I’m not asleep exactly when we finally arrive, but it takes me a while to realize the train has stopped. When I open my eyes, my car is almost empty and Roxana is nowhere in sight. I grab my backpack and amble out.
She’s waiting for me outside. She points out Emile’s car in the parking lot, and I follow her to it.
Felicia is sitting in the passenger seat, so Roxana and I open opposite doors in the back and slide in.
“Hi, guys!” Felicia says.
“Hi,” Roxana immediately responds, extra loudly; maybe she thinks she can pass that off as her usual chirpiness. “Thanks so much for picking us up! I owe you one, Emile.”
“Yes, thank you,” I echo in hollow tones.
“No problem,” Emile says as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“So . . . how was it today?” Felicia asks brightly.
“Fine,” Roxana says stiffly, and I just nod. Silence permeates the car.
“Just . . . fine?” Felicia asks, and her sharp eyes glance at us in the rearview mirror.
“Well, you know. It was great,” Roxana says, again substituting volume for enthusiasm. “The usual nerd stuff we love. We don’t want to bore you.”
At this point, Felicia has turned back to look Roxana in the face and gets met with a toothy smile. Then Felicia turns to me, and I will my mouth to turn up too.
She looks back and forth between us for a second longer and then sneaks a glance at her brother before finally turning around in her seat, like she’s desperate to find out what’s happening but knows better than to ask in front of him.
“Sounds awesome,” she finally says. “But you guys sound exhausted.”
“Yes, definitely,” Roxana says, her voice now flooded with relief.
Ten minutes later, Emile pulls into my driveway. I thank him and Felicia again before scrambling out of the car and up to my front door, my keys already in hand. I cannot get away from that Toyota Prius and its current inhabitants fast enough.
Chapter 20
Fallout
THE NUMBNESS STICKS WITH ME as I methodically prepare for bed, and I’m starting to think I’ll fall asleep that way. But then, from the corner of my eye, I glimpse something on my wall: a few of the Misfits of Mage High panels that I love the most and have tacked up there. Suddenly, one moment comes back like a pinprick to a balloon and jolts all my nerves awake—what Roxy said about Misfits.
She didn’t want anything to change, and now everything has. How will we ever write together again? Or talk? Or do anything without it being supremely awkward? Have I destroyed everything I built up over the past eight years in one fell swoop?
A tear escapes my eye. I hastily wipe it away and shut my eyes tight so that no more tears can come. It takes me a very long time to fall asleep.
After only a couple of fitful hours of rest, I wake up the next day with a pounding headache and dry, red eyes. I only remember halfway through dressing that I’m probably experiencing something of a hangover. Coupled with a shattered heart, of course. Terrific.
The original plan was for Roxana’s mom to drive Samira, Roxy, and me to the train station this morning, but I immediately self-veto this. Instead, I go downstairs and ask my dad if he can give me a ride. He agrees, and I send Roxana a quick text that takes me way too long to compose, since I want to come across as casual and non-brokenhearted as possible. No need for a ride today. My dad will drop me off is what I finally settle for.
K, she texts back after five minutes. Which I desperately attempt (and mostly fail) not to read anything into.
On the drive over, my dad asks what’s going on at the con today and I mumble something about panels because, honestly, I don’t even remember what I had originally planned for the day.
“Sounds fun. Maybe next year, I can come with you guys on one of the weekend days,” he says.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Next year. That seems impossible right now. That the minutes, hours, and days will tick away enough for us to be at New York Comic Con again one whole year later. How can I possibly occupy that time without my best friend and my writing partner? How excruciating will all those moments be?
I’m absentmindedly staring at my dad’s hands on the steering wheel, and the shiny gold band on his left hand twinkles at me. Out of nowhere a thought hits me. I’ve asked my dad to recall the day he met my mom hundreds of times. In the beginning, it was about them, their story. But later on, I wanted to hear it because it gave me hope as an awkward nerd myself. That my dad got up the nerve to approach a pretty girl and strike up a conversation, even if the impetus for it was misguided.
But now I realize . . . I don’t know much about the rest. How did they keep talking? How did he ever tell her he loved her? Eventually propose to her?
There’s only one person I can ask this of now. I might as well.
“Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
“When did you tell Mom you loved her?”
He quickly glances at me then, surprised enough by the question to momentarily take his eyes off the road. But then he bursts out laughing. “On our third date,” he confesses. “I was an idiot. It was a miracle she didn’t bolt out of the restaurant and never come back.”
I smile weakly and take that in before I think of a follow-up question. “And did you actually love her by the third date?”
“Of course!” he says. “But I should’ve played it at least a little bit cooler, you know? Anyone less perfect for me probably never would have stood for it.” I see a sad, secret smile play on his lips.
“What about Lauren? When did you tell her?”
“Ah. Well, I was definitely older and wiser. And it was a different, more mature relationship. Plus, you know, I was still grieving for Evie for a long time, even when we first started dating. So it took a while. But I told her on our one-year anniversary, when we went to the Hamptons for a weekend. I planned the whole thing out that time.”
I nod, thinking my situation sounds like a combination of the two. Planned out and thought about . . . but urgent and spontaneous, too.
“I love Lauren, too, you know,” Dad says quietly, and I turn to him, slightly alarmed.
“I know,” I assure him.
“There’s a part of you that thinks it’s not supposed to work out that way,” Dad continues slowly, his eyes on the road. “That you get one great love and to try again with anyone else would be an abomination to that memory. I never thought I would have to find love again, obviously, when I married your mom. And after she was gone, I never thought I ever could . . . I never looked for it—” I’m alarmed to realize that he’s sounding apologetic.
“Dad,” I interrupt him. “I’m glad you have Lauren. I’m glad we both do.” And it’s true. She loves my dad, and she’s always been good to me, even if she doesn’t quite understand me. Maybe I didn’t comprehend their relationship so well when I was nine, but now that I’m older—and now that I have an inkling of what love actually is—I do. I think Lauren was the only way my dad was ever going to heal from losing my mom. Not get over it, precisely, but heal.
“Is there something that’s brought this on?” my dad prods gently as we turn into the train station parking lot.
I sigh. “Something,” I concede. “Maybe we can talk about it later.”
He nods. “I’m here to listen whenever.”
I smile at him. “Thanks. See you.”
“Do you have a ride back?” he asks as I’m getting out of the car. Oh, man, a loaded question. Once again, Roxy’s mom was supposed to pick us up.
“Um, not sure. Can I call you if I need?”
“You bet.”
We say good-bye and my dad drives off. The train hasn’t arrived, so I walk slowly to the empty platform, my eyes darting around like I’m stalking prey. No one else is here yet, but a few minutes later, Casey gets dropped off. And just as I’m about to say hello to him, a familiar burgundy sedan pulls up too, and Roxana and Samira pile out, and then, to my surprise, Felicia.
“I
didn’t know Felicia was coming today.” Casey voices my thoughts.
“Me neither,” I mutter. When the three girls come up to us, Casey asks Felicia about her surprise appearance and Felicia says she snagged a last-minute pass on eBay last night. “I had so much fun on Friday, I thought why not?” she says cheerily, but I notice she doesn’t meet my eye. Of course, Roxana must have told her what happened, and she’s here for moral support. Or maybe even to make sure I don’t renew my declarations of affection or whatever.
The train pulls up and we find an available five-seater, three seats facing one way and two the other. The third seat is always a shorter one, with uncomfortable metal bars where the headrest would otherwise be. But after Roxana slides into the window and Samira slides in next to her, I take that one. This way I’m not facing Roxana and I’m one seat away from her too. It’s the farthest we can get from each other while still pretending to be part of the same group.
On the way in, Samira chatters about how she’s so excited about her first NYCC and, thankfully, fills up a lot of the silence. Felicia and Casey chime in, and even Roxy and I pick up cues here and there—whenever we’re sure it can’t be construed as us having a conversation with each other. At one point, when Samira is asking Roxana a complicated question about the logistics of the autograph line, I see Casey eyeing Felicia thoughtfully, and I vaguely wonder if he’s going to bring the class ranking thing up today. And then I sort of wish my biggest problem right now was academic in nature too: study enough, strategize enough, and it’s likely solvable. Completely the opposite of this tangled emotional turmoil that seems to have no logical solution.
It isn’t too hard to let the others steer the conversation on the walk over to the Javits, either. Besides, it’s cold and we’re walking against the wind. It’s like nature is on my side for once, making it harder to be chatty.
When we scan our badges and get inside, Devin is waiting for us by the door. It’s funny because, after everything that’s happened, I almost forgot about him. He calls out to Roxana, gets introduced to Samira, and says hello to everyone else.
“You doing all right?” he asks with a smile when he gets to me.
I’m suddenly furious. Whoa. Did Roxana actually tell this guy about my humiliation last night? “What the hell do you mean?” I spit out.
Devin looks bewildered. “Just whether you’re hungov—”
“He’s fine.” Roxana cuts him off sharply and then turns around and glares at me. As if I was the one about to use the word hungover in front of her little sister.
“Yup. Completely fine,” I respond, my voice as bitter as arsenic. “Thanks for clearing up my feelings for me, Roxana. You are terrifically talented at that.”
Her mouth drops open a little, but her eyes turn into slits. I can perfectly read the question that’s written in her angry stare: Are we really going to do this here and now?
No, we’re not, I decide. “Excuse me, but I have a panel to get to,” I say forcefully, and march past the group into the bowels of the convention center. I hear the squeak of sneakers start after me.
“Wait,” Casey says when he catches up. “What panel?” He’s gotten his spreadsheet schedule out and is frantically looking at it.
I sigh, irritated. “I don’t know. There is no panel. Don’t worry about it.” I keep walking.
“What?” Casey asks, looking thoroughly confused but still following me anyway.
I grimace but keep up my pace, aimlessly wandering onto the show floor. Then I finally break my silence. “I accidentally told Roxy everything last night. It didn’t . . . go well.”
“Oh,” Casey says, and it takes him a long time to think to say, “I’m sorry.”
I wave his pity away, looking at the dozens of colorful booths surrounding us but not really seeing any of them. “Forget it. Look, is there some panel we can go to right now? Or something? Anything?”
Casey consults his spreadsheet again and says there’s a Female Superheroes panel that he wants to check out in ten minutes because one of his favorite artists is on it. Also, female superheroes.
“Great,” I say, and tell him to lead the way. We manage to get seats near the front. I play a game on my phone to pass the time while we wait, but even when the panel starts, I find it difficult to pay attention. I’m ferociously trying not to replay any part of last night, and then any part of the weekend, and then, inevitably, most parts of the last eight years of my life. And that’s hard, especially when I can’t even seem to focus on the unrelated discussion happening in front of me.
Then I realize that the best thing I can do to distract myself is to really listen to the panelists and get each of their respective opinions on female superheroes. I do want to hear about Wonder Woman and Storm and Captain Marvel. I want to hear all about them. . . .
But then we reach the end of the panel and Lacey Grotowski—who is a panelist—inevitably gets asked about being one of the few women in her field, and with a pang, Roxana’s voice is in my ear. Just this summer, in fact, when we were eating dried sour cherries in her backyard and taking a break from a brainstorming session, we were discussing when we thought we’d achieve one of our biggest goals: the first time we’d be asked to be on a Comic Con panel.
“I’m going to be optimistic and say first year out of college,” I said.
She looked at me. “Okay, let’s put it out into the universe, then.” She turned her face up into the cloudless sky. “Universe. Graham Posner and Roxana Afsari will get their first invitation to speak at a Comic Con before they’re twenty-three.” And I swear a bird chirped in response.
“Nice going, Snow White.” I smiled at her.
“Oh, but there’s one thing more, Universe,” she continued, staring up. “No matter what else happens, I ask of you to ban one question forevermore from the Q&A section . . .”
Then she kept me waiting, and I knew she wanted me to try and guess. “ ‘Where do you get your ideas?’ ”
“Nope.” She shook her head.
“Calling you out on a nitpicky detail?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I give up.”
She smiled and turned her head to the sky once more. “Please don’t let anyone ask me what it’s like to be one of the only women in my field.”
“Is that because you’re hoping by then you won’t be one of the only women in your field?”
“Definitely,” Roxana said. “Also, it’s a stupid question. It’s like me asking you: Graham, what’s it like to be one of the few redheaded writers?”
And I saw her point.
As I see and hear Lacey calmly and gracefully answer the question now, I realize that it’s something she must get all the time. And something none of the male artists sitting up there with her probably ever get.
Five minutes later, the panel is over, and of course, trying to focus on anything other than my worries hasn’t worked at all. I’m truly at a loss as to how I can extricate my life and memories from Roxana.
As we get up to leave, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Felicia asking where I am. I ignore it.
“Where are you off to next?” I ask Casey, who, after consulting his spreadsheet, says there’s a raffle for exclusive NYCC Christmas ornaments at the Hallmark booth. “Great,” I respond, thinking maybe I can at least get my dad’s birthday present early this year.
But then my phone buzzes again. Samira’s asking for you. She said she thought you also wanted to get a photo with Aaron Dunning? Felicia writes.
I sigh. She’s right; I promised I’d go with her to meet him.
I only take another moment before I text Felicia back. Meet you near the autograph line.
Because I know that no matter what’s happened, I can’t let Samira down. She’s practically my little sister too.
There’s another buzz, and I expect it to just be a confirmation text from Felicia, but it’s something else entirely.
How’s it going today, Inigo?
Amelia.
Despite everything, I manage a little smile. It feels like the first time I’ve been compelled to smile since last night.
Same ol’ same ol’, I respond. Looking for Miracle Max. Seeking revenge. An image of Devin’s perfect face flashes through my mind at that last statement.
I’ll keep an eye out for the man with 6 fingers, she writes back.
Please do.
Chapter 21
Just
Like Fan
Fic
CASEY WALKS WITH ME TO the autograph and photo op section and helps me find Aaron Dunning’s name—and subsequently Samira, Felicia, Roxana, and Devin. Roxana and Devin are deep in conversation about something, but Felicia waits with Samira until they see me approach. Sam gives me a wide grin and waves a piece of paper she’s holding in her hand.
“Excited?” I ask her as I eye the paper and see it’s a receipt for the photo op.
She nods, her eyes wide and bright.
“I’m going to go check out the ornaments, and then I have another panel to get to,” Casey says.
“What is it?” Felicia asks.
“Oh. It’s, um, Dothraki 101.” Casey blinks a few times.
“Dothraki,” Felicia starts. “That sounds kinda familiar.”
“It’s a language from Game of Thrones,” I helpfully provide. “I think the guy who helped create it for the show is here. Right, Casey?”
Casey nods.
“Oh, cool. Mind if I come?” Felicia asks.
Casey blinks several more times and then nods again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s blushing.
“Where and when should we meet you guys?” Felicia turns to me.
“Um . . . how about in an hour? At the DC Comics display in the middle of the show floor?” There are a lot of movie props there, and I’ve been meaning to take a look. Specifically at some of the Tim Burton Batman stuff. Amelia’s little argument from yesterday has stuck with me.
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