I shook my head. “Nothing, just…”
“I’m sorry, Nora. Normally I manage to put them aside before you get here.” She untied her apron and laid it across the counter.
“Wait. What do you mean—normally?”
She shrugged. “Well, you seemed to not want to…how do I put this…be in touch with any of this. With anythingyou-know-whorelated.”
I held up the package. “There was more post for me that I didn’t get?”
Mom winced. “A bit. I wanted you to be able to take a break. Get some distance. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
I stared at the parcels. “Yes, I did. But I didn’t expect them to reach out through snail mail.”
I looked back down at the package. Something inside me tugged. So, I put coffee number six on— it was a death-by-caffeine kind of day—and ripped open the first box.
Nothing. Nothing could have prepared me for this.
I held a book in my hand. With a cover I knew all too well.
My parents on a scooter in Berlin.
The title—Two Truths And A Lie.
Author—John E. Kater.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“Liebling? Are you okay?”
I nodded, then shook my head, and saw tears splashing onto the cover. Paper scattered on the floor. Bookmarks with the same print, a signed sheet from the author. A voucher for a discount for his reading at the next convention in Middleton. This was promotional mail. Nothing personal. Post from the publisher. Probably sent out to the entire team. And I was still on their mailing list. It was good Mom hadn’t shown me the rest. It would have only gotten my hopes up.
He had, once more, taken from me. I brushed the tears away. Collected the book stuff and threw it in the trash.
I would NOT go to see him.
Chapter Forty-Three
Of course I read the book.
Pyramid Head should be a bodyguard.
Meg Ryan movies really don’t suck.
I went.
As the crowd of Final Fantasy cosplayers and a flock of Regency dresses threatened to engulf me, I wished Otis were here. He could either talk me out of this or cheer me on with a megaphone. I still hadn’t decided what would be better. Nor had I figured out what I was going to do when I saw him.
Shout at him?
Break down and cry?
Whack him with the book over the head?
All options were on the table.
Instead of a plan, I slipped into the convention on autopilot. Maybe I was sadistic, part of me missing John’s stupid face and hoping to catch a glimpse before slipping out unseen. Or maybe it was the bitter hurt beneath my skin that wanted him to squirmwhen I showed up at his panel. He probably had no idea I’d received a copy from Haller & Mark.
Either way, I was here.
