Get into Costume
I am truly a great author. I seized the reins and took control of the narrative, plotting my way out of an attack by an antagonistic
force. Not just by turning the tables but by setting them with elegant china and gold-plated flatware. No more #SourSofie.
It’s all #SweetSofie from here on out. The words were repeated to me in a never-ending chorus throughout the rest of my launch
party, hashtagged in the hundreds of photos uploaded, and even cited by Clarice as she closed out my record-setting signing
line. We let everyone in—not just those who’d purchased tickets for the event but any attendee who saw the missive I had the
convention send out: anyone with a purchased copy was invited to form an additional signing line and receive VIP treatment
from Sofie Wilde, complete with velvet-armchair signing and exclusive launch swag until we ran out. Social media has just
become my best friend. I finally understand the appeal. It is a weapon to wield. And much lighter than a sword.
As I emerge from my shower and dress for the day in a brand-new souvenir Romance US tee gifted by a fan, I am not just cleansed of a sleepless night but of the vitriol of trolls and haters. This is a Sofie Wilde who embraces her status as not only a great author dedicated to her fans but as the leader of a vanguard. One remorseful for how the truth about this industry came out, but not that the truth is out. She holds this industry dear, she prizes being a part of it, though it is not without its flaws, often deeply entrenched ones that will not be conquered in a single post or by a few publishing hires or a reimagined mission statement. Voices need lifting, systems need revamping, the dollars redistributed so as to promote all. Needed now more than ever because we face a common enemy. One without a beating heart, without a soul, without the understanding of what it is to feel and to infuse those feelings into thoughts and observations that speak to the human experience.
AI is not a creator. It is a parrot. And that bird must remain caged.
I hit stop on the record button and take a breath. And then I release the laugh I’ve been holding in. I grab the coffee—hazelnut—that’s
been brewing in the kitchenette in my hotel suite as I send my video to Lacey. If Fiona is right about my account gaining
followers, Lacey will do all she can to keep it going. I don’t have to instruct her to post this video far and wide with the
#SweetSofie hashtag. She’s better at this than I am. I learned what I know from her.
As I wait for my coffee to cool enough to sip, it’s almost as though this is all I have to do: interact with my fans, sign
my blockbuster series, and take advantage of these breaks in my event schedule to recharge.
Except I have to do this and continue to mastermind a kidnapping. Fortunately, lying is only a step above multitasking in the list of skills I excel at.
I signed Light As with a pen in one hand and monitored the hostage situation on my phone with the other. Exhilaration over my launch party combined with the constant terror of a SWAT team—or, even, maybe, Special Forces?—raiding the speakeasy sent my pulse soaring. Now, my body craves rest, my mind aches to return to Pick Me or Palladium, but neither will get what it wants because of Hartley.
The panel needs to go forward with its original slate. Meaning we aren’t just holding Hartley hostage, we’re holding her hostage
and forcing her to participate in the featured multi-author event of the convention, made even more momentous by the addition
of Riley Moore.
We are now not just performers without safety nets but performers without safety nets trapped in a pressure cooker that nobody
even knows how to work. (Seriously, all those buttons? No wonder people blow their fingers off.)
For our plan to work, we have the added complication of needing Hartley’s laptop. Fiona’s on it, while Grace stays with Hartley
and Rosie is off commanding the room at her solo author talk.
I blow on my coffee, which is like trying to cool the surface of the sun. Short on time, I plunk in a few ice cubes from the
bucket on the counter and down the lukewarm watery mess. I pop two Advil for my aching foot and drop the bottle in my tote,
which I retrieved from my launch party, being sure to hide Hartley’s purse at the bottom.
On my way out the door, I unearth my phone to check my messages and some masochistic part of me opens Twitter instead. With
a swift, but not attention-grabbing pace, I make my way to the elevators, trying not to trip as I type. I search for #WildeWestShowdown
and brace myself.
@daenerys4eva writes: Sofie Wilde **better** not bring a knife to a gunfight. We know the Wicked Witch of the West plays dirty. Time for a mud bath. (Shoutout to #Spas: Available for promo, DM me.) #SweetSofie #NoHeartInHartley #WildeWestShowdown
@RomanceIsLife responds: @RomanceUS, are you going to acknowledge this offensive characterization and degradation of an entire
class of people?
@daenerys4eva: People? Hartley West admitted to being a robot! She’s not even real! #WestNotBest #OnlyHumansAllowed
@RomanceIsLife: I meant witches. #IgnoranceIsBliss #SourSofie #WildeFansSuck
I close Twitter.
It is in these moments that I don’t feel embarrassed that my mailbox is cluttered with invitations to join AARP.
As I reach the elevators, a text comes in from Roxanne, must be some middle-aged telepathy, as if she can sense my need to
be surrounded by people who stash tissues up their sleeve to combat a constant postnasal drip.
Roxanne: Book It to Books?
Me: If you’re having a stroke, you should really call 911.
Roxanne: Charming. Insensitive as hell. But that’s its own kind of charm.
Roxanne: It’s a bookstore. In Austin. On your tour. You’ve been before, haven’t you? How was the turnout?
Me: You’d have to ask Lacey, why?
Roxanne: Just curious.
Me: Since when do we casually text about curiosities?
Roxanne: Since I’m doing you a favor by not stocking your nemesis’s book.
Oh. She’s missing out on revenue by not selling Love and Lawlessness .
Me: I honestly don’t remember. But I can ask Lacey, if you want.
Roxanne: Don’t bother. I was just being conversational. What I’m actually curious about is how they shelved their YA. They report
steady sales.
Me: I can take a look.
She sends me a thumbs-up and a martini-glass emoji.
The elevator doors open, and I make a call.
“Are we ready?” I say as Fiona answers.
She replies, “Affirmative. Mission WildeWestShowdown a go.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“It’s creative. And this is all about supporting human ingenuity, isn’t it?”
“Human ingenuity?” I say as I enter the speakeasy, a flutter of nerves tickling my throat. It was somehow morally and ethically
easier to be the mastermind of this without actually being here.
“Exactly.” Fiona issues a satisfied smile and tips the Read or Bleed baseball hat she’s now wearing at Grace.
“More like insanity.” This is sick. This is twisted. This is absolutely working.
Fiona and Grace have taken my simple if mildly (moderately) cruel directive and exploded it. I suggested a bag of shelled
peanuts. Instead, big-box-store-sized containers of nuts of all varieties are spread throughout the room. On the bar, in the
booths, on top of the vintage record player, on a cocktail table by the door. And behind each and every one is a circulating
fan. If Hartley tries to escape or if she even begins to cry for help while on Zoom, the bags will be cut and the spinning
fans will release tree-nut particles into the air.
She sits on a barstool, twisting my aquamarine scarf in her hands, looking like she’s going to throw up. At least it won’t
be difficult to sell her having the flu.
“You let her do this?” I say to Grace.
Rosie had left Grace and Fiona to put the details into place since, unlike them, she had convention programming this morning.
I have to believe if Rosie had been here, she’d have never let it get this far. Though a part of me—one I’m not all that proud
of—is relieved she wasn’t here.
“Proof you don’t know Fiona,” Grace says.
“She doesn’t know any of us,” Fiona says.
Grace rotates her tall frame as if she’s the subject of a photo shoot. “True,” she says to Fiona. “But what’s relevant in
this circumstance is your tendency to embrace the grand-gesture trope. The unwinnable joust, the boom-box serenade, the sprint
through the airport—that is our Fiona. Go big and then go bigger. And bigger.”
Hartley attempts a scoff, but it dies in her throat as Cooper-Brad sets a bag of almonds beside a laptop already situated
on a table in the middle of the room.
Fiona follows him, her tiered, ruffled gown swishing, and I shudder at the thought of her shopping in that absurd fuchsia costume, captured in store security feeds throughout downtown Chicago.
She opens the laptop. “Nothing wrong with a trope. Enemies to lovers. Mistaken identity. Locked room. It’s all in the execution,
my friends. Our job is simply to entertain. To give readers what they want.”
A soft “Exactly,” from Hartley, whose eyes widen as Fiona sets a pair of scissors beside the almonds.
“Which you will all do on this panel,” Fiona says. She looks around the room, ensuring she has everyone’s full attention,
before continuing. “Just so we’re clear, Hartley joins the Zoom with a cough and a sneeze, pretending to be under the weather.
Maybe a sore throat? Sofie, what do you think?”
I’m a little stupefied by all these nuts. “Maybe we don’t go overboard.”
Though clearly it’s far too late for that.
“Gotcha,” Fiona says to me. To Hartley, she says, “Quick answers. No elaborating, just like we said. Otherwise...” Fiona
taps the scissors against the almonds. “Snip, snip, snip.”
Hartley, eyes tinged with fear, nods.
One thing is certain: they really did think this through.
Grace walks toward me, her eyes scanning my body. “You should go. Change now. You can’t be late for the panel.”
I smooth down the front of my Fictional People Are My People souvenir convention tee. “I’m wearing this. Makes me relatable.”
I look at the pink bra strap peeking out from her off-the-shoulder sweater. “Not that you understand that.”
Grace follows my gaze and tugs on her sleeve. “You think I dress like this because I want to?”
I look to Fiona, who’s smirking and not going to help me.
“Why else?” I say.
Grace snorts. “Sure thing. The same way I like to pose naked in my bathtub holding a carefully placed book. You’ve seen my feed?”
I haven’t.
“Sofie,” Fiona says condescendingly. “ Relatable is what they ask for when they don’t want you posing naked in a bathtub. Grace, on the other hand—well, let’s just say her advances benefit from it.”
“You’re playing with me,” I say, wishing it to be true—this apparently being where I want publishing to draw the line.
“They won’t verbalize it anymore,” Grace says. “But during the marketing meeting for my first book, my appearance was part
of the strategy. My agent said my modeling career added 50K to the advance.”
Fiona drags a chair to the table with the laptop. “Code for that gorg face and body I’d literally kill for. Not you, Grace.
I wouldn’t kill you to get it. But if you were already dead, and there was a shady body-swapping syndicate, well...” Fiona
twiddles her fingers before pointing at my shirt. “You? You’re nailing relatable. And in comparison, the pink color makes
your eyes look less bloodshot.”
“Thanks, Fiona,” I say. “Helpful.”
She shrugs. “Anytime.” She sits in the chair, a stunt double for Hartley. “Password,” she asks over her shoulder. “Hartley?”
Hartley sighs. “Hartley West.”
“Your password is your name?” Grace says. “Sofie-level vanity right there.”
And what’s wrong with that? Wait... did I just prove her right?
Grace adjusts the laptop to better position its built-in camera. As she and Fiona bicker about the lefts and rights and how
many records to stack under it to perfect the height, I gesture for Cooper-Brad to walk with me to the door. “How is she?”
“Fiona’s a riot. You should see her whittle a pair of lips out of a potato. Apparently, her dad bought her an actual potato farm in Ireland for her research. And Grace? Do you know she did a commercial for adult diapers? When she was nineteen? She has a PhD in psychology. Her insights on character arcs have been a true MasterClass.”
“I meant Hartley.” Though I didn’t know any of that about Fiona or Grace.
“You care how Hartley is doing?” He pauses, then starts nodding. “Ah, #SweetSofie, right? Getting in character before the
panel. True dedication.”
I don’t bother to correct him. I shouldn’t care how Hartley’s doing. I shouldn’t care about the defeated look on her face.
She set out to destroy me, she admitted as much. This twist in her story is deserved and entirely necessary for me to get
what I deserve. I picture myself on that stage, on all the stops on my tour, with Hollywood offer upon offer rolling in, writing
whatever I want for the rest of eternity. It plays out like a story, one whose ending I am sure of, one whose beats I must
remain in control of.
“You got me,” I lie, “it’s not only actors who can use the method approach.”
“Maybe... except, and don’t take this the wrong way,” Cooper-Brad says, “but you don’t seem like a felon.”
“Are there people who would take that the wrong way?”
He gestures at the cardboard cutouts in the speakeasy. “Half of these guys, probably. Considering how I’m feeling surrounded
by their one-dimensional versions, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to run into them in the flesh.”
“Really?” My brow lifts. “You wouldn’t have come here, back then?”
“To an illicit club with banned substances and fashionable young women flouting conventional standards of behavior?”
“That’s admirably specific. So, would you have?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, unless perhaps as him.” Cooper-Brad points to the newsboy.
I cock my head.
“Does that surprise you?” Cooper-Brad says.
“Some. You haven’t exactly shied away from taking risks.”
“Out of desperation. None of this is my usual scene. I won’t even go to a farmer’s market on a Saturday—too many people.”
“And no bathroom,” I say.
“Porta-potties are for the Coachella crowd.” He pauses. “Did I say that right?”
“I think so. Yet, I’ll admit to still not being entirely sure what that is.”
“Same.”
Hartley might know, considering the red roots of her hair. Together, we watch as Fiona settles Hartley in front of the laptop
and dabs the end of her nose with bright red blush.
“How about you?” he says.
The profound resignation in Hartley’s eyes slows my response. “Me what?”
“You? Would you have come here? Been a fashionable woman flouting conventional standards of behavior? Ah, of course you would
have. You are confidence personified.”
This rankles me. His automatic assumption does a disservice to all I’ve gone through to become the person I am today. A person
able to do this. (Granted “this” particular “this” might not be the achievement to tout, but still.)
My posture stiffens. “Then perhaps you need to deepen your character studies.”
He folds his arms across his chest, and the compass rose tattoo that speaks to a life integrated with the sea faces me. His lips part, but he hesitates, perhaps unsure why his sudden flippancy offended when all that’s come before didn’t. “You’re right,” he finally says. “Perhaps I can pick your brain on that when all this is over?”
This is in lieu of an actual apology and magnitudes more meaningful to me. That he knows or intuited it suggests he’s not
so lacking in the character development department, after all.
He rakes his hand through his curls. “And see—this right here—this is why I would have only come here as the newsboy. I feel
a kinship with him. Despite my Puritan roots, or perhaps because of them, my family wasn’t flush. I had an actual paper route,
bike, messenger bag, tiny little bell. But more importantly, I would have never come otherwise because I’d have swallowed
my own tongue trying to talk to a girl. Something I outgrew. Mostly.”
There’s nothing about him to suggest a shyness, evidence that his present doesn’t necessarily reflect his past either.
He lowers his head toward me, one of those curls dusting his eyes, and the expectation is now on me to share, to explain what
would have stopped a 1920s version of me from slipping into a fringed flapper dress and painting my lips candy cane red.
My inclination to share matches that of a toddler deep in the terrible twos. And yet, it’s that lingering look of defeat on
Hartley’s face that makes me say, “I would have wanted to be here, but I would have figured that no one here felt the same.”
Cooper-Brad doesn’t say anything. He simply tucks his chin, as if he understands. And there it is—the thing that truly bonds every author. We may not have all been tortured, but we’ve been wounded. And unlike the rest of the population, for some reason, we feel the need to sort through those wounds by sharing them with the world—even if sometimes they’re masked by alternate dimensions and accompanied by killer manatees.
Before us, Fiona adds a tissue to the crumpled pile in front of Hartley, already high enough to be in the camera frame. Earlier,
Fiona must have had Hartley change into the orange Bears sweatshirt and red beanie I bought on the street. The knockoff Burberry
scarf is draped across her shoulders like a shawl. Better way to sell her “flu,” and I have to admit, Hartley does look miserable.
Scared too, understandably. But perhaps not only because of the copious amount of nuts—this is her first true Romance US panel,
which also happens to be the convention’s featured event. Last night’s impromptu panel had an eighth of the audience who will
be in attendance this afternoon. To be included on the convention’s flagship panel, surrounded by the best authors in the
genre, moderated by a mega movie star, is a big deal for anyone. (Truth be told, even I’m a little nervous—though that could
be more from the whole masterminding a kidnapping thing.)
My phone lights up with a text from Lacey.
Your video lighting was terrible, but Maddie fixed it. Otherwise, delighted to discover you *have* been listening to me. Stellar
work, Sofie. Your Instagram is an explosion of hearts and “death to parrot” comments. Keep. It. Going.
I look at Hartley, who has no idea the tide is now trending in favor of #SweetSofie.
Questions live in Cooper-Brad’s sympathetic eyes, but I push forward. I’m no longer in the past. That tide can’t change. I
have to work with what I have in the present, and right now that means moving ahead with our plan. I can’t let Hartley drag
me down into the muck.
“#WildeWestShowdown,” I say, causing Hartley to direct her attention to me. “That’s what they’re calling it.”
Cooper-Brad whispers, “What are you doing?”
I shush him and say to Hartley, “They’re expecting fireworks.”
“Guns blazing,” she says. “So as not to mix metaphors.”
What a good tutor AI must be. “But we won’t do it on the panel. We won’t feed the trolls. I won’t so long as, unlike last
time, you don’t. If you do, you won’t only have me on the other side, you’ll have every person on that panel coming after
you as well.” I hope. “This is bigger than just me.” So Rosie says. “You may not have felt that yet.” Because they’re being petty. “But you will. We stay professional.” Technically, start being professional, but all the same.
Her gaze is firm. “Fine.”
“Good.” I holster a fake gun and have perhaps never felt so awkward in my life. But ensuring she doesn’t try to rile me up
means the audience will hopefully continue to rally behind me and bookstore owners will have no reason to cancel any future
appearances.
Fiona and Grace begin arguing about which fake background to use: beach or desert or space ship.
“Desert,” Hartley huffs. “Obviously. I mean, Wild West?”
She’s got a decent sense of humor. You wouldn’t know by looking at her, at least in those sad prairie dresses.
I beckon Cooper-Brad closer and lower my voice. “Stage yourself by that laptop. Any hint of her revealing anything, you shut
it. Make sure she sticks to her script. She’s sick, highly contagious, flu, COVID, maybe the plague.”
“Passerfly fever?”
I attempt to cover my surprise. “You got that far?”
“Past it. I’m in the second book. But Jocelyn choosing herself at the end of book one? Leaving Torrence at the altar and Callum still in the medical bay having fever hallucinations? A gamble.”
“One that paid off.”
“It did make me dive into book two.”
“Risks were easy then. No one cared except for me.”
“And now everyone cares. But you’re still taking risks. Vance? You didn’t have to do that.”
“Actually, I did. It was always his destiny. He was brought into the world because Jocelyn wasn’t able to fulfill her own
fate. She didn’t have the strength. Mothering Vance gives her something to live for.”
“And die for.”
“Exactly. She became stronger than she could have ever imagined. Vance served his purpose. But he was also holding her back.
Her love for him meant she would never put him or any of them in danger the way she must if she were to prevail. She needed
to lose him in order to save the world. Vance made the ultimate sacrifice so Jocelyn could do the same.”
“And he’s really dead? Guts of steel to kill off a little boy.”
“Right.” I give a wry smile.
“Wait, is he not dead?” Cooper-Brad tugs at a tuft of hair.
“You need to read for yourself.”
“But that’s eight and a half books away.”
I tip my head toward Hartley. “The benefit of being a babysitter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try to be beautiful
on the inside.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard, considering the outside.”