I’d left Otis in the arms of a drag queen again, knowing full well they’d already planned their engagement photos. But tonight I was too wired to watch the usual scene play out. Otis was hopelessly in love with the idea of love. He flitted from one relationship to the next, chasing Mr. Right—dreaming ofmarrying some cute lawyer, adopting three kids, and painting a white picket fence while wearing a flattering apron.
As much as I wished that for him, I knew what those fantasies could do. Sooner or later, his heart would break. His light would dim, and I’d have to pick up the pieces. It was bad enough I still had to do that for Mom.
And it had been five years this Christmas.
I kicked off my boots and headed straight to my fold-out desk, pushing aside charcoal, pencils, and notebooks to rest my elbows before opening my laptop to obsessively reread my email.
Confirmation of admission.Congratulations, your manuscript has been officially entered. We will announce the writers who qualify for the next round in ten working days. A representative of Haller & Mark will contact you if your story is chosen. If so, you will enter the second tier and receive an exclusive space in Haller & Mark’s annual writing retreat to complete revisions before the final three authors are announced.
This contest is open to unagented writers as well as industry professionals. Haller & Mark pride themselves on giving everyone a chance to carry on the legacy of Captain Caruso. We are excited to read fresh voices and new ideas, and will choose the best fit for the future of this beloved series. A panel of no fewer than sixteen agents and independent editors will be?—
My chair creaked as I leaned back. Above my desk, I’d pinned what I thought would make the perfect cover for the new series. There she was—the new Captain Caruso. Exactly what she deserved to be. Trinity meets Tank Girl. Because in my version, Captain Caruso was a woman. Gun holstered, her stare piercing the depths of the universe. Ready to kick alien ass andlead revolutions. Just what the next generation of Caruso fans deserved.
The rest of the wall was plastered with artwork. Some mine, some from artists I admired, some tattoos I may get next.
At the very top, a sketch of my parents in Berlin.
When I first stepped off the plane that left Germany and into the American dream, I was fourteen. Blissful spring days of decorating teenage rooms, the freedom of drive-throughs, and a country so wildly composed of opposites had given way to a dire fall and winter. To sitting at the back of the class and outside of cliques. I had filled my time with studying people instead of talking to them, with tracing their features in graphite pencils like a student in a museum.?
Dad had tried to encourage me to make friends. He taught me a game—Two Truths and a Lie. Mostly to help with my social anxiety, but also because small talk was—and still is—the bane of my existence. This way, I could control what I told people, and they’d have to guess which of my three facts was a lie. If they guessed wrong, I took it as a sign from the universe that I was better off alone.
Secretly, I enjoyed when people looked shocked at my facts. I said I wanted to be a mortician, or that I listened exclusively to German punk and mainly read science fiction books from the 80s. That I never had a Twinkie and no, I’ve not been to church.
Surely, they must all be lies.
My walls were built, high and solid.
That was until I met a boy with shapely brows who smelled of Victoria’s Secret instead of teenage sweat.
“There is no wayTwilightis your favorite movie,” he had said, grinning as he plopped beside me onto the bleachers, eyeing my sketchbook before I could close it.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, pushing my sunglasses up on my head.
“Because someone who dresses like Daria 2.0 can see from a mile away that breaking into someone's bedroom to watch them sleep is creepy as hell.”
Otis believed there was more to weird-Nora than choppy bangs and a stubborn German accent. With his charm and mad eyeliner skills, he pulled me out of solitary confinement. But my need to study the world on paper never faded.
I yawned. The generic white IKEA clock I’d found on the street after a drunken tumble from Garland’s last month told me it was just after 3 a.m. I was too wired to sleep. Too wired to scroll through the newest fanfics. The whole forum was buzzing with people speculating about the competition.
I slipped into my comfy worn-out activewear, which had never seen a gym from the inside, and reheated spring rolls the Chinese restaurant downstairs was about to throw away.I put on season six ofThe X-Files—a.k.a. my sexual awakening—and bit into the first spring roll. It tasted like a bad decision.
Special Agent Dana Scully was examining a body, weighing its contents and looking ridiculously hot handling intestines.I used to be obsessed with Scully. The kind of obsession that blurred the lines between wanting to kiss her or simply wanting tobeher. I remember admiring her fine-arched nose, tilted up against the patriarchy, against her cis-male partner’s opinions. A woman planted firmly with both heeled feet in a male-dominated world.??
Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers had taken on a life of their own and done something my uncompromised brain would never allow. They looked John Kater up on Instagram. He wasn’t hard to find. There was a blue tick next toJKauthor.?
The last picture was from a week ago at comic con. Kater’s tall frame towered over a fan, an arm around the girl’s shoulder. She looked like she’d faint any second.?
The brown of his eyes was so dark, they almost bordered on black. Otis had called him hot. And sure, if you’re into ridiculously tall, raven-haired celebrities, I guess. But Otis didn’t know. Because Otis didn’t need to know. And I would never tell him how, before John Kater was a bestselling author, he came to my university years ago to give a guest lecture. How he read a short story I’d written and visibly cringed when he realized it was fan fiction — like it didn’t deserve to exist, like fan fiction was just a waste of time.
Most people don’t realize fan fiction has had a huge impact on the book market, shaping contemporary romance for decades. Hell, evenRomeo and Julietstarted out basically as a fanfic to a poem. Nothing pissed me off more than people trying to gatekeep writing. What they didn’t get was that fan-fiction stories are basically love letters — the joy of asking the question:What if?What if Darth Vader won? What if Buffy and Faith got together (as they should have)?
But when I presented John Kater with my Lew Elliot–inspired story, he just scoffed. Like none of what I did had any value. A girl doesn’t just forget that. No, she stores those memories and lets the grudge grow into a full-blown vendetta.
Since then, I’ve lain awake at night, imagining countless alternative endings to that day — clever comebacks that slid easily off my tongue, wiping that arrogant grin off John Kater’s face.
Beneath his picture were thousands of comments — hearts, fire emojis,100%, whatever that meant. I scrolled until his fiancée, Vivian Garner, appeared. They were on a boat together, the sunset behind their heads, her 70s Chanel sunglasses reflecting the phone. I could swear Kater looked a little tense. Maybe his $300 lobster bisque was giving him trouble.
A comment from a well-known actress: “Is it true? You guys okay?”
