I had updated Otis about the majority of the trip: the group sessions, how gorgeous the house was, and reminded him we don’t date the competition when his eyes had grown big at the sight of Jeremy in the group photo. But all the moments with John—the weird tension, the sleeping huddled together on the floor, the shed… I had left those out. Because, really, what was there to tell? Nothing.
“Aren’t you on a cleanse?” I asked.
He stood, stacking the empty plates and bringing them into the kitchen. “Luckily, the stage makeup is so thick you won’t see any pimples. Besides, how could I ever resist your mom’sbaking?” Mom patted him on the head. “Judging by the number of pastries I’ve eaten, I’m probably half-German by now.”
This made my mom laugh. Which, in turn, warmed my insides too.
I added the three new envelopes of bills to the growing stack of mail on my desk. A smart person would move back into her parents’ house, saving her meagre pennies, considering my teenage bedroom was still there, basically untouched. But…I couldn’t. The thought of living above the shop, sidestepping Dad’s things, his toothbrush still on the sink, his patched suit jacket on the back of his desk chair…
I shuddered.
My eyes fell onto the duffel bag I hadn’t unpacked. I tossed my mostly black laundry into a hamper, ready to carry it down to the laundry room that was most definitely haunted, when something at the bottom of the bag caught my attention.
John’s book. I grimaced.
I’d forgotten to put it back and had ended up stealing from Lew Elliot’s house after all.
Shit.
And another one of John’s ugly poison-green books was now in my tiny flat. Which meant that possibly two percent of all my belongings were now John-related.
I was ready to toss the book in the trash when I spotted a name on the back cover that I must have missed when he handed me a signed copy at the convention.
“A great read.” — Lew Elliot.
I sat back on my bed, staring at the book. It shouldn’t have surprised me—not when you considered the tight, testosterone-heavy circle that made up the top ten percent of sci-fi writers.
But still. Seeing that Lew Elliot—a man my father practically worshipped—had blurbedJohn’sbook? That hurt. Even if the praise was lukewarm at best. It still stung.
I wondered how well they knew each other. If they’d look like old friends next week, when Haller & Mark announced the finalists at the Chicago Book Fair. What was once a quiet conference call had now turned into a full-blown media event, thanks to the world discovering thattheJohn Kater was in the running.
Lew Elliot would be there. Congratulating the top three. Maybe even shaking John’s hand.
I imagined what Dad would say ifImade it.
Scratch that.WhenI made it.
I opened Haller & Mark’s social page. Five new posts had been uploaded since I last checked. One for each candidate.
My heart jolted.
The first was May—pictured behind a massive desk overflowing with yarn, books, and novelty mugs. Her blurb was short but clever, already at three thousand likes in under an hour.
Jeremy came next. Posed in a blazer, Oxford’s iconic stone archway behind him. Just under five thousand likes.
Elaine, of course, looked like she’d commissioned a full Vogue editorial. And maybe she had. Her glam headshot was paired with a dramatic blurb, and together they’d racked up nine thousand likes and comments—most from her TikTok cult. Elaine’s Army is what they called themselves.
I scrolled, holding my breath.
There was mine. A two-year-old black and white photo I’d chosen specifically because it only showed half my face. A futile attempt at privacy.
Beneath it, my blurb. And…nine thousand likes.
My heart leapt to my throat.
Nine thousand people. Nine— motherfucking—thousand.
I scrolled through the comments—so many. Somany.
