Chapter 42 Arthur
Chapter forty-two
Arthur
Iam wearing fake spandex.
Fabric that breathes more than I'd like.
The mask itches.
The emblem on my chest—some variation of a spider—feels ridiculous.
Henry, on the other hand, is thriving.
His costume glows. Literally. Blue Hanging Light Boy, apparently.
He bounces as we move through the entrance, hand locked in mine like this is the greatest day of his life.
Steven, dressed as Dark Man, is beside us. Cape flowing and entirely too comfortable with this.
"You look great, sir," he says, deadpan.
"I look like I've made several poor life choices," I reply.
Henry grins up at me. "Mom—Lindsay—will love it."
I don't correct him. I don't want to.
CAMICon is exactly what I expected. Worse even.
Noise. Movement. Chaos dressed up as joy. People brushing past without concern for personal space or net worth.
Henry navigates it like a professional. "Quinn says she's in Panel Room C," he announces, checking a phone that is definitely not supposed to have this much autonomy. "Two actors from that show with the time loops."
I nod, because nodding is easier than admitting I don't have a clue what he's talking about.
We move when Henry moves. We stop when Henry stops.
A teenager bumps into me, spilling something sticky across my costumed arm. I open my mouth to say something sharp, then stop myself.
"Sorry, man!" the kid says, already moving away.
Dark Man hands me a handkerchief.
I exhale slowly. This isn't my world. It's Lindsay's. And for her, I can be uncomfortable.
The panel room is packed. Applause breaks out as we slip inside, masks on, anonymous by virtue of absurdity.
I scan the room automatically.
Then I see her.
No ordinary sparkly hoodie today. Her entire outfit looks like it's made from sequins.
Maybe it is.
And of course, that bag that looks like it could be seen from space.
My chest tightens.
My first instinct is retreat.
Masks make it easy. I could stand here, anonymous, let Henry have this moment, let Lindsay remain something I admire from a safe distance.
I could tell myself this was enough—that showing up was a good enough gesture.
That’s how I’ve always handled risk. Presence without exposure. Control disguised as restraint.
But standing here, watching her laugh with Quinn, watching Henry glow like he belongs in this world because she made space for him in it, I understand something I’ve been refusing to name.
This isn’t a problem to solve.
It’s a choice.
And if I don’t make it now—without armor, without contingency—I will lose her again. Deservedly.
Quinn nudges her. Lindsay turns.
Our eyes meet.
Hope collides with hilarity so fast I almost laugh.
She stares at me.
At us.
At Henry glowing like a human lighthouse.
Her mouth opens. Closes.
Then she stands.
We spill out into the corridor. Henry beams. Quinn folds her arms, smug and delighted.
Lindsay looks like she doesn't know whether to hug me or mock me.
I try to speak.
Everything comes out wrong.
"I wanted—thank you—for Henry—and I'm sorry—and I shouldn't have—and I never should have let you—"
Steven clears his throat.
"What Sir Arthur means," Steven says smoothly, even though his Dark Man outfit belays his seriousness, "is that he behaved like an emotionally illiterate idiot, regrets it profoundly, and has spent several sleepless nights practicing this apology in his head."
Lindsay laughs.
It cracks something open in my chest.
Steven steps back.
"But really," he adds, "you're on your own from here."
I take a breath. Pull the mask off.
The room seems to quiet, like it is just us. The crowd fades into the walls.
"I've been in love with you since you started working for me," I say.
Lindsay stills completely.
"I've made more than my fair share of mistakes," I continue, voice steady now. "But letting you go?" I shake my head once. "That was my biggest one."
Henry's hand tightens in mine.
I look back at Lindsay. No strategies. No contingencies. No shield.
"Do you think," I say softly, "we could maybe try again? Will you be my wife for life?"