Chapter 25
I’m doing a Duffy double down.
All in on the date with the dentist. There are definite feelings there for Miles—ones I can’t lie to myself about anymore—but
I’m so conflicted. He’s taking up a lot of mental energy, and I need a break.
I need stability. No drama. Someone to go to the art museum with or to try new restaurants with. Someone who doesn’t make
my insides tumble around like fake snow inside a snow globe.
I suppose one could argue that snow-tumbling is exactly what one needs in a date . . . but I’ve had my fill of butterflies and electrically charged moments as of late.
So when Duffy shows up at my apartment on Sunday for the date he planned, I’m more determined than ever to try to make this
work. A nice, dependable guy is exactly what I need right now.
I open the door and am shocked to find him posed, dressed in an Aragorn costume, holding a plastic garment bag.
My determination slips.
“Duffy? Hi . . . uh . . . what’s all this?”
He holds up the garment bag.
It’s another costume.
For a woman.
I’m a woman.
Oh no.
“Surprise!”
I half laugh, but when I catch movement in the courtyard behind him, I grab onto his arm, pull him inside, and close the door. The last thing I need is for anyone to see my date has shown up in a costume.
“I’m taking you to your first comic convention!” He holds up the dress. “I’ve always wanted to be Aragorn with an Arwen!”
I never read The Lord of the Rings, but I did watch the movies. Sometimes I play the soundtrack when I’m baking. I know which characters he’s talking about,
but never in a million years did I ever think about dressing up as one of them.
I didn’t even go trick-or-treating when I was a kid. I hung out with Gram and made popcorn balls. It was one of my favorite
nights.
Duffy holds the dress out and shakes it at me with a huge smile on his face.
He’s clearly incredibly excited. “Have you ever been to a convention?”
If I act anything other than just as excited, I may as well grab a balloon and a big knife and pop it right in front of him.
But still—this is really not my scene. I try to think of something—anything—that will get me out of this. A fake migraine?
A bakery emergency? Teleportation?
“Does everyone dress up?” I ask tentatively, taking the gown, not even sure it’s going to fit me.
“Well, no, not everyone, but most people,” he says. “We’ll fit right in.”
I look at the dress, then back at Duffy, who is oblivious to the fact that this is so far out of my comfort zone I might as
well be in Kuala Lumpur.
“I didn’t enter us in the costume contest, though,” he says. “The people who win those are artistic geniuses. Our costumes
are a little basic. I wanted to ease you in.”
My stomach tightens because that suggests there will be more of these events in the future.
“Okay.” A root canal sounds better at the moment. I start walking toward the stairs, still trying to find a way out of this.
“Oh, do you have shoes? Brown flats? Something that looks a little woodsy?” Duffy asks as I go.
“I’ll check,” I say as I rush into the bathroom, close the door, and open my phone to call Minnie. I pull up her number but
don’t hit Call.
This is way out of my comfort zone. But aren’t I supposed to be doing things that are way out of my comfort zone?
What happened to making this work?
I look at myself in the mirror. “You said you wanted adventure, Claire,” I whisper, then lean in closer. “You said you wanted
to try new things.” I narrow my eyes. “Here’s your chance.”
“Do you need help lacing up the dress?” Duffy calls from the bottom of the stairs.
“No! I’ve got it, but thanks!” I unzip the bag, pull the dress out, and hold it up in front of me. I look at my reflection,
reminding myself that before he got here, I actually thought Duffy was the solution to my Miles problem.
But replacing that crush is going to be a lot more difficult if I have to wear a medieval gown to do it.
I take a breath, push my hair out of my face, and change out of my sensible outfit and into an elf costume.
An hour later, I’m walking into a convention center with hundreds of other people. The costumes are otherworldly. There are
nine-foot-tall aliens, girls sporting spiky hair and carrying swords (anime, Duffy explains), and lots of Spider-Men who seem
to point at one another whenever they get in groups of three.
In spite of all this creativity and color and commotion, I still feel like I’m on display.
Duffy, fully in character, stops in front of a quartet of hobbits. He then kneels in front of them, loudly proclaiming, “If
by my life or death I can protect you, I will. You have my sword.”
A voice from behind me says, “And my bow,” and I wheel around to see a slightly overweight middle-aged man with a long blond
wig, dressed in green.
“And my axe!” is shouted from across the hall, and a hairy, battle-clad, axe-wielding kid no more than about eighteen, trundles over and joins the group.
They all look at one another for a moment, then burst into loud admiration, pointing at each other’s costumes, shaking hands
by grabbing forearms—and not a single one breaks character.
They part, and Duffy gives some kind of farewell in what sounds like a different language, then turns to me.
“This might be the best day of my life.” He pulls out our tickets and hands one to me. “Your ticket, m’lady.”
Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I see after they scan my ticket, and we walk into the huge convention center.
The scale of the room is almost too much to take in. And there are costumed people everywhere.
A tall, buxom woman in a tight, red-sequined dress holding what appears to be a rabbit.
A family of five, one in a stroller, all dressed like the Incredibles, complete with masks and wigs.
Several men dressed as the Joker, wearing what look like custom-made suits, chatting up an older woman with multicolored pigtails.
I stifle a giggle at a grown man, hairy-chested with a full mustache and beard, sporting a Wonder Woman costume. It’s clearly
tongue in cheek, because he’s posing for pictures, sticking out his tongue, and making a rock ’n’ roll symbol with both hands.
Orcs, superheroes, cartoon characters, they’re all here, and it’s almost sensory overload.
Someone rushes over to us, dressed in a trench coat, 3D glasses, tie—and a fez, for some reason—and demands that we tell him
what year it is. Once he has his answer, he pulls out what appears to be some kind of light-up screwdriver out of his pocket,
points it at us as it whirs, then sprints off in the other direction.
There are rows of special displays and booths with comic books, toys, and artwork as far as I can see.
It’s its own world, its own culture, and I’m gobsmacked by all of it.
There’s a buzz of excitement as we slowly walk from booth to booth, interacting with other people, looking at new games and
movie merchandise and comic book art.
It’s obvious that Duffy is not a stranger at this event. He knows his way around and has mapped out our entire day, sort of
like I would if I were taking my child to Disney World. And in some ways, I can see that this convention requires similar
planning.
Duffy has an app, and he’s marked key events that he doesn’t want to miss “so we can stay on schedule.” People stop to talk
to him because they remember him from past conventions.
We’re walking down one of the aisles when Duffy stops dead in his tracks. “I can’t believe it.”
I stop and look around, trying to figure out what Duffy is looking at. Because, frankly, I can’t believe most of what I’ve
seen today.
“He’s right there.” Duffy is transfixed on something—or someone—in the distance as he reaches into his leather bag and pulls
out a small journal. He starts flipping through the pages. “He’s right there, Claire. I knew he was coming, and I’m still
not prepared to see him.”
“Who’s right where?” I follow his gaze and see a long line of fully costumed people, waiting for a book signing, but I can’t
see the sign announcing who the author is.
“It’s Reggie Maxwell, the most influential graphic novelist of our generation.” Duffy’s tone is slightly frantic. “You know,
The Riftwalkers,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
“The Riftwalkers,” he repeats, as if that’s an explanation.
“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t read many comic books.”
“Oh, Claire. It’s not just a comic book.
It’s so much more than a comic book.” He steps into the line as several other people gather behind us.
“It’s an experience. A journey. It’s about this group of space rebels who have to slip through dimensions to seal unstable rifts.
” He gets more animated with every word.
“It’s a whole thing with alien races and interdimensional planets and—”
“Wait, someone doesn’t know The Riftwalkers?” A guy dressed like some sort of alien spins around and looks at us. “How is that possible?”
“It’s her first time,” Duffy says, sounding like he’s making an excuse.
“No way! Your first con?” A girl wearing a long white gown, white wig, white contact lenses, and white painted face looks
at me with wide eyes.
“Yep! My first one,” I say.
There’s a slight pause, then both erupt in congratulations, hugs, over-the-top welcomes. These people have their own culture,
but not a single one has been condescending to me as a newcomer. They’re just excited to share what they love. It’s refreshing.
I’m feeling slightly on the spot, but then the alien sighs and says, “I wish I could go back to my first time. There’s nothing like the first one.”
The line moves forward, and we all move with it.
“My first one was in San Diego ten years ago,” the woman in white says. “This is my thirty-second.”
“Your thirty-second?” I ask. “Wow.”
“I’m only at eighteen.” The alien gives her a nod. “But I’ll catch up.”
“Do you wear the same costume every time?” I ask.
“I do now,” the woman says. “I’m sort of known for this one.” She picks up the skirt and holds it out. “Do you like it?”