Chapter 8
chapter
eight
Leo
Day two starts with a little girl in a Belle costume staring at Juniper across the hotel restaurant like she’s witnessed an actual miracle.
She can’t be more than six, hair in two crooked braids, yellow dress slightly too big in the shoulders, and she’s tugging on her mother’s sleeve hard enough that the woman finally looks up from her coffee to see what the crisis is.
“Is she a real princess?” the girl whispers. Not quietly enough.
Juniper, mid-bite of pancake, goes very still.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think—” the mother starts.
“I am,” Juniper says, with the kind of grave sincerity that I am rapidly learning is one of her finest qualities. “Elven princess. Very old. Several thousand years, give or take.”
The girl’s eyes go enormous. “You don’t look old.”
“Elves age well.” Juniper leans in slightly, conspiratorial. “It’s the secret. Don’t tell anyone.”
The girl nods so seriously, so solemnly, like she has just been entrusted with the location of buried treasure. I look down at my pancakes to hide my stupidly wide grin, because this woman...
The mother mouths thank you over her daughter’s head, and Juniper waves it off like it’s nothing, but I catch the soft, pleased look on her face after the kid’s gone back to her cereal.
“You’re very good at that,” I tell her.
“At being three thousand years old?”
“At making a six-year-old’s whole morning.”
She shrugs, but she’s smiling. “It costs nothing to let a kid believe in something for five more minutes.”
I think, not for the first time, that I am in real trouble here.
The day moves fast after that—a panel on practical effects, a vendor hall sweep where Juniper nearly buys a replica sword she does not need and absolutely deserves, a solid hour spent debating the merits of three different versions of the same action figure with a stranger who turns out to know more about resin casting than either of us—and somewhere in the middle of all of it, the costume showcase.
I almost don’t enter. Almost. Juniper talks me into it, citing my “civic duty to let people see the shield work up close.” It turns out, I am not above being manipulated with complimentary words, especially from Juniper.
The showcase runs categories: women’s, men’s, and group.
I watch from the wings as Juniper walks out in full effect, the jeweled circlet catching the stage lights, the dress moving exactly the way it did yesterday except somehow more, like she’s saved something extra for this exact moment.
The judges lean toward each other, murmuring.
The crowd actually gasps when she turns for the back detail.
She wins the women’s category outright. No real suspense to it, in retrospect.
I place second in men’s.
First place goes to a guy in an Iron Man suit that—and I want to be clear that I say this as someone who has spent four months building a costume by hand—should not legally have been allowed in the competition.
He genuinely hovered four inches off the stage floor on some kind of internal propulsion system that I am still thinking about an hour later.
“You got robbed,” Juniper tells me afterward, trophy still in hand, grinning so hard it’s contagious. “Categorically robbed.”
“I’m aware.”
“There is no possible way the judges could have known going in that the Iron Man guy would have functional repulsors.”
“It’s witchcraft,” I say. “I’m fairly certain it’s witchcraft. No human being builds working anti-gravity tech for a costume contest.”
“Maybe he’s secretly Tony Stark.”
“If he’s secretly Tony Stark, I have several follow-up questions about why he entered a regional con instead of, you know. Saving the world.”
“Maybe he’s on a break.”
“A costume-contest-shaped sabbatical.”
“Sure. Very relatable, actually.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, trophy still clutched to her chest like she might lose custody of it if she sets it down. “You did good, though. Second place is genuinely respectable.”
“Coming from the woman who won outright.”
“I worked very hard for this.” She holds the trophy up, admiring it in the hallway light. “Don’t make me feel guilty about my excellence.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And without a thought to what I’m doing or why, I pull her close and kiss her head.
We’re in the vendor hall an hour later, deep in a debate over a hand-painted print that Juniper’s decided she needs. The debate isn’t about whether or not she should buy it, but rather whether or not she’ll let me buy it for her.
Then I feel the air around us change before I see why.
Eric.
He’s not in the Klingon getup today—instead, he’s wearing street clothes, a con badge on a lanyard, the kind of casual that reads less like off duty and more like gave up.
I’m fairly certain he’s been watching us for a few seconds before either of us notices, because by the time Juniper turns and sees him, his expression’s already arranged into something deliberate. He saunters over to us.
“Leo,” he says, like we’re old friends. “Funny running into you again.”
“Eric.” I keep my voice easy, unbothered, the same register I’d use with anyone. No reason to give him more than that.
“You know, you looked familiar yesterday,” he says, keeping his eyes on me.
“It bugged me all night, trying to place you. Took me a while.” He smiles and it’s smarmy like a cartoon villain.
“Then I remembered. Forbes did a profile a few months back. Young founders, under-thirty types. You were in the header photo, actually. Pretty memorable, once I made the connection.”
Something in my chest drops, fast and cold, the floor of the conversation tilting under me before I’ve even processed where it’s headed.
He’s not wrong. I know exactly which profile he means.
“Small world,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can get out fast enough, and I’m aware, distantly, that it’s the same thing I said to him yesterday and it sounds considerably less casual the second time.
Eric’s gaze slides over to Juniper, and something in his smile sharpens.
“Guess I just didn’t realize,” he says, “what it took to get your attention. Should’ve led with the net worth.”
The words land in the space between us like something physically dropped.
Juniper’s whole face does something complicated—confusion first, fast and genuine, like she’s trying to locate the joke, but doesn’t find one—and then something colder settles into her features. She aims her hardened features squarely at Eric.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“I’m just saying.” Eric shrugs, the picture of innocence.
I want to punch him in his smug face. Creepy asshole.
“Apparently I should’ve mentioned my trust fund. Might’ve gotten somewhere.”
Juniper rears back almost as he physically struck her.
“I have genuinely no idea what you’re talking about,” Juniper says, “and even less interest in finding out. I don’t know anyone’s net worth.
I have never once in my life asked a man what he’s worth before deciding whether I want to spend time with him, and frankly, Eric, the fact that money is the only weapon you’ve got left says a lot more about you than it does about anyone standing here. ”
It’s a good line. A great line, honestly, delivered with real heat, and for one suspended second I think—she doesn’t know. She heard “net worth” and went straight to defending her own character, and never once connected the dots to me.
Which means she just defended me, fiercely, without even realizing that’s what she was doing.
It should feel like relief. It mostly feels like dread, because I know what I haven’t told her. I know I’m the one standing here letting her swing at a target she can’t see.
Eric’s jaw works, color rising in his face. Whatever reaction he was hoping for, this clearly wasn’t it.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “Have a good rest of your con.”
Then I swear I hear him say ‘bitch’ under his breath and while I am totally in favor of a woman fighting her own battles when she wants to, some things must not be ignored.
I grab his arm before he walks off and pull him into what might look like a friendly bro hug to a passer-by.
“I know I did not hear you call her what I think you called her. I’m not going to make a scene in here, for that you should be grateful.
But I want to make this completely clear to you so we don’t have any additional miscommunications.
Do not speak to her, do not talk about her.
Delete her contact information in your phone.
And maybe read a fucking book on how to actually treat a lady. ” I tighten my hold. “We clear?”
“Crystal,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Excellent.” I release him then.
He turns and walks off into the crowd, and Juniper watches him go with her arms crossed, chin up, looking entirely like a woman who just won something.
“Okay,” she says, turning back to me, some of the heat still in her voice. “What was that about? Net worth? Trust fund? Is he just making things up now because I rejected him?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
This is the moment. I know it’s the moment.
The vendor hall is loud around us; somebody nearby haggling over a poster, a kid shrieking with laughter three booths down, and a reminder over the loud speaker about a last minute schedule change.
None of it matters because I have maybe four seconds to decide whether I tell her right here, standing in a crowded aisle, or whether I find somewhere quieter first.
“There’s more to it. Things about me that I haven’t shared.” I take a deep breath. “I want to tell you though, explain things. Just not here.”
Something flickers across her, then she nods slowly. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Sure.”
But the easy warmth from twenty minutes ago has gone quiet, replaced by something more watchful, and I spend the rest of the afternoon feeling the absence of it like a held breath.
By the time we’re back at the hotel, she’s tired in a way that has nothing to do with the walking.
“I think I’m just going to turn in,” she says in the lobby, not quite meeting my eyes. “Long day. My feet are filing a formal complaint.”
“We could get dinner. Talk.” I try to keep it light, even though nothing in me feels light right now. “I did say I’d explain.”
“I know. I just—” She exhales, tucking a strand of hair back, the gesture more tired than annoyed, which somehow makes it worse. “I’d rather just go to bed tonight, if that’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Juniper—”
“It’s fine, Leo.” Her smile doesn’t quite land. “Goodnight.”
She’s gone before I can find anything else to say, and I stand in the lobby for a long minute after the elevator doors close, feeling the entire day’s momentum drain out through the soles of my feet.
Up in my room, I call Oliver instead of texting, because some conversations need an actual voice attached to them.
“Hey,” he answers, “aren’t you supposed to be off conspiring?”
“I need to ask you something.”
Something in my tone must register, because his voice changes immediately, all the teasing dropping out of it. “What happened?”
I tell him. The Forbes thing, Eric’s comment, the way Juniper defended me without knowing it, the way she went quiet and tired and distant the second we got back to the hotel.
“So she knows you’re keeping something from her,” Oliver says slowly, once I’m done, “but she doesn’t actually know what.”
“Not exactly. Not the specifics.”
“But she knows there’s a gap. Something you didn’t tell her.”
“Yeah.”
Oliver’s quiet for a second on the other end, and I can picture him exactly, the way he gets when he’s actually thinking something through instead of just reacting. He’s probably leaning back, one hand dragging over his jaw.
“Can I be honest with you?” he says.
“Please.”
“It’s not really about the money, Leo. Not at its core.
People who are worth knowing don’t care about the money, not really, not once they actually know you.
What they care about is finding out there was a door you didn’t open for them.
That’s the part that stings. Not what’s behind the door.
The fact that you decided, on your own, without asking her, that she wasn’t ready to see it. ”
I sit with that for a second, feeling it land somewhere uncomfortable and accurate.
“I didn’t decide that because I didn’t trust her,” I say. “I decided it because I’ve been burned by exactly this before, and I didn’t want to find out the hard way that I’d been an idiot again.”
“I know that. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re wrong to be careful.
KiKi did a number on you and your dad both.
” Oliver’s voice softens slightly. “But here’s the thing, man.
If she’s worth it—and from everything you’ve told me about her, it sounds like she might be—then you don’t get to protect yourself from her finding out forever.
At some point you have to actually let her in, on purpose, and trust that she’s not going to do what your mom did.
That’s the whole risk. That’s the only way this works. ”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Yeah,” Oliver says. “It is. But you don’t get the good part without it. Cora terrified me too. I almost talked myself out of the whole thing about a dozen times before I figured that out.”
“So what do I do?”
“Tell her everything. Tonight, if she’ll let you, tomorrow if she won’t.
Don’t make her ask twice. And don’t lead with explaining yourself—lead with the truth, plain, and let the explaining come after.
People can smell a justification coming before you’ve even said it, and it makes the whole thing sound smaller than it is. ”
I sit with that for a long moment after we hang up, staring at the ceiling of a hotel room that suddenly feels a lot quieter than it did an hour ago, running through every version of the conversation I’m going to have to have tomorrow.
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say yet.
I know I’m out of time to keep deciding I’ll figure it out later.