2. Tricktreatpanic, I guess
CHAPTER TWO
trick or treat or panic, i guess
PRESENT, HALLOWEEN
“God fucking damnit!”
My calico, Jigsaw, darts under my bed when I slam my hand down on my vanity in frustration. My head jerks toward him, as surprised by his sudden movement as he was by the loud sound my hand made. Poor guy. He’s old and not a fan of surprises.
“Aw, Jig, I’m sorry,” I say at a normal volume, bending over on my stool so I can see his glowing yellow eyes in the dark corner he’s wedged himself in. He blinks slowly, and I take that as him accepting my apology.
This evening is not shaping up the way I’d hoped. I’d intended to be ready early, to be calm, cool, and collected well before Forrest got here. That way, I could pretend I’m a professional instead of the walking disaster I feel like.
To say it’s not going well would be an understatement.
It’s a year after my last book tour, and it feels like very little has changed.
I have another author event tonight—a spooky New England authors panel—and I’m wearing this complicated getup in honor of Halloween.
The leather harness has more straps than I can count, and putting it on must not be meant as a one-person job unless that one person is a contortionist.
I… am not.
As I straighten back up, I reach around myself, swiping yet again at a strap while it flops uselessly against my back, just out of reach.
I end up spinning the stool around before finally pinching the end of the pleather between my fingers.
I try to pull it over my shoulder, but the buckle is now firmly tangled in the laces of my corset. Fuck me.
After another fruitless yank, I release the strap and let my head fall back in frustration.
I catch sight of my reflection and turn my head from one side to the other.
Even after all these years, I still have a hard time recognizing myself in my full author getup.
Some days, like today, I hardly feel like a person.
Instead, I’m a character, as fictional as the ones in my books.
It was one of Susan’s ideas, a strategy to help me overcome feeling like I didn’t belong.
She gave me a role to play. Camilla Viottolo could be uncertain and anxious.
Mia Lane was anything but. She told me when I became Mia, I’d be confident, bold, a little eccentric.
It worked for a while, but these days I feel like a clown, hiding behind a face that isn’t my own.
I’m the opposite of confident.
I haven’t been able to write a word since last fall.
And nobody knows.
My gaze drops to the little event postcard mailer wedged in the corner of my vanity mirror frame. It feels like the bold font is mocking me.
Desert City University can’t wait to welcome bestselling author and alum Mia Lane as our keynote speaker and creative writing workshop leader!
There hasn’t been a creative bone in my body for longer than I like to think about. I’ve stared at a lot of blank pages, unable to write anything, but somehow I’m supposed to guide a whole workshop full of people on how to write.
I’m a fucking fraud.
I feel my heartbeat quicken the longer I stare at the event announcement, a tightness in my chest starting to creep in, inch by inch.
When my doorbell rings, it’s like a tether pulling me back to reality, to this room. I aggressively rip the little card away from the glass and shove it in a drawer, slamming it shut with more force than is needed.
I’m fine.
The buckle from my harness bounces against my spine when I stand up, and I tip a little closer to a complete crashout.
I snatch it from behind me and make one last attempt to tug it free, but the corset laces it’s tangled on just tighten abruptly, cheap boning buckling and jabbing me in an organ I hope isn’t vital.
I expect I look a little feral when I throw open my front door, because Forrest’s eyebrows jump up. Other than that tiny movement, though, he’s as calm as always, ever my rock.
Well, not my rock. Not like that. Not anymore.
I slouch against the heavy, wooden door so Forrest can come inside.
As he passes me, I try to figure out his costume.
He’s in slacks and a button-up with a blazer—he’s always dressed a little more formal, even for casual stuff, but he’s got suspenders today, and I get a peek at a fake pistol holstered under one arm.
My eyes jump to the fedora perched on his head, and it all clicks.
“A mobster?” I ask, sounding a little like I did when I got my wisdom teeth out thanks to the fake fangs I’ve got in.
Forrest looks over his shoulder and hits me with a devilish smirk, tilting his chin down so he can peer at me over his glasses, befitting a suave 1940s criminal. I close the door, using it as an excuse to look away, or I’d end up staring longer than is socially acceptable.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “Bridget was going to be a femme fatale, but she couldn’t make it tonight. She said she’s really sorry, but there’s this thing with her friends… She asked me to tell you good luck, though.”
She didn’t, but it’s nice of him to pretend.
Bridget is a woman Forrest has been seeing for a little over a month now. She’s nice, forever perky, and not at all a fan of the fact that Forrest and I are close.
She’s not a bad person. On the contrary, she’s objectively great.
She’s clever and volunteers at a pet shelter and has an incredible sense of humor.
She’s also never excluded me from anything or even said a word about my friendship with Forrest, at least, as far as I know.
She’s not one of those “stay away from my man” kind of women.
But I can tell it’s not her favorite situation.
I once tried to tell her she has nothing to worry about, thinking it would make things better. But it backfired. She’s so damn polite that she pretended to have no clue what I was talking about. It was awkward as fuck. She’s coincidentally had plans each time Forrest and I have hung out since then.
“Thank her from me,” I say like I’m supposed to.
“I will,” he says, like he’s supposed to.
He won’t. It’s ok.
After a beat, I add, “Do you need to go with her? As her date?”
He quickly shakes his head. “I’m where I should be.”
I feel warm when he says things like that. When he shows up for me, like before.
Then I feel like a selfish whore because I had my chance with him, and I decided to blow that the fuck up.
“No offense, but is that how the outfit is supposed to look?” He waves a hand toward my middle, where only half of the straps on my harness are buckled.
It’s an effective change of subject, cutting off any further conversation about Bridget. I think Forrest has noticed the tension there too.
“No,” I practically growl, reaching over my shoulder yet again for the part that’s tangled, wrestling with it and myself until I’m huffing and puffing. “But it’s… stuck… and I can’t…”
Somehow, I’m turning around myself again, like a dog chasing its damn tail.
“Will you quit moving?” Forrest’s laugh fills the entryway as his fingers wrap around my upper arm, pulling me to a halt.
I swear my skin burns under the pad of each of his fingers.
“It’s ok,” I protest, even though this outfit hasn’t been ok for some time.
“I can get it,” I say. I can’t. I’ve proven pretty well that I can’t.
But I should keep distance between us.
Forrest ignores me, turning my back to him and making quick work of my costume. I can feel his deft fingers twisting the laces, pulling this way, then that, and then retying the corset with ease, draping the demonic strap over my shoulder once it’s freed so I can finish buckling in.
I’m counting to a hundred by threes the whole time his hands are on me, focusing on anything but those fleeting touches, each one sending a flash of a memory from our past into my mind. When he finishes, I basically teleport with how quickly I fly away, putting space between us.
I spin back toward him and hold my arms out with a flourish.
“Tah-dah!” I sing, adding jazz hands to my presentation. Jazz hands don’t say anything but friendship.
“Much better.” Forrest gives me a dignified golf clap.
Look at us. Silly. Goofy.
Friendly.
Safe.
“Nice bracelet,” Forrest says, his eyes snagging on the charm dangling against the back of my hand as he checks my costume again.
“Nice ring,” I shoot back, eyeing the silver band on his thumb.
We share a smile before he clears his throat, like he realized he tiptoed toward something he shouldn’t have and needed to back up again.
I want to tell him it’s ok. That I understand what we are. What we need to be.
“Should we get going?” he asks, checking his watch.
“Yup,” I say stiffly. “Just one more thing…”
I finish my makeup, adding some fake blood at the corner of my mouth, and with a quick goodbye to Jig—he still hasn’t emerged—we’re off.
Sitting outside the indie bookstore, I can see a crowd of heads inside waiting for the panel and feel a wave of nerves crawl cold fingers up my spine.
I just don’t want to fuck things up. Not when all these people have shown up for me.
And that makes the pressure of writing the next book that much heavier.
What if I can’t do it?
Forrest reaches across the center console and gives my hand a quick squeeze. It’s like a jolt up my arm. Forrest didn’t grow up in the most touchy-feely house, but somehow touch became his love language. This is how he shows he cares. I remind myself it doesn’t mean more than that.
This is also how I crumble bit by bit. I breathe slowly and focus on being normal.
“You can do this,” he says, like he can read my mind. It’d be scary if he hadn’t been doing it since we were ten.
Forrest and I head around back and meet up with Lori, who quickly runs through the schedule for the evening one more time and introduces me to the other panelists and the moderator, a local indie author named Eliana.
I read one of her sapphic romances a few weeks back.
She’s very good, and her bright smile today helps put me at ease.
I shush the whisper in the back of my mind warning me not to trust her, not to trust anybody. Susan was the exception, not the rule.
Eliana turns out to be the perfect host. Though we’ve just met, she immediately starts chatting with me and the other authors like we’re old friends. It feels like we’re gossiping at a slumber party and the audience is being let in on our secrets. It’s easy, warm, fun.
I love talking about my books because it reminds me of how I felt when I was writing them. That I felt good. I want to find that feeling again.
Then it’s time for audience questions, and hands fly up.
Eliana calls on an excited-looking young woman way in the back.
“Thank you so much for coming here,” the woman starts, looking from one end of the panel to the other. “I’m a huge fan of all your books, but I know we’re all chomping at the bit, and I’ve got to ask Mia my first question. When can we expect your next book?”
And my heart drops right into my ass.
“Uh…” I start, my eyes darting around the store like I’ll suddenly discover the spark of inspiration I’ve been searching for. If I’m lucky, I can come up with a teaser right now.
Come on, universe. Do me a solid.
I look in every corner of my mind, and I find nothing.
My ears start ringing. “Well…”
Like she can sense my panic, Eliana jumps in.
“You know how writing goes. That kind of information is top secret.” She winks with a chuckle that makes it seem like we’re all in this together. “But we all know it’ll be great!”
Everyone claps some more, so I smile and try not to look like the biggest fucking liar in the room.