Chapter 1 #2
She shrugs. “I’ve read a few of the studies, and granted, I’m no expert, but it all seems very nuanced to me.” Her expression tightens. “Does that mean these nerdy fuckers in their Star Trek uniforms are expecting you to perform naughty things on them at the drop of a ray-gun?”
I snort. “Not exactly. But I do get a lot of attention at these things.”
“Well, that could be because you’re beautiful and they all want to meet you.”
“You are biased.”
“Maybe. But I’m also right.”
On some level, I’ve known all along that Eric was just a flash in the proverbial pan who would end up being a creep.
When we texted during the past year, he never seemed interested in any aspect of my real life. He was more interested in prospective role-playing. Which, aside from my love of costuming, I’m not really into.
“Just be careful,” she reminds me.
“I will keep my pepper spray close at hand.”
“And don’t go anywhere alone with him!”
“I would never.”
“And, if he comes anywhere near you, find the nearest hot guy and kiss him.”
“Um … how is assaulting a stranger the solution to this problem?”
“Well, you can ask first if you want. But guys like Eric always back down faster when they think you’re taken. So you kiss a hot stranger and get him to pretend to be with you until Eric scampers back to his hotel room to question all of his life’s choices.”
I snort with laughter at the image, feeling better already. “I don’t think it will come to that.”
“Just promise you’ll keep your pepper spray at hand and your eyes open for any hot guys to fake date.”
“I promise.”
“Do you know what creeper is wearing?”
“No. He’s been annoyingly coy about it. In truth, I’m hoping our paths don’t actually cross.”
“I am hoping that as well,” Clover says.
I rearrange a few items in the suitcase, then again lean my weight onto it. This time, the zipper miraculously closes.
“Ah-ha.”
A beat.
Then the zipper on the opposite side gives way entirely. The clicking of the zipper teeth is like sandpaper against my skin as the seam splits.
“Well, damn.”
Clover laughs. The real kind, the kind that scrunches her whole face and brings tears to her eyes. “Oh, my God.”
“I hate everything.”
“No, you don’t,” she wheezes.
“Stupid suitcase.”
“Juniper, I’m pretty sure you’ve had that one since the summer Granny made us spend on that geriatric cruise ship.”
I glare at the luggage. My sister isn’t wrong.
I look around my room. At the silk catching the light. At the carefully labeled prop cases. At the convention schedule I printed out and color-coded and laminated, because I have a system.
“I suppose in all my preparation, I neglected the fact that I clearly need new luggage.” I blow out another breath.
“Well, the good thing is, you always pack early. So you have time to re-evaluate your uh… system.”
“You’re right. I’m just so excited,” I say. For the most part, I love everything about these conventions.
Clover’s smile softens into something quieter. “I know.”
“I got into the cosplay showcase.” I’ve said this before. I’ll probably say it several more times before tomorrow morning. I don’t care.
“I know.”
“The Tolkien cast reunion panel is Saturday.” My voice does an embarrassing thing on the word Saturday. A small, involuntary lift.
“I know.” Her mouth curves.
“And the original prop auction?” I stop, because her expression has shifted slightly, and I recognize that shift. I’ve been clocking my sister’s expressions since before either of us had words for things. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Clover.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a face.”
“I’m allowed to have a face.”
I point at her. “Not what I meant, and you know that.”
She holds up both hands in a gesture of theatrical innocence. “I thought you’d be more excited about seeing Eric again. Granted, that was before I knew he was a total creeper!”
I groan. I fall backward onto the pile of fabric at the head of my bed, which gives in a satisfying, cushiony way that real pillows never quite manage. “There it is.”
“There it is what?”
“The actual reason you came over.”
“I came to help you pack.”
That makes me snort laugh. “You’re a terrible packer. You came to ask about Eric.”
“I came to watch you pack,” she repeats, primly, “and also to ask about Eric.”
I stare at my ceiling. There’s a small paint chip near the light fixture that I have been meaning to touch up for eight months. I find it oddly comforting right now.
“He’s fine,” I say. “Maybe he was just trying to be sexy.”
“Well, he failed.”
“Indeed. How is it that men in books can dirty talk and it’s so hot, but men in real life… no, thank you.”
“I haven’t figured that one out either.” My sister sighs. “For what it’s worth,” she says, “you don’t owe Eric three days of your attention just because he showed up with a schedule memorized.”
“I know.”
“You owe yourself the showcase. And the panel. And the prop auction.”
“Definitely the prop auction,” I agree. I sit up, reach over, and begin the process of carefully, methodically removing the items from my ruined suitcase.
“This weekend is mine. If Eric finds me, I’ll deal with it then.
I’m not spending the drive up there pre-worrying about a guy who can’t take a damn hint. ”
“There she is.”
Clover looks at me for a long moment.
Then she gets up, comes around to my side of the bed, and hugs me from behind, her chin on my shoulder, both arms looped around me in the particular way she’s been hugging me since we were small.
“Have the best weekend,” she says quietly. “All of it. The showcase, the panel, the auction. Don’t let Eric, or anyone else, take up space in your head that he hasn’t earned.”
I lean back into her. Outside my window, the late afternoon light is doing something lovely across the rooftops, all gold and soft-edged.
“I won’t,” I say.
And I mean it, mostly.
I also start making a list in my head of everything I still need to fit in the suitcase. Ugh, the ruined suitcase.
“Do you think I can have new luggage delivered?” I ask.
“You can have pretty much anything delivered. Except hot men. I tried once. It didn’t work.”
“That’s what fictional boyfriends are for.”
“Exactly!”