Page 57 of A Curvy Girl’s Hurricane Survival Guide

I am running toward something I feel proud of.

Rule #23

DON’T FIGHT THIS FEELING ANYMORE… YOU MIGHT FORGET WHAT YOU WERE FIGHTING FOR

SONNY

I’ve had this GamerCon appearance locked in for almost a year. If not for that, I probably would’ve canceled. Talking to John has helped, but it doesn’t fix the ache in my chest. He suggests I hunt her down on social media, find her, her family, anyone.

It’s a sound suggestion, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It feels weird, invasive, and too desperate. Plus, I don’t really do social media in the first place. My accounts are all managed by marketing managers, and I’d have to create an account just to spy on her and try to get her details. That many steps feel like a creep-level amount of effort.

Besides, I am terrified of what I’d see, like old posts of her with Trevor. Or worse, new ones. The mere thought has me seeing green.

At least the Con will provide a good distraction. The convention center is huge, and even though we have arrived early, it is already full of cars and people walking up. We are led to a back door guarded by men wearing dark sunglasses, and we enter a green room stocked with snacks and bottles of water. I look through the bags of chips, and my hand stops on a bag of banana chips. I am immediately brought back to that night, that dinner; the sweet, chewy fried plantains that melted in my mouth.

“Anything good?” My business partner, Ben, breaks into my thoughts.

“Nope,” I say, returning the bag and grabbing a bottle of water instead. “Nothing exciting, just the same old stuff.”

I wonder how long until this feeling will last; this emptiness.

Stop that. Get your head in the game.

I turn my attention to my notes and focus on the upcoming panel.

A few hours later, we are on the stage, rounding out what should be the last question. It has gone well. The audience is large and lively. They have set up some nice, comfy chairs, a moderator, and a few facilitators in the audience passing around mics so that we can take questions. The questions have been insightful and teeming with excitement. I’ve gotten really into it, and for a while I lose myself in the experience.

The moderator, a nice woman named Marci, is saying, “Well, if there aren’t any other questions…” when a guitar riff sounds out from the audience.

Marci looks around, confused. I squint against the stage lights, trying to find the source of the music, which I can now tell is REO Speedwagon’s " Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore. I spot someone standing in the middle of the crowd, holding something over their head… is that a boombox?

I get up and walk to the front of the stage to get a better look. I catch security moving out of the corner of my eye. I put up a hand to stop them.

“No, wait,” I say. They look around, confused, but stop moving in.

My heart quickens as I confirm it’s Cai, standing in the middle of the crowd, holding up a boombox, like John Cusack in Say Anything. There is a sign around her neck in glitter that says:

I’M SORRY I WAS AN IDIOT.

I WAS WRONG.

I SHOULD’VE TOLD YOU SOONER.

I’m dumbfounded; my mouth hangs open. Cai looks nervous but determined. The chorus hits, and she starts belting it out, very loudly and very off-key, unashamed.

I laugh into my mic. “Cai… that’s not the song from Say Anything.”

She stops singing and lowers the boombox to her chest. “Yes, it is! I’m pretty sure it is!” She yells back.

The crowd erupts in laughter. Someone hands her a microphone.

“Nah, sorry, babe, it’s not,” I say, grinning so wide it hurts. “That would be Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes.”

Cai looks at the boombox like it has betrayed her. “Seriously? Are you sure?” She kills the music. “Ok, but …is it working? The grand gesture and all?”

She looks up at me, body rigid in anticipation.

My chest cracks wide open. “Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “It’s working.”