Chapter 3
Lara
Try unlocking uncharted areas—it’s worth it!
You’ll find materials and collectibles there that you can use to expand your bookshop.
“Can’t you lot come with?” I ask with a pout. The train that’s supposed to take me to the GameChanger prelims leaves in three hours, and my anxiety’s growing with each passing second.
“No, we have to go roller skating, so don’t even bother with those puppy eyes,” Nat tells me with a broad grin. “Besides, I’ve never programmed a single thing in my life, and I’m not planning to. I couldn’t answer a single question.”
We’ve spent our morning going for a stroll around Notting Hill, the weather being unusually sunny for March, then Nataly made the best of our time off by dragging us to a flea market afterward.
And yet, slowly but surely, the time of my departure is creeping closer.
She and Aria are standing in my little room, which is chock-full of fake plants (because real ones wouldn’t stand a chance with me) and has everything from Kirby-shaped neon lights to the Stardew Valley chicken strung up on the walls.
But I’m lying in bed and groaning. While Nataly places another meticulously folded T-shirt in my small suitcase, Aria sits down on the duvet next to me and gently pats my thigh.
“You’ve got this. You’re capable of so much more than you think! And we’ll be there with you in spirit.”
“Don’t you remember my presentation about accessible game design?”
I raise my head in time to see Aria bite her lip. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re lying, and you know it,” I grumble.
“Even I heard about that, and I was enrolled in a totally different set of courses and didn’t even know you at the time,” Nataly adds unhelpfully, flipping my suitcase closed.
“But that was years ago. Now you’ll be talking about your own game.
You don’t have to study or even prepare anything.
The demo speaks for itself. Just tell the people there the same things you tell us over breakfast every morning.
What you’re planning with the game, that it’s supposed to be cozy and relaxing but also challenging, and that it defies stereotypes.
That you want to address mental health and different body types, that it’s basically Taylor Swift’s Folklore in video game form . . .”
“I never said that. That was you.”
“Feel free to use it, though.”
“I don’t know if Taylor’s name is going to mean anything to those officials and charity members.”
Nataly gives me a look that’s dripping with indignation. Aria sighs and says, “What she’s trying to say is, you’ve got this, and we believe in you.”
“What if I make a fool of myself in front of the entire industry?”
“You won’t,” Aria tells me firmly.
“Told you, you should have planned to arrive earlier,” Nataly says, eyebrows raised. “You could have taken your time and gotten to know everyone first.”
“Yeah, because conversations with strangers have such a calming effect on me?” I shake my head vigorously. “Nope. I’m arriving last minute, checking in, making my speech tomorrow. Then I’ll come home, hide under the covers, and play Animal Crossing all day long.”
“I get that you’re nervous; I would be too,” Aria replies.
“But just think. Programmers have to present the games at this event, not PR folks. So chances are good that the other participants hate public speaking just as much as you do. I’m sure you’ll barely get any questions from the other participants.
Just imagine you’re talking to Sophia about the game; it’ll be fine. ”
I sigh again, but this time, I sit up resolutely. “What other choice do I have?”
“That’s the spirit,” Nataly says, holding out her hand to help me up. I let her drag me upright, and she squeezes me tightly. “You’re so much stronger than you think,” she says in a tone of voice that’s unlike her usual loud, silly self. “You’ll show them!”
“If we leave now, we’ll still have time for coffee and donuts,” Aria says.
I glance at my watch; it’s barely three thirty.
It takes us half an hour to get to St. Pancras, where my train leaves at five.
The ride will be just over an hour, and then I’ll simply hole up in my room at Crow Manor—the posh house where the GameChanger prelims will take place.
Sophia forwarded me an email about attending tonight’s get-together. Over my dead body.
“Fine, twiddling my thumbs here is just going to make me more nervous anyway.” I toss my mobile into my small vegan leather backpack, unplug my charger cable from the extension lead on my desk, and take one last look around the room.
Nataly’s helped me pack my clothes to ensure I’ll look decently businesslike.
My laptop with the presentation on it is in the suitcase, and other than that, I hardly need anything for my short trip.
“See you on the other side,” I whisper into the stillness of my room, which gets me a laugh from Aria.
One donut and a coffee later, though my racing heart makes me wish I’d skipped the coffee, I hug my two flatmates tightly one last time. My train’s already in the station, and an automated female voice echoes across the platform, announcing possible connections. “I’ll miss you.”
“It’s just for two nights,” Aria says.
“Still.”
“Send us updates! All of them!” Nat demands. “Sophia said the building dates back to the seventeenth century and got expanded little by little. I want pictures of the interior, your breakfast, and the spa!”
I raise my eyebrows and look down at myself demonstratively. My long sleeves and the thigh-high socks that I’ve paired with a short, black skirt cover up the reasons why I definitely won’t be setting foot in the spa area, but she knows what’s hidden under those layers of clothing.
“It’s a historical landmark,” she replies. “It said online that they’ll be giving tours. You’ll probably have your own spa and Jacuzzi in your room.”
“If you come along, you could . . .”
“No way, I have to show off my new dress at the roller disco.”
Nat squeezes my hand one more time, and then she all but shoves me toward the train, nearly knocking me into a dark-haired bloke.
“Sorry!” I say quickly, and he flashes me an amused smile.
“No worries. After you; you seem to be in a hurry.”
I give Nat a poisonous glare. The corners of her mouth twitch, and she soundlessly but very visibly mouths, He’s hot, at me before grabbing Aria and turning on her heel, giving me one last wave.
Aghast, I watch her bouncing gait and Aria’s swinging, waist-length hair retreat until they’ve nearly reached the end of the platform.
I can hear someone coughing behind me. “OK, seems like you’re not in such a hurry after all. I am, though.”
I turn, and get lost in a pair of sparkling, dark-brown eyes; I’m pretty sure he saw what Nat just mouthed at me.
I can feel a flush creeping up my neck. There are slight shadows under his eyes that make him look like he slept badly, which is something I can empathize with all too well.
But he’s hot regardless; Nataly had a point there.
Not that I should care, because unlike Nat, my last date was over a year ago and a complete disaster.
Novel Haven and I are basically in a committed relationship. No time for anything else.
“Sorry. Again,” I say sheepishly and hurry into the carriage, dragging my suitcase up the steps with a loud clatter.
With any luck, I might destroy my laptop before the presentation even starts.
I dig my mobile out of the pocket of my leather jacket and check my seat number. There’s a new message notification.
Nat: Sit next to Mr. Hot! That’s an order!
I roll my eyes and stroll down the aisle. “Mr. Hot” follows me until I’ve finally found my seat, then sits down one row in front of me, but facing the other way. He plucks his AirPods out of their white case, and a few minutes later, his eyes are closed.
I put in my own earbuds—wired ones. I’d need a promotion to afford AirPods, with the London rent and all.
A moment later, The Protomen, a US indie rock band who have been my constant companions over the last ten years during hard times, start playing.
I focus on their voices and the lyrics and try to find my strength in them as usual, but anxiety has a tight grip on me.
Even my leg bounces restlessly of its own accord.
With an annoyed huff, I switch over from the music to my voice recordings.
Relaxing is out of the question right now anyway.
I play one of the memos I recorded last night and wrinkle my nose at the sound of my own scratchy voice running through the presentation.
Too quick. Not that speaking fast is my biggest problem.
I want my old voice back. The one from the videos I recorded in my teens.
Before fire and soot damaged my vocal cords and my voice box.
I can hardly focus on what I’m saying because I’m so distracted by every bumpy tone and every hoarse word.
If I can’t even face listening to myself, how will it be for the others tomorrow? How . . . ?
“Your ticket, please,” I suddenly hear someone saying over my voice memo.
A brunette woman in her early fifties with a friendly smile is gazing down at me expectantly, and I quickly hit pause.
I nearly breathe a sigh of relief as my voice stops.
I hold out my ticket for her, and she scans it, nodding serenely at me.
Her smile slips as her gaze falls on my arm.
Stretching my arm has pulled my sleeve back and revealed a patch of skin that’s too pink and scarred to really be a part of me—but it is.
I drop my arm and hastily tug my sleeve down over my wrist again.
The train conductor’s smile is pinned back in place.
It reminds me so much of the smile my parents give me whenever I visit them; it’s just a little too wide, a bit too encouraging.
They saw me off before surgery with that smile and then greeted me with it again as I woke up from the anesthesia.
Every single time. They tried to cheer me up with that smile after my first speech-therapy session, as if I didn’t realize that my voice would never be the same again.
I know that neither my parents nor the train conductor are doing this out of disgust, or at least I don’t think they are.
The woman’s probably just trying to show me that she’s not staring, that it’s not that bad, that I can relax—but it has the opposite effect on me.
I tense up even more. I’m even more painfully aware that there’s something wrong with me.
And she hasn’t even seen the full extent of it yet.
“Have a good trip,” she trills, sounding just a little too cheerful. Is she normally this chipper because we’re in first class? Or does she feel sorry for me?
“Thanks,” I say. It barely comes out as a whisper. I’m not even sure she heard me. I shake my head at myself, gripping my phone so tight that my fingers hurt. At this rate, I’ll never make it through tomorrow. I won’t just make a fool of Novel Haven, but of Sophia and the entire studio as well.
I lean my head back in frustration, and all at once, I’m drawn in by those brown eyes again.
The man’s handing the conductor his phone now, but he holds my gaze.
I let myself slip deeper into the soft upholstery of my seat so he can only see the top of my hair, at most, but the fluttery feeling in my stomach won’t go away.