Gladstone, MassachusettsJune 2000AJ Graves rewound the video and hit play.
That morning, she was pulling a doubleheader at Reel World Video: watching Astronauticals on the store’s silver Panasonic while writing Astronauticals fan fiction behind the register.
Or she was trying to. She’d broken her arm last month during track finals—just in time for junior prom. Each keystroke was torment, but AJ typed on. Anything for her twelve followers.
Doubleheaders were one of many reasons AJ loved her shifts at Reel World. With four siblings at home, AJ barely had space to think, much less write. By contrast, a solitary afternoon among Reel World’s eclectic posters and inventory felt like teleporting from bleak Gladstone to New York—or what she knew of New York from Friends, Felicity, and Saturday Night Live.
That was AJ’s dream—to move to the city and write for SNL. It was also why she watched and watched Astronauticals, the 1964 cult series about hippie pirates traveling the stars in the hump of a giant space whale. The show was totally improvised, which according to Storm, Reel World’s owner and cinematic Yoda, made it a staple for any aspiring comedian.
And it was hilarious. As a devout fan, or Nautical, AJ could recite every line.
As episode 1.10, “The Mirror of Janus,” began to play, she glanced down at the cast restricting her right arm. The ink from her track teammates’ signatures had bled into the fiberglass like survivor’s-guilt tie-dye. AJ felt a stab of dejection; New York had never felt farther.
To put it bluntly, her stupid arm had ruined her life.
AJ’s endgame had been planned out so beautifully: A summer spent interning at The Berkshire Eagle and attending heavily scouted soccer intensives would have perfectly teed up her senior year and college applications. With luck, she would have been looking at a full ride to NYU.
But her accident had destroyed all that.
No driving meant no internship at The Berkshire Eagle. No vigorous activity meant no soccer intensives. No references, no scouts. No scholarship. No escape.
“Relax,” her mom had said. “You’re still a shoo-in for UMass.”
AJ’s whole family had gone to UMass. Her mom, her dad. Her siblings Patrick and Libby both loved it. Both popular. Both on track to graduate, return to Gladstone, become their parents, and die.
Now, at seventeen, AJ felt trapped—like the rest of her life had been scripted, and she hated this movie. Her hours alone at Reel World were her only escape.
The partition rippled, a beaded curtain depicting the All-Seeing Eye, and Storm emerged from the back room. A slender trans woman in her forties, she had long burgundy hair and nails to match.
“Age, good. You’re here,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“Oh?” said AJ, reaching into a Ziploc for a handful of Reese’s Puffs, her favorite.
Storm drummed her acrylics on the counter. “I’ve hired some extra help.”
AJ froze. “You didn’t.”
Storm pointedly eyed AJ’s cast. “Actually, I did.”
AJ frowned. “Do I not get a say in this?”
Storm smiled sweetly. “Nope. Noah—”
A shadow appeared behind the All-Seeing Eye, and AJ’s heart sank. Storm never let customers in back, even to use the bathroom.
She truly had decided to hire this person.
A large hand parted the beads as an extremely tall young man stepped through. He was dressed head to toe in black, with jet-black hair that hung shaggily about his broad shoulders and scowling black eyebrows; his overall vibe screamed villain. Except his eyes—dark and expressive and surprisingly lovely for such an intimidating person.
As those eyes flicked to the Panasonic, time slowed. AJ watched the stranger’s frown deepen and knew at once he must be Noah Drew.
Even the tiniest backwater along AJ’s homestretch of the Mass Turnpike had ties to some historical figure of note. Great Barrington had
W. E. B. Du Bois. Lenox had Edith Wharton.
Gladstone had the Drews.
They were a family of great actors, each generation more famous than the last, starting with Sir Errol Drew, who had made a name for himself on British and American stages in the 1880s, down to Noah’s father, Daniel Drew, a massive action film star in the 1980s.
The Drews were omnipresent. In fact, a very young Eudora Drew was currently battling it out on the Panasonic as Glimmette, the go-go-boots-wearing, ass-kicking pilot on Astronauticals.
In fact, AJ was writing Glimmette fan fiction.
“AJ,” said Storm. “This is Noah.”
“Hi,” said AJ, quickly minimizing her browser.
Noah’s gaze slid from the Panasonic to AJ. His eyes went wide. “I—You.”
Storm’s head tilted. “You two know each other?”
They absolutely did not. “I probably just look familiar,” AJ supplied, when Noah continued to stare at her. “I think you might have been in my older brother, Pat’s, class?”
AJ was just being polite. She knew for a fact that he had been in Pat’s class, four years ahead of hers. According to town lore, Noah had been raised by his mother, a college professor, who had shipped him off his senior year after an incident involving arson. Last AJ heard, he’d gone into the armed services.
What was he doing back in Gladstone?
“That’s not it,” said Noah. He was watching AJ with an intensity that made her feel small, which was unusual, since she was pushing five foot nine. AJ was suddenly very aware of her ratty jean shorts, hand-me-down basketball jersey, and messy strawberry-blond topknot.
As they sized each other up, AJ felt a strange untamed aspect of her being awaken.
Noah was so big, he made the DVD cases look like baseball cards. His face was angular, pale, and far too tired for someone only a few years older. He looked like he’d forgotten how to smile.
Even so, he was uncommonly handsome. As he turned his gaze back toward the Panasonic, AJ took in the aquiline nose, the precipitous cheekbones. He stared at his aunt onscreen, unreadable.
AJ sighed. “We were planning a whole Drew-themed welcome display for you, but this was the best we could do on short notice.”
Noah didn’t laugh. His focus shifted to the store’s computer. “What is that?”
AJ glanced at the screen and realized to her utter horror that her latest fan fiction, “Glimmette’s Revenge,” was still open, the title so large it was practically screaming.
F***, f***, f***.
“Handbook for the Recently Deceased,” she blurted. Her cheeks burned, but she held his gaze.
Noah blinked. “You’re Patrick Graves’s sister?” he drawled, and AJ felt as though an invisible hook had tugged her by the ribs. He was calling her weird. Too weird to be Pat’s sister. Which . . . maybe she was.
But who was he to judge? “You’re Glimmette’s nephew?” she retorted.
Noah glared at her. AJ glared right back.
“Well, this went well,” said Storm. “Come on, Noah. Time to learn about returns.”
For a moment, Noah continued to watch her. Then he nodded to Storm and withdrew through the All-Seeing Eye.
“I don’t think this is working out,” said AJ.
“Play nice,” said Storm, then she followed Noah with a knowing air AJ could not fathom.
•
AJ arrived home to find her dad having one of his quiet nights, which was never a good thing. She counted four empty cans of Bud in the trash before bringing the salad bowl to the dinner table. The tension in Patrick’s burly shoulders told her he had done the same.
“Is that Russian dressing?” he asked, taking the bowl and giving AJ a reassuring wink as she slid in between him and their younger brother, Mike.
“You know it,” said AJ, relieved. Having Patrick—and, grudgingly, Libby—home for the summer felt like holding a full deck of cards.
Patrick was the King of Diamonds. While he and AJ shared their father’s height and strawberry-blond hair, on twenty-one-year-old Patrick, it was somehow godlike. Golden. He played point guard for the Minutemen, but he’d always been a star. In high school he’d been class president and tri-captain. Everyone loved Pat.
Across the table sat Libby, the Queen of Clubs. Packaged in a five foot two frame, with straight blond hair that dried frizz-free in July, nineteen-year-old Libby was a born ruler. She had dominated Gladstone High with an iron pom-pom as head cheerleader, and her hive had followed her right to UMass.
Beside Libby was Emily, AJ’s twin, the Ace of Hearts. Emily had fine blond hair, a rollicking sense of humor, and a deep, abiding love of Shania Twain. She also had Down syndrome and a knack for bringing out the good in others—even Libby.
Last was Mike, the one-eyed Jack of Spades. Slight and quick-witted, with dark hair that must have been recessive, fifteen-year-old Mike lived for Super Mario, Dungeons & Dragons, and Astronauticals.
He was also the one most likely to set off their father.
Copyright © 2026 by Emma Brodie. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
