Chapter 2 #3
Happy endings were my specialty.
I had operated under the pseudonym Cl0ud3dR0se for eight years, a reference to a line Sir Erwyn says in season one, “for when I look at you, your beauty seems to have placed clouds over every rose, as none of them can compare to you.” Cl0ud3dR0se was a mask I could put on, a safety net of sorts where I’d always be welcomed into the Thorndown fandom.
Fanfic had awarded me with a small celebrity status among an extremely niche group of people. I had dedicated tags on Tumblr linking to my writing, I’d received comments that the show writers should take notes, and—to either my benefit or my detriment—none of this had any weight in the real world.
It had always been far easier to write stories in a fictional universe that someone else designed.
There were notebooks stuffed under my childhood bed filled with nonsensical writings about shows and movies and other characters I loved.
When the screen faded to black I didn’t want the story to end, so I didn’t let it.
Nights spent watching episodes of my favorite pieces of media turned into days sitting cross legged with a notebook in my lap, developing new storylines and expanding on the depth of the characters.
For every Lisa Frank patterned notebook with “Mrs. Fictional Character” written on the front in glittery gel pen, there were tens of hundreds of words about that character’s development.
The Sword of Thorndown universe was finite, but when I wrote it could become infinite.
In my late twenties it was an embarrassing hobby at best and obsessive fandom at worst. Andrea hardly understood what fanfiction even was, she was a casual fan of most things she watched and her favorite television shows typically were “The Bachelor” or “Real Housewives”-adjacent.
She was hardly the target demographic for pages upon pages of world expansion and story building for fictional universes and characters, but she still believed in me, probably more than anyone else did.
When we had lived together, Andrea watched every episode of Sword of Thorndown with me so I had someone to talk to about it.
We’d have nights in our old shared apartment when I’d sit on my bed and read aloud positive accolades from the readers, and she’d ask why fanfiction based on existing intellectual property couldn’t “just get published.”
Now Andrea had pushed me to finally strip these stories from the universe of Thorndown and rewrite them in my own.
Her boss had already discovered a handful of similar writers and turned their words on fanfiction sites into traditionally published works with accompanying book tours and spots on best seller lists.
I knew it was a growing trend, but I assumed that I would never find myself in such a position.
She kept pushing, until over a shared lunch break Andrea rifled through her bag and excitedly pulled out a book, “now it’s not officially out until next year, but this book was a fanfiction that the author turned into its own story.
” She shoved the paperback into my hands, forcing me to confront the tangibility of this thing I had passively dreamt about head on.
I dragged my fingers over the soft embossed cover and flipped through the pages.
The summary on the back of the book may not have had overt references to the source material, but it still clearly referenced a certain popular movie trilogy, the character’s names alone practically gave that away.
I filed the title away so I could buy the book later and read it in a single sitting, because I knew I’d eat it up.
Andrea had a naive optimism that I could do the same for my writing, and I had to commend her for it. Right as I began to feel a similar kind of hope spring in my chest, all of my creativity had grinded to a halt unless it was directly relating to Thorndown.
There were countless semi-cliche Alternate Universes that I could consider, and dozens of tropes I could easily lean into. College campuses, workplace rivals, other fictional magical realms that didn’t already exist, etc.
Drawing from personal experience for inspiration was difficult when life was so mundane.
Stable job, stable relationship (up until a few weeks ago at least), healthy friendships, a wonderfully average existence.
I loved the idea of drama but subsided on predictability.
Nick used to joke that if someone ever had a hit out on me, I’d be found in a day.
I thrived in the safety of the mundane and predictable. I was raised to be easygoing and self-sufficient, my mother always told me to not be a bother. As a result, I was perfectly agreeable, to a fault.
I’d harbor resentment for someone for an eternity before telling them off because it’d upset the status quo and portray me as imperfect. It took long enough to break things off with Nick, and I couldn’t even manage to do so sober, only inebriated Dani had the guts to speak up.
Being agreeable and likable enough was the key reason why I had a modicum of success at work as a corporate recruiter, and if I had to sacrifice passion then so be it.
I channeled all of my passion into Thorndown because it was anything but safe and predictable.
I’d never fight dragons or save a kingdom in my life, but I could write about it, and there were no real-life consequences if I fucked up.
A fanfic being a dud had zero real life implications, that was Cl0ud3dR0se’s problem, not Dani Grant’s.
This was all too much to explain to Andrea in a way that made my jumbled brain make sense.
“I’m going to work on it while I’m up at Sue and Randy’s place in a few weeks, I’ll have plenty of time to think and write then.” It was a half truth. I would at the very least try to write this manuscript, but I had a nagging sense that I’d fail.
“Right, right,” she eyed the laptop suspiciously. “Of course you would do the whole ‘off the grid’ thing to process this,” Andrea laughed.
I rolled my eyes, she never saw camp in the childish magical way I did.
Unsurprising for a girl who was used to vacations in luxury beach houses on the Cape.
I’d taken her to camp only one time prior and she hid in the cabin most of the week after nearly stepping on a snake.
Caroline and I wound up spending most of our time together—which to our joint benefit led to years’ worth of inside jokes at Andrea’s expense. Andrea never went back.
“Most psychology experts say that time in nature actually does help the brain form new neural pathways and help the emotional healing process. ‘Touching grass’ has its mental benefits,” Caroline cut in.
“Yeah, sure, that. I’m ‘touching grass’ for my mental health. The trip is really to get out of this damn apartment,” I said.
“You’re sure you’re doing okay?” Caroline asked from her seat opposite to me.
I nodded too aggressively. “Of course, I had a cry about it, I felt my feelings, and now I need a break.”
Andrea gripped my shoulders again and looked into my soul in an attempt to decipher the layers of emotions I was grappling with.
“However else you want to process this tonight, let's do it. We can do sad or celebratory, your choice. I have your neighborhood pizza place on speed dial and your order saved in my notes app, and I also have an Uber ready to call up to take us to that new bar you’ve been wanting to try.” Andrea held up her phone as though it were a tacklebox of processing feelings.
I knew my answer, it was the one that let me breathe fresh air that Nick hadn’t breathed for the first time all day. “Let’s go out, I haven’t really left the apartment in days.”
Andrea and Caroline glanced at one another suspiciously. Neither wanted to question my judgment, and I knew the girl before them with puffy red eyes, half dry frizzy hair, slumped over in boxer shorts didn’t exactly scream “girls night out.”
In the few moments of quiet, the noise of the TV replaying old episodes of Thorndown filled the space.
I was fine, ready to move on even.
This was a part of my cinematic story.
“Guys, I promise, I need this,” I insisted upon seeing their blank stares.
A half hour later, I proved that I could pull myself from this funk, emerging from my room in a slinky vintage halter dress without a single trace that my heart was shattered hours before.
My escape was just beginning.