I stand outside the convention center trying not to panic. Beside me, Killian is holding my hand tightly, trying to coax me out of my nerves.

“It’s going to be fine,” he says, over and over. “You’ve practiced all of this a million times, Tilly. You know your shit. And you’re going to knock it out of the park.”

But somehow, I can’t quite bring myself to believe him. I gaze up at the giant concrete building in front of me, heart in my throat. “What if I fuck it up?” I ask, voicing my worst fear. It’s the same question I’ve been posing every day for a week. Inside my head, this is the question that’s haunted me ever since I started down this road toward my dream.

There’s a huge banner strung across the entrance, with the words Children’s Book Fair emblazoned on it. I found out about the fair online. And when I checked, I noticed the illustrator that Tricia used to dangle in front of me, planned to have a booth at the festival. Her, and a lot of other illustrators. If I could impress one of them, get them to partner with me, get a foot in the door…

Stop getting ahead of yourself, Tilly, I remind myself. I’m here to gather information, primarily. There are a lot of workshops about writing children’s books, and a lot of panels where you can meet agents and editors. There’s even a pitch event, where you pitch your story ideas to agents one-on-one, and if they’re interested, they agree to read the whole story and suggest edits. Maybe even offer representation, if they enjoy the premise and think they’ll be able to sell the book to a publisher.

This will be my first conference like this. Ever. I tell myself that’s why I’m nervous. Like, palms-sweating, could barely sleep last night, keep badgering Killian with a million dramatic what-if scenarios, nervous.

But really, deep down, I know the issue. I still don’t believe I’m good enough. A part of me still believes that without help, without someone like Tricia who knew the industry and could introduce me, I won’t be able to break in. I don’t have a foot in the door, and I’m not confident that my work is strong enough to stand on its own.

“Tilly, look at me.”

I swallow down the fear that’s been building inside me all week—all my life, really. And I turn to face Killian, smiling.

He, at least, never scares me. He’s my rock. Ever since we got serious, after that whole fiasco with his ex-wife, he’s been here for me. He supported me until I found a part time job, a coffee shop gig that allows me to pay my bills, but still gives me plenty of time to write. More than enough time. I’ve been more focused on my writing since Killian and I started going out than I ever was when I was working at the Party Princesses company, running around all the time doing errands and meeting clients on behalf of a boss who never rewarded overtime work or cared much about compensating her employees fairly.

That, and Killian himself has hugely changed my life. Having him and Lina, spending every night at their place, and falling more and more in love with him every day, has brightened every aspect of my life. Of all of our lives, really. Lina and I get along amazingly, and Killian never stops telling me how much better he feels for having me around—how much more secure in his work, and relaxed at home, and just all around more balanced.

He’s smiling at me now with that look he always has when he’s about to be sappy as hell. I can’t lie, I love seeing his soft side. Knowing that I’m the one he can be the most open with, who he trusts the most. “Tilly, I’ve read your stories,” he says. “And I know I’m a little bit biased, but not so biased I can’t recognize genuine talent. You’re an amazing writer. You see the way Lina hangs on every word of your stories and makes you reread them over and over again. Kids respond to your writing. They need your writing. You need to put this book into the hands of all the little girls like Lina out there, little girls who aren’t lucky enough to have you in their lives, but who need your stories all the same.” He cups my cheek, and brushes back a strand of hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Understand?”

I nod, gaze locked on the floor still. “I do,” I murmur.

He tucks a finger under my chin and tilts my head up, until I’m forced to meet his gaze, laughing a little. “Doesn’t look like you really believe me. I need you to trust me, Tilly. Do you?”

“Of course I trust you,” I say.

“Well, then why don’t you believe me?” He arches a brow.

I laugh again. “I just… It’s intimidating. This.” I wave a hand behind him at the fair. “This convention could change my whole life. I could start my career for real here. Or I could bomb completely, and nothing will change, and after this I’ll be right back where I started, with no connections.”

He nods. “That’s entirely possible.”

I frown and step back from him. “Aren’t you supposed to reassure me right now?” I ask, playfully punching his shoulder.

“I am. It’s possible that this convention might go nowhere, Tilly. But the thing is, you won’t. You’re the most determined person I know,” he says, and I laugh.

“That’s code for stubborn, isn’t it?” I smirk.

“Stubbornness has its uses.” He winks. “Look, Tilly, you’re right. This convention could change your life. Or it might not. But either way, you’ll keep writing. You’ll keep trying. So if you don’t achieve your dream at this convention, so what? You’ll achieve it at the next one. Or the one after that. Or maybe even the one after that. But you will, eventually. So just enjoy this show. Enjoy where you are, and the journey it takes you on toward where you’re going.”

I shake my head, smiling, because it sounds cheesy when he puts it like that. But it’s also true. And somehow, thinking about the convention like that—like one possible venue toward my dream, and not the only chance I’ll ever have at reaching it—makes it easier to squeeze Killian’s hands and step away from him. “You’re right.” This time, when I smile, it’s not forced. I really do feel ready to go in there. “This is just the first chance of many,” I say.

“Exactly.” He tugs me forward, leans down to press a quick, searing kiss to my mouth. “I’ll be up in the hotel room,” he says, winking. We rented a room downtown for this, and got a sitter for Lina. We figure we might want to stay late and celebrate after. That, or stay up late and commiserate. Either way, keeping in mind that I’ll see him soon, and we’ll have a whole hotel room to ourselves, gives me the energy to square my shoulders and face the fair.

“I’ll see you up there as soon as I can,” I say, grinning.

“Not too soon,” he warns, smirking. “Don’t let me distract you from your goals.”

“Never.” I wink. “If anything, you’re the one who drives me toward them.” With that, I wave cheerily over my shoulder at him, and head into the convention center alone.

The main floor is a riot of sights and sounds. Booths everywhere, some selling books, others selling toys and games that tie in with those books. Still more stands are filled with artwork in every conceivable style, and manning those booths are the illustrators and artists who come to this fair looking to sell prints and custom art pieces. It’s the latter I’m interested in, and I stroll through the fair taking business cards and introducing myself to a couple of people whose art strikes me as the kind that might pair well with my stories.

As I glance at the booths on either said of me, I stop dead in my tracks when I spot an incredible print, framed and hung prominently above a booth. The artwork is familiar and arresting. It’s so eye-catching, it stands out from everything around it. The lines are delicate but firm, the colors more muted than a lot of the bright, primary-colored artwork at the other tables. But somehow that makes it stand out all the more. Because it’s different. It’s the kind of art you know wins awards.

And it does. Beside the author is a tall poster, and printed on it are at least a dozen awards she’s won as an illustrator, all for best-selling children’s books that are standards in any library.

“See anything you like?” asks the woman behind the table, beaming.

I recognize her from the few images I found on her website—though on her website her hair is down and she isn’t wearing these thick-framed glasses that draw squares around her eyes. She’s a little shorter than me, and probably ten years older, with laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. She has dark hair, bright eyes, and the kind of smile that’s infectious.

I find myself smiling too, even though I haven’t said anything yet. I extend a hand. “Tilly Campbell,” I say.

“Jessica Miller,” she says. “I’m an illustrator.”

“Writer,” I reply, with a self-deprecating smile, and she grins too, conspiratorially.

“I figured.” She points at my name badge, and I glance down, my face flushing when I remember that it’s written right there on my chest, in the glittery pens that they provided us with at the entrance. I’m a sucker for glitter, so I couldn’t resist adding my desired occupation right under my name. Writer, doodled with a heart over the i and a crown over the e. “What kind of writing do you do?”

“Children’s books,” I say. “Kind of like fairy tales, actually, but with a unique spin.” I glance across her table, toward one of her more recent drawings, from a book I’d use as a comparison title for my own, if I had the guts. “I’ve actually seen your work before,” I admit. “I’m kind of a fan, especially of your new series, the Knightresses books.”

Her smile widens. “Those are my favorite too! They’ve been so much fun to work on. Though, my contract is ending, sadly.” Her smile twists a little. “The writer is moving on to her next story idea, alas.”

Surprising myself with my boldness, I say, “Are you looking for a writer with similar style to fill her place?”

Jessica’s eyebrows rise. “Well, that would depend on the writer. I am in the market for a new project, but it would have to be the right one…”

“Of course,” I say, almost before she’s done speaking. “I totally understand. I could never work on a project I wasn’t fully in love with, one that I wasn’t invested in with my whole heart and soul.” I shuffle the paperwork under my arm, and take out one of the few copies of my finished story that I printed up for this convention. “Like this story, for example. It’s the book of my heart, a story I’ve been trying to tell for years, really. But I think I finally got it right this time.” I laugh a little, then. “At least, my boyfriend’s daughter seems to think so. She’s been forcing me to reread it to her every night since I first shared it a couple weeks ago.”

Jessica laughs too. Then, to my shock, she holds out a hand. “Can I read it?”

I pass it over, my face red. I turn away, feigning nonchalance, and study the crowds passing by the booth while I let her read in privacy. I try to pretend this is no big deal. That my heart isn’t in my throat, that my stomach isn’t roiling, as I hope, pray, that she’ll connect with the story. That she’ll love it as much as I do.

But as I’m trying to distract myself and leave her in privacy, I spot a figure who makes cold sweat break out across my body. My palms tremble, sweat pooling in them.

Because there, striding across the convention floor in our direction, wearing a giant sign advertising Party Princesses for Hire, is Tricia Connery.

Fuck.

I glance around me in a panic for someplace to hide. But there are just similar booths on either side of me, and a wide open carpet behind me. Short of turning around and running away from here, leaving Jessica to wonder what the heck just happened while she’s standing there holding my story, I can’t escape.

Especially because it looks like Tricia is headed right toward me.

I didn’t think about the fact that Jessica knows Tricia. Or about the fact that Tricia always talked about meeting Jessica at these conventions. There’s a lot of crossover marketing opportunities for children’s entertainers and children’s authors and illustrators, I guess.

I wish I could melt into the floor. But I can’t, so I plaster a too-wide smile on my face, and force it to stay fixed as Tricia strides toward the booth, and finally glances in my direction.

Her face freezes for a second, her eyes going wide and then narrow again, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. But eventually, she must determine that I’m real, and not a figment of her imagination, because the next thing I know, she’s storming over, her fists balled at her sides.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Tilly?” my former boss shouts the moment she’s in hearing distance.

The sound of her voice startles Jessica back to reality too. I notice she’s nearly finished reading my story, but she raises her eyes to Tricia at the intrusion “Tricia?” she asks.

Tricia ignores her. “You’ve got some nerve showing up to this,” she rages at me. “Wasn’t it enough for you to steal my husband and that settlement money?”

I also may have won a small claims court case against Tricia, settled last week. She’d been trying to refuse to pay me the wages she still owed me—$1000 she tried to hold against me, claiming I didn’t do the work that I could easily prove I had—and then on top of that, she tried to charge me for the party dress she’d forced me to buy when I started working for her.

“Tricia,” I say, forcing my smile to stick in place. “Fancy seeing you here. I came to work on my writing, to try and find an illustrator for my books.”

“Funny,” she snaps. “You didn’t seem to care at all about your writing or any sort of work when you were my employee.” She spins to face Jessica. “This is the girl I was telling you about, Jessica. The aspiring writer with the big ideas but no work ethic.”

Jessica cocks an eyebrow. “Funny,” she says. “From this, she seems like a great writer.” She motions to the papers in her hand.

Tricia purses her lips. “I’m sure she stole that story from someone else. The way she steals everything.”

But I’ve had enough. Enough of listening to her, enough of trying to placate her. “I didn’t steal your husband, Tricia,” I say, raising my voice loud enough that Tricia’s eyes practically bug out of her head. I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice to her like this. But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “He left you before I ever met either of you, because you betrayed him,” I say. “As for this story, you know as well as I do how long and hard I’ve worked at my writing. You personally saw three drafts of this before now. And you claimed to have passed them along to friends to read, although now I seriously doubt you ever did.” I arch an eyebrow. “So don’t come over here trying to malign me when you know none of what you’re saying is true, Tricia.”

The other woman stares at me, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s for a long moment. Finally, with a loud huff, she whirls on Jessica. “Are you going to listen to this… this nobody? Or are you going to believe me?”

Jessica raises an eyebrow. “Frankly, Trish, after some of the other things you’ve told me in the past, I’m more inclined to believe Tilly here. You have a tendency to bend the truth into whatever shape suits you best.”

Tricia’s face goes bright red, then skips into purple. For once, she seems speechless. She shakes her head, clenches her fists, and then, with one last glare at me, she whirls on her heel and storms away.

We both stare after her in silence for a moment, stunned.

“Sorry about that,” I finally say, but Jessica cuts me off with a burst of laughter.

“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to tell that woman to take a long walk off a short bridge for years. She’s always trying to kiss up to me, but all she ever does is ask for favors, and that would be fine maybe in a business relationship, except she never even offers anything in return. She doesn’t even pretend to actually care about people. Just about what they can do for her.”

I heave a deep sigh. “Believe me, I know that all too well.” I squint after Tricia’s retreating form. When I glance back, Jessica is side-eying me with a smirk.

“Are you really dating her ex-husband?”

My face flushes bright red. “I didn’t know who he was when I met him. At the time, I was working for Tricia, so it made things… ah, awkward, to say the least.”

Jessica snorts. “I’ll bet.”

“You know, Tricia actually used you against me, too,” I finally admit, voice softer. “She knew I loved your illustrations, and she kept saying she’d show you my stories, since you were friends. Then after Killian and I started dating, that story switched to, you’d better dump him if you want me to show any illustrator friends your stuff…”

“Friends? We’re acquaintances at best,” Jessica cuts in. “Probably not even that now.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d say I can’t believe that she’d use my name like that, but I absolutely can.” Jessica gives a shudder, as though physically shaking herself clean of Tricia’s influence.

Then she turns back to my pages, lips pursed in consideration. “Tell you what, though,” she says. “I really do like your story. I’ve got to finish reading it, and think about it. Can I hang on to a copy?”

“Of course,” I say, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, the flipping sensation. I don’t want to read too much into this, not yet, not before I’m sure what she really means…

But Jessica must pick up on what I’m thinking, because her smile deepens. “Like I said, depends on the ending. But I am looking for a new project. And…” She casts a glance around and then bends closer to me. “I do know a couple editors looking for exactly this type of book right now. Are you sticking around for the panels after lunch?” she asks.

I nod my head so hard and fast I’m surprised it doesn’t fall right off my neck.

“Great.” Her smile widens. “Well, let me show this to a few people at lunch after I finish checking it out. How about I come and find you at the panel on author website design this afternoon, and we chat about things then?”

If I thought I had butterflies before, I have a veritable swarm of insects now, sharp sensations like bees stinging at my insides. “Of course,” I manage to stammer. “I mean, I’d love that. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she replies with a wry smile and a laugh. “You’re a good writer, but that’s only one half of the bargain in this industry. The rest all comes down to luck, and having the right story in the right place at the right time.” She flashes me a wink, then. “So, stay tuned.”

“Absolutely.” I resist the urge to salute, and manage to walk away from Jessica’s booth with a backward wave and a stupidly huge smile.

I know she’s right. There are still a million other factors to consider. But I almost don’t even mind what happens now, whether this particular story makes it through all the hoops it will need to jump. Because for once, that loud, doubtful voice in the back of my mind has finally quieted.

Because if Jessica Miller, one of my favorite picture book artists, thinks my story is fun and sellable? Then I can’t possibly be the failure I’m always worried I might be.

I am good at this. I am a writer.

And Killian is right. Whatever happens today, I’m never giving up on my goal. One way or another, I’ll make it to where I want to be someday. Today is just that first big step along the path.