I followed a pair of fairy wings into one of the adjacent halls where people got glitter face tattoos and took selfies with Pyramid head fromSilent Hill. Checking my phone, I saw that the interview panel was about to start. I stood on the tips of my combat boots, only to realize I was walking with the fantasy and sci-fi crowd. I was in the wrong panel. Grumbling, I checked the program a vampire had pressed into my hand and saw that the romance panel was on the other side of the giant convention.
Had John’s readership dropped since he switched genres so drastically? A man, once a sci-fi star, now writing romance. I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. It took guts to make a leap like that. But as I stepped into the hall with his face on a banner above the entrance, I was surprised to see the room packed to the brim. The remnants of the sci-fi crowd mingled with a sea of middle-aged women.
All the seats were taken. The chatter gradually softened into murmurs. Beside me, two young women giggled. I did a double-take. The same two girls from the store—who’d gushed over John’s book a year ago—were jumping up and down, shushing each other as they raised their phones, ready to film his entrance.
The room grew quiet, the overhead lights dimming to focus on the long table set up on the stage. Someone I didn’t know stepped out. My palms grew clammy as the host introduced the panel guests and dramatically paused before announcing:
“And here comes the man, the writer, the imaginare-extraordinaire, the winner of awards and teenage hearts, who knocked us over the head with cut-throat adventures and now sweeps us into the 21st century—unexpected, yes, but no less riveting. Everyone, give a big welcome to...”
The crowd erupted. Cheers and whistles so loud my ears rang.
I had to stand on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of John as he strode along the table, flashing his dimple-producing smile at the crowd.
Dimples. Attacking me like that was just unfair.
He cleared his throat. The vibration of his voice hit me like a wave, flooding me with memories—us on his sofa, smoking on the patio, in the shed, in his bed...
My breath hitched. I turned around, feeling my stomach twist into painful knots. Panic began to seize me. I’d been wrong. I couldn’t do this. Not yet. The amount of power this man had over me was unhealthy.
But as I turned, I was blocked by Pyramid head—a.k.a. some very dedicated cosplayer on stilts with a helmet that could poke out an eye. There was no way around him.
My palms were sweaty. This had been a bad idea. But now, I was stuck.
John raised his hand and the crowd quieted.
He’d trimmed his beard, but his hair was longer now, grazing his ears. The shadow of his collarbone peeked out from under a simple black shirt. He’d lost weight.
Then he began to speak, and my insides melted.
“Thank you all, thank you. I wasn’t sure I expected quite this outcome. You know, when I first started dreaming about this book, I thought this was exactly that. A dream. I knew I had a solid place in the sci-fi community.” Cheers erupted, then died down. “And I knew I didn’t want to disappoint my readers. You guys are doing some incredible work out there. You make me one of the luckiest authors in the world. I get your fan mail, your art, and yes, I do have access to Wattpad and sometimes even read your smutty fanfic.” The women next to me giggled,and John pointed a finger at them. “Yeah, I see you.” The room laughed.
“A very wise woman once told me, ‘John, your readers will follow you anywhere.’”
Another round of cheering. Those were my words. Spoken to him that night in the cabin.
I threw another glance over my shoulder, but Pyramid head had not magically disappeared.
Someone in front of me changed seats, giving me a direct view of John.
No matter how hard I tried to focus on his words, I couldn’t stop watching the way his hands underlined every sentence with his gestures. How he leaned back in his chair when someone gave him a compliment, as if he didn’t quite believe it, as if he didn’t quite deserve it.
Jealousy boiled up inside me, hating everyone close to him and hating myself for still being so affected by it. I wanted to be the person to make him laugh. I used to be. And I believed I knew him in a way no one else in that room ever could. The private John, the quiet one, the one who replaced touches with words, spelling unwritten poems on my body with his mouth.
I gasped for air.
This was torture. Why the hell did I do this to myself?
A creak behind me. Someone slipped out. There was an opening at the door.
If I dove out now?—
I stood, shuffling past people, muttering, "Sorry, sorry…sorry.”
Then—
“Now we go to the Q&A. Ah, here’s our first.” The MC’s voice rang out.
I noticed everyone turning towards me. A wave of hushed whispers stretched all the way to where I stood, right next to the microphone.
