Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“Meet yourself?”
“Yeah. I mean, like—”
“No, I get it,” she says. We stand in silence for another moment before she adds, “Maybe.”
I sigh, quietly. Then I pick up the dress, which feels lighter than I had imagined. “What are you going to wear?” I ask her.
“Same thing I wore the other night, probably.”
“Oh,” I start, very much intending to go on and say, No, no. You should wear this one.
But then I stop. More accurately, I force myself to stop.
Why do I do that? Question my right to enjoy what feels good? Why do I live under this constant cloud of anxiety propelled by this imposter syndrome I have?
People like to make fun of romance. Romance novels. Romantic stories. The whole concept of romance. I know it. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not oblivious. And the reason people do that is because a lot of them think it’s silly or frivolous to engage in that level of fantasy. They judge it, I suppose.
Just like I tend to judge myself.
Enough. No more playing small. No more denying myself satisfaction. No more worrying about things that are out of my control or what anyone might think of me.
Gotta start somewhere. So, may as well be here. Now. At a convention that exists to celebrate the power of fantasy and the unexpected. Put on by a guy who seems to genuinely like me for whatever reason he’s decided he does. Or maybe it’s just how he feels. Because he understands all the romance stuff on some intuitive level himself, whether he realizes it or not. Amidst an effulgence of others who are here and understand it just as honestly.
No more playing small. Please, Cordelia, no more playing small. Don’t listen to the voices in your head. The tapes from the past. The input of others who don’t have to live your life in your skin and with your brain.
One of the dictionary definitions of romance is: ‘A quality or feeling of mystery, excitement, and remoteness from everyday life.’
If I can’t feel that myself, how can I imbue it in others?
So I stifle my impulse to give away my chance at something like happiness. And, instead, I embrace the possibility of mystery. Excitement. Remoteness from everyday life.
I turn to Britney, give her a hug, and, with the deepest appreciation for the friend she’s been to me, tell her, “Good. You should wear your dress. You look great in it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“What do you think?” I’m doing the whole this-or-that thing with my tie. One is gold plaid and the other is gold-striped.
Terry is leaning forward, squinting at me through the vid app on my tablet. “What… what are we doing again?”
“We are helping me pick the right tie, Terry. It’s twenties party night. I had this suit custom-made.”
I love it. Twenties parties are my favorite and I am pulling this suit off so much better than Leonardo DiCaprio, it’s not even funny. It’s off-white, three-piece, with a brown waistcoat, a lavender shirt—so bold—and a gold tie. I just need to know which one. “So which one? Gold with maroon plaid accents? Or gold monochrome with barely-there stripes?”
Terry leans back in his chair and laughs, folding his tattooed arms across his chest. “You’re so needy this time, Steve. What is up?”
“What is up? Is that a serious question? I have been filling you in for three days now, Terry! I’m in love! Hel-looooooo! Cordelia and I—”
“Wait. I thought her name was Cynthia?”
“That’s her pen name. For fuck’s sake, don’t make me call Luke for this advice.” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Dude. Calm the fuck down. It’s a girl. You’ve literally dated millions of girls.”
“That’s… that’s not literal.”
“Can you hear yourself right now? My friend, you are a mess.”
“I’m a mess because the party starts in ten minutes and I don’t know which tie to wear!”
Terry sighs. “I don’t like gold. Choose a brown. Or a gray, like your shirt.”
“My shirt is lavender.”
He squints again, leaning forward until his eyeballs take up the whole screen. “Nah. I think that’s gray.”
I close my eyes and take a breath, asking for strength. Then I open them and look right at Screen Terry. “Thank you for your help. I have to go now.”
Terry salutes me. “It’s been my pleasure.” Then the screen goes gray.
Which is not the color of my shirt.
I pick up my phone, tap the SparkleNight DreamWeaver’s WishMaker app, and let out a sigh of relief when Gregory’s cartoon face appears.
“Steve, my friend. How can I help you?”
“Tell me which tie to wear. This one or this one?” Wait, can he see me? Is my camera enabled in this app?
“Option number two, Steve. Gold monochrome with barely-there stripes.”
I tilt my head a little and study his cartoon face. Well, I guess that answers that question. But… is he spying on me though my microphone? Were those not the exact words I used to describe this tie to Terry?