Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Cat
The bones in my face rattle. I jerk awake, rolling my tongue over my sticky teeth. The inside of my mouth feels like an industrious spider has spent the night webbing it up. Blearily, I blink down at the cause of my new consciousness—my phone.
Andi? My heart trips over itself. I blink again and my vision clears.
No, not Andi, but Mandy , my sorority Biggie whom I’ve been avoiding ever since I moved to Colorado.
Because I apparently hate myself, I swipe up and read the text’s contents. It’s even more loathsome than I could’ve anticipated: an upbeat reminder that I’m due to attend the Sigma Sigma Sigma reunion later today.
Later today? I check the time. 7:02. P M or AM , though? The light outside is wan and yellowish, so I’m guessing the latter, which means it’s already Sunday and I fell asleep on top of my laptop last night. I can’t wait for my spine to thank me for that later.
Banishing Mandy from my mind, I dash off a message to Rosalie, confirming she still wants/needs me to go. She replies in the affirmative (damn), so I set about feeding myself and Stray, scrubbing the sand out of my eyes, and figuring out where I left off last night.
Right. Dane x Sentinel. Before conking out on top of the keyboard and typing WASD several thousand times, I’d been reading Andi’s draft, looking for something to comment on. To my eyes, though, it’s pretty damn near perfect, and except for correcting a missing period at the end of line 151, I have nothing to say. The pacing and tension work, and the moment where Sentinel has to choose whether to restore Dane’s memories against their will is fraught as hell. Andi even put in a true end, where—if Sentinel’s affinity with Dane is high enough—Dane will choose to restore their memories themself and move on from their first love to be with Sentinel. I can already tell I’m going to play the shit out of Dane’s route, exploring every dialogue option even though I theoretically know how it all ends.
For good measure, I reread my favorite part of what Andi’s written:
DANE
Do you remember what you said to me when we first met? When I asked you what is hope but a measure of how much despair we will feel if we fail to save this world?
(Sentinel nods. From the balcony of their quarters, they look up at the star-spattered night sky. Night creatures whistle and chirp.)
SENTINEL
That feels like a lifetime ago.
(Dane approaches and leans in toward Sentinel. Shyly, they take their hand.)
DANE
In many ways, it was. You said, “Rather, I believe hope is our beating hearts reminding us that there is still life in this world worth fighting for. That there is still love in this world worth feeling.”
(Sentinel turns to face Dane. Dane looks askance, obviously nervous.)
DANE (CONT’D)
You have proved to me the truth of your answer, Sen. I didn’t restore my memories to remind myself of my despair. I restored them because I want to be my whole and truest self with you. With you, I want to live again. I want to love again. I want to save this world because I want time , Sen. Time with you.
[GAMEPLAY] The dialogue tree appears. Only one choice may be selected.
[CHOICE A] To become lovers: I love you.
SENTINEL
Even if we fall in tomorrow’s battle, there is no one I would rather spend my last breaths with, Dane. I love you.
[CHOICE B] To stay allies: I am glad for you.
SENTINEL
I should go.
Like a little kid, I scissor my ankles. It’s so good I want to squeal. Who knew! Who frickin’ knew Andi “Andz” Zhang could write something so, so, so …
I clutch my heart. So romantic.
Sitting back in my chair, I consider the flurry of open documents in front of me. Kelsi, Evaralin, Catha, and Dane; Warden, Ranger, Keeper, and Spyglass. Four main party members, all romanceable, despite the fact that eight weeks ago, none of them had any interest in Sentinel beyond helping them save the world. Without quite knowing why, I check the date on my laptop’s calendar. It’s one day before the deadline Andi originally gave me in our second in-person meeting ever.
“Holy Palutena,” I say out loud. “I did it.” Actually, we did it. Somehow Andi and I got over our own egos to make an impossible deadline and conjure love out of thin air.
There are a billion things left to do, obviously—lines to firm up and scenes to record and animate, not to mention hundreds of codex entries to write and proofread and make consistent—but for the first time, I feel confidence like a drug swirling through my bloodstream.
Compass Hollow is going to be an incredible game.
I don’t get to bask in my self-congratulatory halo for long, since Rosalie calls to offer me a ride to the McBride Teahouse, where the reunion is being held. I take a shower in record time and pull on a sundress, ninety-five percent because I’m out of hoodies and five percent because I don’t want any of my “sisters” to give me shit for my nonexistent style sense. When I check myself out in the mirror, I realize I’m covered in cartoon pineapples wearing sunglasses and drinking pi n a coladas (which is a little disturbing, now that I think about it).
The corners of my mouth creep up. If only Andi could see me now. I do a little twirl and watch the ends of the dress flip up, revealing my calves. My daikon calves, as my mom calls them.
What does Andi see in me? While I think I’m cute, I know I’ll never be Hollywood hot, what with my soft middle and my mouth that can’t decide if it wants to be polite or scathing. As first-world a problem as it is, it feels weird to be wanted. Usually, I get more action in game than out of game.
The doorbell rings. I hurriedly smear some lipstick on, wiping off my smile in the process. Shuffling to the front door, I greet Rosalie, and we get on our way.
The McBride Teahouse looks like someone festooned a platoon of Piranha Plants in lacey onesies and then made them throw up all over a dining room stuffed to the gills with pearls, fairy lights, and Chiavari chairs. It’s pure chaos inside, decorated with succulent terrariums and lavender geraniums and other multisyllabic gardening-related words that normies like to search for when populating their Pinterest boards. As soon as Rosalie and I push through the white double doors, I spot several dozen girls—sorry, women ; they’d kill me if they knew I’d gotten it wrong—from Tri Sig. I’m sorely tempted to turn heel and run, but Rosalie is holding on to my elbow and besides, Mandy clocks our entrance and descends like a harpy.
“So glad you could make it, you two!” she scraws. “Can’t believe I haven’t seen you since you moved to Colorado, Kit Kat Li. Where’ve you been hiding yourself, eh?”
“Nowhere—” I start, hating her nickname for me.
“And Rosebush, where’s the hubby?”
“Parking,” Rosalie answers. “Shall Cat and I set up the silent auction next to the crudit é s table?”
Nodding, Mandy lets Rosalie go but keeps me from escaping by digging her talons into my right arm. “Where’s your plus-one, Cat? Or are you still single?”
In response to this question, my brain decides to show me an image of Andi at the pool in her boy shorts and crop tank. “Single,” I croak.
“Oh, you poor baby,” Mandy coos. “Rosebush told me you make games now. That can’t be easy, can it, Kit Kat? Trying to date as a lesbian around a bunch of sixteen-year-old boys.”
“It’s not like my coworkers are sixteen-year-olds,” I try to explain.
“You should do what my boyfriend does!” Mandy interrupts. She laughs, and the sound rends the air like a rusty nail being dragged down a glass surface. “He’s a creative asset manager. Isn’t that cool? I’d be happy to introduce you to him, Cat, when he comes in. You could take some pointers, do a little networking. He’s a really big deal, you know? Been on his phone all morning.”
“Mandy,” Rosalie chirps, popping up out of nowhere. “One of Lindsay’s falsies fell into the hummus, and she doesn’t have a spare. She sent me to get you since she said you might have another set in your purse. She’s in the bathroom.”
“Oh my gosh!” Mandy semiscreams, clapping her hands together. “The poor thing, always needing me to save her from herself.”
She swans off. Once she’s out of earshot, Rosalie tugs my sleeve. “C’mon, before she comes back.”
“Is Lindsay actually in the bathroom?” I whisper back.
“Yes, although her falsies are still attached to her. The lies I tell to save you from Mandy’s clutches.”
In the back of the room by the crudit é s, we set out the biddable items one by one (hot yoga classes, spray tan packages, gluten-free picnic baskets, and the like). “Now can we leave?” I ask as soon as we get to the end of the table.
Rosalie winces. “The party hasn’t even started yet, Cat.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheeks. “All the more reason to git while the going’s good.”
Rolling her eyes at me, Rosalie says, “At least the food is decent.” Waving a petit four at her husband, who’s wandered in only to get pulled away by a clutch of men wearing pastel khakis and Top-Siders, she nudges us toward an uncrowded corner between the bathroom and a radiator. “How was IAX? You haven’t gushed to me about it yet.”
I hesitate, my lips stilling on the rim of my teacup. “It was fun.”
Rosalie frowns at me. “It was … fun.”
Ugh. If I don’t get garrulous fast, she’ll catch on to the fact that something unexpected happened. And while I want to update Rosalie on the situation with Andi, conversation setting matters immensely to me, and, as the internet would say, this ain’t it. “ Ouroboros Guild was super good, definitely worth picking up once it comes out. I only got to play it for fifteen minutes, and I can already tell its gameplay is going to be some of the slickest stuff to come out of the studio in the last decade. I also bought this incredible poster of Katamari Damacy . And, uh—” I knock back the rest of my tea like it’s hard liquor. “I bought a new game called Fantasy DILF .”
Hearing this, Rosalie spits up a mouthful of darjeeling.
My ears flare hot. While Rosalie has never poked fun at me for my dweeby pursuits, I’m still self-conscious about playing (and enjoying) a game with the word “DILF” in the title. “It’s like The Sims , but for dating,” I clarify. “The name’s a bit vulgar, but essentially you play as this hot single dad who—”
“No, look .” Grabbing my wrist, Rosalie points.
I look.
At first, I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary. It’s quieter than it was when we first arrived, but otherwise, people are milling about, talking and drinking. Then the gaggle of Tri Sig women in front of us shifts and I catch sight of a man getting down on one knee beside Mandy. He’s wearing a baby-blue golf shirt tucked into white khakis and holding up a black velvet box. He looks vaguely familiar.
“Is that …?” I ask, brow furrowing.
Rosalie squeezes my arm. “Yeah. That’s Brady or whatever his name is. Looks like our Mandy’s getting proposed to.”
We watch as the crowd quiets and the man rakes his fingers through his blond hair. A spray of sweat flies from his hand, and I recoil. Based on his confident grin, he’s not nervous. Just … moist.
“Mandy-baby,” he begins. “Ever since I met you eight weeks ago, I’ve been smitten. You’re gorgeous and you’re beautiful, and you’ve supported me through so many challenging days and nights. You always have a smile for me, and usually a beer too”—this elicits a few titters—“and even though we’ve only been together a couple months, I know you’ll always have my back. I love you. You’re the queen of my heart, the apple of my eye, and the love of my life.”
Blocking out the rest of the speech, I flip through my mental Rolodex to pinpoint why it feels like I recognize Mandy’s new beau and soon-to-be fianc é . I go through all the douche canoes in Tri Sig’s brother Greek house and am halfway through my male accounting ex-coworkers when Mandy sighs, “Oh, Bretty-bear.”
I freeze. Bretty-bear? As in Brett? As in Brett McCloy, who works for EA and whom Andi reports into?
“Will you marry me?” I hear Bretty-bear ask Mandy-baby. A few aww s drift through the air as everyone besides me waits on tenterhooks for Mandy’s inevitable yes.
It can’t be the same Brett, right? I’ve seen Heartrender’s Brett only once, from across the office and through several panes of conference room glass, no less, and didn’t Mandy say something about her boyfriend being a “creative asset manager”?
“Yes!” Mandy squeals.
Ahead of me, a shout goes up, hurled into the air by Lindsay-with-the-Falsies and echoed by every bottle-blonde head in the room: “To the future Mr. and Mrs. McCloy!”