

Howie’s parents live in Puerto Rico, where they moved back after Howie’s career took off. Howie desperately wanted them to remain in Los Angeles, where he lives now, offering to take care of every last bill and splurge, but his parents’ love for San Juan, where they first met, was too great. Howie can’t help but be bothered by the fact that his parents, while clearly devastated, are going to be fine without him. They’ve already grown used to living without him, to watching his life from afar—like fans.

Like strangers.

Howie is currently in a car with more strangers. Two women from Infinite Weekly for a final interview. He’s only doing this for the fans. Howie knows he could’ve lived another ten years and everything he shares about himself would’ve never been enough. They’re ravenous for “content,” as his publicists and managers say. Every haircut. Every new magazine cover. Every tweet, no matter how many typos.

Howie’s tweet last night was a picture of his dinner.

He’s already sent out one last tweet: Thank you for this life. Attached is a photo, taken by himself, smiling.

“Who are you on your way to see?” the older woman asks. Sandy, he believes. Yes, Sandy. Not Sally like his very first publicist. Sandy.

“Is this part of the interview?” Howie asks. Whenever he does these pieces, his answers require zero focus, so he normally hops on his phone and scrolls through Twitter and Instagram. But keeping up with the outpouring of love, including messages from the author of the Scorpius Hawthorne series, is ten times more impossible than usual.

“It could be,” Sandy says. She lifts the tape recorder. “Your call.”

Howie wishes his publicist were here with him to shut down this question herself, but he wrote her a big check, had it sent down to her hotel room, and encouraged her to stay far away from him, as if he were infected with a zombie virus.

“Pass,” Howie says. It’s no one’s business that he’s on his way to see his childhood best friend and first love, Lena, who’s flown in from Arkansas to see him one last time. The girl who could’ve been more than a friend if he didn’t live in the spotlight. The girl he’d once missed so much he’d write her name around the city, like on pay phones and coffee tables, never signing his name. The girl who loves the quiet life her husband gives her.

“Very well,” Sandy says. “What’s your proudest accomplishment?”

“My art,” Howie says, fighting back an eye roll. The other woman, Delilah, stares at him like she’s seeing past his bullshit. Howie would be intimidated if he wasn’t busy being distracted by her beautiful hair, which resembles the northern lights, and the fresh bandage on her forehead, which is covering up a Scorpius Hawthorne–like wound.

“Where do you think you would be without the Draconian Marsh role?” Sandy asks.

“Literally? Back in San Juan with my parents. Professionally . . . Who can say.” “Better question,” Delilah speaks up. Sandy is pissed and Delilah speaks over her. “What do you regret?” “Excuse her,” Sandy says. “I’m firing her and she’s getting out at the next red light.” Howie turns his attention to Delilah. “I love what I did. But I don’t know who I am beyond the voice of a Twitter account and the evil face for a franchise.” “What would you have done differently?” Delilah asks.

“I probably wouldn’t have done that shitty college-bait film.” Howie smiles, surprised by his own humor on his last day ever. “I would’ve only done what meant a lot to me. Like the Scorpius films. That adaptation was one of a kind. But I should’ve used those fortunes to spend time with the people who mean a lot to me. Family and friends. I got caught up reinventing myself so I could land different roles and not be the evil wizard kid. For fuck’s sake, I’m in town to meet a publisher for another book I didn’t write.” Delilah eyes the copy of Howie’s book, unsigned, sitting between her and her boss.

Former boss. It’s unclear.

“What would’ve made you happy?” Delilah asks.

Love comes to mind, immediately, and it surprises him like a lightning bolt on a day with clear forecasts. Howie never felt lonely, because he could go online at any moment and find himself flooded with messages. But affection from millions and intimacy from that one special person are completely different beasts.

“My life is a double-edged sword,” Howie says, not speaking of his life as if it’s already over as other defeated Deckers do. “I am where I am because my life moved as fast as it did. If I didn’t land that gig, maybe I would be in love with someone who loves me back. Maybe I would’ve been an actual son and not someone who thought being a bank account was enough. I could’ve taken time to learn Spanish so I could speak with my grandma without my mom translating.” “If you weren’t successful and had all those things instead, would that have been enough for you?” Delilah asks. She’s sitting at the edge of her seat. Sandy is invested too.

“I think so—”

Howie shuts up as Delilah’s and Sandy’s eyes widen.

The car jerks and Howie closes his eyes, a deep sinking in his chest, like every time he’s been on a roller coaster, scaling higher and higher, past the point of no return, and he’s falling at incredible speed. Except Howie knows he’s not safe.