Page 29 of Cosplay & Consequences

I took a sip of my cocktail and let him go on, trying to hide my smile. I had no doubt in my mind that he was reading the books. He talked on and continued to quote little bits of the story that I had even forgotten after multiple re-reads of the series.

“The weird thing is I keep picturing him as Falstaff in the Merry Wives of Windsor. It’s unreal that—” he paused, tilting his head as if examining me.

I realized I was staring at him in disbelief. For a moment, I was back in my grandmother’s living room sitting on her lap as she told me stories.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“No. No,” I said, shaking off the memory. “I was surprised. When the author created Roderick, she was inspired by Falstaff and that play. I’ve never met anyone who made that connection before.”

“Wow!” Daniel said, his lips curving into a wide grin. “That’s amazing. I’m impressed. You really know these books.”

I hesitated with my answer as I could see where this was going. “They are very much part of my life,” I admitted.

He sat back in his chair, evaluating me. “Can I ask you a question?”

We were interrupted when the server brought the first round of food and placed it in front of us, or rather, me. A big bowl of soup which had… tentacles in it. And shrimp, which still had their heads on, their beady eyes staring up at me. I poked at the shrimp head with my spoon.

“Is your question ‘Do I have a steel stomach?’” I asked, feeling very wary of the culinary adventure I was about to have.

“No,” he laughed. “But try it. It’s amazing.”

I tried a simple spoonful of the broth first and was stunned. For such a watery broth, it had significant weight to it. I knew of the term ‘umami’ but never had I truly experienced it before. I dove back into the soup, and yes, ate a tentacle without thinking about it. “Oh my god!”

“I know, right?” Daniel said, smiling at me as I almost inhaled the entire bowl.

When I realized the bowl was empty, I felt my cheeks grow warm. They had to be beet red. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he assured me, with a warm smile.

“You wanted to ask me a question before I rudely hoovered this soup?”

“I did,” he said leaning in. “Feel free to refuse to answer, but… I know this whole franchise is your livelihood, but you don’t seem like an average fan. Or even a super fan. And I don’t just mean the tattoo of the house of Glen Orrin on your arm–

I resisted the urge to scratch at my shoulder.

“-which is beautiful by the way. I can tell you have a stake in this series. These books are deeply personal to you.”

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Yes. They are.”

“Why is that?”

I hesitated. I never shared this information publicly. Some people had made the connection elsewhere. Usually they were devoted fans of the books like me, and respected my wishes to not let it be known to everyone.

I took a sip of my cocktail, as my mouth had gone dry. “My grandmother wrote the books.”

His mouth dropped open in shock. “Your grandmother is J.K.C. Richards?” he asked.

I nodded, absently tracing the lip of the soup bowl with my finger. “My parents named me after her.”

He sat there for a moment, stunned. “How did I not put that together?”

“Not many people do,” I said with a shrug. “Richards is a pretty common name. My grandmother wrote the Valley of the Red Tyrant back in the early 1940’s as a way to escape the anxieties of World War II. She was the original Jessica, my namesake, but the publishers forced her to use the initials of her maiden and middle names, all so the world wouldn’t know the author was a woman. She signed away all rights for a small advance and a tiny percentage of the royalties. The publisher exploited the contract, and we haven’t even seen a cent from the TV series.”

I watched as his face went pale. “Oh my God. Oh, no.”

“What?”

“You must be disgusted with me,” he said, his jaw going slack. “Oh, my God, I’m an utter piece of shit.”