I drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness the entire night, and I woke up feeling even more exhausted than I’d been when I lay down. I felt like I’d been pounded into the dirt the night before, but I still had to stand back up and keep swinging. After all, I still had to get to Fantasticon, and that meant riding in my car with my former biggest fan and the person I’d disappointed horribly only hours before.

It was still black out when we silently packed up our things and checked out of the hotel. The same old man was still working behind the counter. If he’d heard any of the upset from the night before, he didn’t seem to be too bothered by it. In his line of work, I imagined he’d probably seen much worse. Either way, he seemed almost as happy to be rid of us as we were to leave. Almost.

The car was completely silent as we headed back on the road. Even though I was, ostensibly, meant to be the navigator, I wasn’t asked for directions, and I didn’t try to provide any. When we pulled into a gas station, I jumped out of the car and filled up the tank. A fresh layer of snow had fallen the night before, and my fingers nearly fused with the pump in the cold morning air, but I didn’t care. Anything was better than being trapped in what basically amounted to a tin can full of tension.

Sam didn’t speak when I got back in the car, and I didn’t push him. He put on his music and turned it up loud enough that I would have to yell over it if I wanted to talk. I plugged my phone into a charger and decided to read more fanfiction. I had managed to pass the previous day extremely easily thanks to that, and I figured it was best to stick with what was working.

I had been pretty skeptical when I first started reading, mostly because of all the creeps who wanted to see the twins hook up with each other, but it turned out to be pretty great overall. The stories were insanely creative and hinted at a lot of interesting theories the fans had about the series. Some of them were completely bonkers, like the one set in an alternate universe where the twins worked as carnies trying to free the enslaved freaks from the freak show, but they were fun. After only a few fics, I really started to see what it was fans saw in them. I knew I was reading the most popular ones, but I found myself getting excited about digging deeper.

Some of the stories were so good that I was almost angry I hadn’t thought of them first. One of them, a fluff fic about Anna Lee and Elinor getting engaged on Christmas morning, was so sweet I had to fake an emergency pee break at the nearest rest stop so I could cry over it in peace. The story was fairly short, maybe a couple thousand words at most, but it was heartbreakingly sweet, and I found myself quickly deciding that Elinor and Anna Lee’s relationship in my own books was going to be significantly less platonic than I’d originally planned.

Jesus Christ, I’m shipping my own characters, I thought. What else is this going to do to me?

Maybe that was why Damien had wanted me to avoid it. Maybe he was worried it was going to permanently change my opinions or ideas about my own work, or maybe he was just concerned that I was going to feel self-conscious about my own writing prowess. Either way, he was right. I was completely in awe of the writers who managed to craft what I was reading.

One writer consistently stood out, though. Not only were they one of the biggest writers in the fandom, but they also had the best ideas and some of the most lovely use of language I’d ever seen. Plus, they actually took well to criticism, giving shout-outs to readers who pointed out any issues with the story. It made all of the work better, the quality going up with each successive chapter. It was beyond anything I’d seen from the professional writers I knew. To say I was impressed didn’t even begin to describe it, and the fact that it was coming from someone who called themselves eli_the_sweetie_pie didn’t even bother me after a while. That was really saying something.

I found myself idly reading through a thirty-chapter fic and relaxing into the passenger seat of the car, that feeling of safety I’d found the day before returning. I curled up in the seat and held my phone close, scrolling through it excitedly. I was enjoying myself so much that the awkward, still-cooling tension that filled the car didn’t even touch me after a while. I didn’t so much as look up when we stopped for food, just mumbled out my order and ate while groping around for my fries and drink. I looked up a couple times to see Sam, his lips quirked to the side as he watched me. Every time I caught him, though, he looked back down, trying to arrange his face into a neutral mask. He looked like he was trying desperately not to smile. As much as I wished he would so the tension in the air could be broken, I just concentrated on reading. It was much easier to do that than have a confrontation with someone that, realistically, I barely knew.

That was one of the strangest things about being around Sam; even though I had only met him a few days beforehand, I already felt comfortable with him. I felt like I knew him. Little things had already sunk into my subconscious and become familiar, like the way he tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel in time to his music or the way he cleared his throat quietly, almost imperceptibly, as if he didn’t dare make a scene about having a bit of a frog in his throat. I had spent all of our time together in the car engrossed in fanfiction, but those details still stuck with me, like bits and pieces of a television show turned on to lull me to sleep. It reminded me of the familiarity I felt with all of Paul’s little tics and peculiarities. It was nice to fall into a rhythm, even if that rhythm was being uncomfortably shaken.

We ended up at another hotel late that night, and I was surprised when I checked our location on my phone. We were already in Wisconsin and making great time, which was a relief. Once I got to Fantasticon, I would be in my element. I would know what to do. And I wouldn’t have to be around someone who seemed to hate me.

At the same time, though, the idea of Sam and I just parting ways over what was said at the motel felt deeply wrong. It wasn’t just that I had disappointed a fan; I had disappointed him. And for whatever reason, I really liked him.

Although it didn’t seem he felt that way about me. Not that I blamed him for it. I couldn’t stand being around myself half the time.

I sat in the hotel lobby—one that was far nicer than the last, by which I mean it was a mid-range chain hotel—and continued scrolling through my iPod while Sam spoke to the woman behind the reception counter. When I heard him call my name, I jumped. He had barely spoken to me all day, and a part of me had just sort of naturally retreated into the silence.

I joined Sam at the counter. “What’s going on?”

“There’s a conference here this week,” he told me glumly. “Something for technical manual writers. Almost every room is booked.”

“Seriously?” I frowned at the receptionist. “Can we get a room at all?”

“You can,” she said, “but I’m afraid we only have one available, and your friend here said that you two need separate rooms.”

For reasons I didn’t want to think too hard about, that stung. I narrowed my eyes at Sam, partly in annoyance and partly in confusion. “We don’t need two separate rooms,” I said. “We shared a room last night.”

“I know,” Sam said, clearly trying to be patient in spite of his own frustration. “But that didn’t seem to work well. No offense, I’m just exhausted. I really need to be able to get some sleep tonight.”

“Then we should take the room that’s available here,” I pointed out. “Conferences are tricky. They can fill up an entire city with attendees. We might not be able to find anywhere else.”

“I don’t think that a conference for people who write instructions for how to use a toaster is going to be all that big,” Sam replied. I frowned at him and crossed my arms. He mirrored my movement.

“I’m not thrilled about this either, you know,” I said, trying to sound calm but firm in front of the receptionist. “I’d rather have my own room. But we need to take what we can get.”

I mostly meant what I said. A part of me wanted to share a room with him, or at least didn’t want him to balk so much at the idea of sharing a room with me. Another, far more tired and irritable part of me wanted to have my own room so I could actually get some decent sleep.

Sam stared me down for a second, then sighed. His arms stayed crossed, but his shoulders sagged, and he looked over at the receptionist. “Does the room you’re offering at least have two beds?”

“It does,” she confirmed. “Two queens.”

“Alright. That’ll work, then,” Sam said, clearly resigning himself to his fate. I wanted to argue with him, but I had nothing to truly be upset about aside from his tone, and pointing that out in the middle of a busy hotel seemed like the wrong move.

We went up to our room. It wasn’t big, by any means, or particularly stocked with amenities, but it was clean and had two nicely-sized, soft-looking beds. It reminded me of the hotel rooms Damien and I would share when we first started travelling together, just a small room with two beds and a nightstand between them. There was a modest TV mounted on the wall, and a small table below it. It wasn’t what I had gotten used to over the years since I hit it big, but it was nice.

Sam slumped down onto the bed, digging around in his suitcase. I was a little surprised when he pulled out a tattered old copy of the first book in my series, Falling Pages. It had clearly been through the ringer; the pages looked as soft and delicate as tissue paper, and the spine had cracked so badly that the only thing holding it together was a thick wad of duct tape. I almost didn’t recognize it as one of mine. “What the hell did you do to that thing?” I asked as he started flipping through it. “Throw it at a tiger?”

He shrugged a little self-consciously. “It’s the only copy I’ve ever had,” he said quietly. “I’ve read it so many times I’ve lost count. It’s just...well-loved.”

Those words warmed my heart until I remembered I’d basically told him he knew nothing about my books or my intentions. No wonder he was hiding behind the cover and burying himself deep in the pages. He needed to reconnect with the thing he loved so much.

“Why?” I found myself asking.

He lowered the book just enough to survey me with his emerald eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why reread it so many times?” I asked. “What does it get you?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really get me anything. I just enjoy it.”

I shook my head. “I can’t imagine liking anything that much,” I muttered. “I can’t even stand watching the same movie twice.”

“Not even your favorite?”

I had to think back to what my favorite movie would have been. “Nope,” I said finally. “It’s Jaws. I watched it once in my senior year of high school, and that was it. I never needed to see it again.”

“Huh.” Sam sounded just as bewildered as I was. “That’s...weird. What is it you like about the movie?”

I tried to remember it. Considering I’d only seen it once, it was tough to pull up small details in the plot. I could hardly remember half of the character names. Even some of the actors were fuzzy.

But what I did remember was sitting in the theater during a dollar matinee with Paul by my side. I remembered being the only ones in the theater and how that had made us bold, both of us openly commenting on the movie, sometimes laughing so hard at something the other said that we missed whole scenes. I remembered leaning into him and the feeling of his arm around my shoulders and the way he pressed a few gentle kisses into my neck. I remembered staying through the credits and that both of us pretended to be interested in who was on the crew when really all we wanted was a few more spare minutes together before we had to go back out into a world that scared us much more than any mechanical shark ever could.

But I couldn’t say any of that.

“It was an experience,” I said finally. “Seeing it for the first time was special. I got that experience. I don’t have anything else to get from it. I already know what happens, so it’ll never be as good as the first time.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I think there’s always something new to get out of it. And it’s comforting. It’s like eating your favorite meal or going on vacation to your favorite place. It just flat out feels good to be able to do.”

I watched as he read a few pages. “You know,” I said, “I could get you a new copy.”

“No. You don’t have to do that.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. I hated that phrase, you don’t have to. It always detracted from the thing I was trying to do to help someone and show them how much I cared. “I know I don’t have to. I just want to. And besides, it’s not like I don’t have access to copies. I could give you a signed collector’s edition, if you wanted.”

“I appreciate the thought,” he said, his eyes still on the book, “but I don’t want or need a new copy. I like this one.”

“But it’s falling apart.”

“But it’s mine,” he said, enunciating every syllable.

My frustration was starting to reach maximum capacity. There was only so much I could put up with, and I’d always been irritated by people refusing to accept gifts or help just because they were annoyed at the other person. “Fine,” I grumbled. “You don’t want to deal with me, you don’t have to, but at least buy yourself a new copy. That thing is on its last legs. It barely even looks readable.”

Sam closed the book with an impatient sigh. “I’m not keeping it because of some kind of personal vendetta. I’m keeping it because I want it and because it’s mine, and I don’t need to justify any of that to you.”

“I never said you did.”

“No, instead you just made a bunch of passive aggressive remarks and tossed around the fact that you have money, so I should be grateful for anything you could possibly give me.”

My jaw dropped. “I never said anything like that!”

“You didn’t have to. It was clear.” He shook his head, annoyed. He fell back against his pillows. He murmured to himself, but I could hear exactly what he said: “You rich fucks are all the same.”

My blood had come to a boil without me realizing it. “You know,” I said coldly, “if you don’t want to accept anything from a ‘rich fuck’ like me, then maybe you shouldn’t be trash-talking me in a hotel room that I paid for, with a Fantasticon pass in your pocket that you wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for me.”

Sam sat up so fast I flinched. My first thought was that he was going to hit me.

To my relief, he just stood up and stalked to the table where we’d both flung our coats. He grabbed his and yanked it on, then shoved his feet into his boots.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Going out,” he said shortly.

“Going out where? To do what?”

“Jesus,” he murmured. “I don’t know. Getting a drink.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never been to this town before!” he snapped. “I’ll find a place! It can’t be that hard!”

“But...” Something about him leaving made me feel unspeakably nervous. My stomach tensed so hard I thought I would be sick. A familiar but incongruent panic rose in my chest. “I don’t think we’re allowed to split up.”

“Oh come on. We’re adults, Lance. We’re ‘allowed’ to do whatever we want, whether that makes your agent happy or not. Besides,” he finished tying his boot with a flourish and shot me an icy glare, “I figure it’s better to get out of here for a while. Don’t want to spend all of my time in a hotel room you paid for. Who knows what kind of debt I’ll rack up doing that.”

I tried to say something, but no words would come to mind. I knew he wasn’t wrong, but I still didn’t want him to leave. I was angry with him, even infuriated, but the idea of being alone all night—or even just watching him walk out of the door, leaving me behind—was almost more than I could handle. “Sam,” I managed to choke out, but it was too late. The door was already closing behind him.

It took a while, but I managed to get back into the fic I was reading. Every so often a little bubble of concern for Sam’s welfare would rise into my chest, but every time I shoved it back down. He was a grown man who decided he wanted to go for a drink. It was hardly unusual behavior. He was going to be fine.

At least, I was able to keep this position until I woke up a few hours later.

I sat up and yawned, rubbing at my eyes. I had fallen asleep reading. I tried to remember the last time I’d done that, but it felt like it was a lifetime ago. I usually just fell asleep huddled up in a ball of blankets and clinical depression. Waking up with a story still in my head would have been an extremely pleasant experience if it wasn’t for one absolutely vital detail: I was still alone.

I checked the time. It was half past one in the morning, and Sam had left shortly after seven in the evening, but he still wasn’t back.

My panic returned.

I scrolled through my phone, trying to blink sleep out of my eyes and looking for Sam’s number. It took me a minute to remember I didn’t have it.

I considered calling the front desk to ask if they had his information, but it seemed unlikely. Everything had been put down under my name. The essay I’d been given only had his name on it. I had no contact information for him whatsoever, we were in a completely unfamiliar city, and even he hadn’t known where he was going when he left.

So I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called Damien.

“What?” Damien snapped when he answered the phone. “Did you get a ticket out here or something?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then you better tell me you just won the fucking lottery or something,” he said darkly, “because I am really, really not in the mood for bad news right now.” I stayed silent for a moment, trying to slow my heartbeat down and keep my voice from shaking. I could tell Damien sensed something was wrong, because when he said my name, his voice was significantly gentler, even if he was still clearly unhappy.

“He disappeared,” I said, voice cracking.

Damien paused. “I’m sorry?”

“Sam. The fan. The one I’m riding around with.”

“I gathered that,” Damien sniffed. “I mean what are you talking about when you say he disappeared? Has he gone missing? Did he go to the ice machine and never come back?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “He went out for a drink.”

Damien took a few deep, steadying breaths. “Lance,” he said, his voice calm and patient. “I love you like the brother I never had. You are my best friend and my best client. But the next time I see you, I am going to literally murder you with a hacksaw.”

“I know it sounds bad—“

“A hacksaw, Lance. And not a big one, either. The tiniest one I can find. I am going to cut off your appendages with a very tiny, very painful hacksaw, and then I am going to throw all the itty bitty pieces into a fucking lake.”

“Damien—“

“No!” he snarled, and I jumped so hard I almost dropped my phone. “This is fucking ridiculous, man! It’s completely fucking ridiculous!”

“What’s ridiculous?”

“You’re calling me right as I’m about to collapse into bed after a day of corralling pissy fans and pissier authors to tell me that you lost a grown-ass man, when said grown-ass man left to get a drink! That is insane! He’s an adult, Lance! He can do whatever he wants!”

“But he’s been gone for forever,” I said nervously. “It’s been like six hours.”

“So?!” he bellowed. “How in the hell is that my problem?!”

I felt my face heating up. Embarrassment and anger welled up in equal portions. “It’s your problem because you pushed me into this!” I reminded him. “You’re the one who wanted me to do this stupid meet and greet thing in the first place, and then you were also the one who screwed up all of the paperwork and everything for Fantasticon! If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be babysitting this dude on a cross-country road trip, but I am! If something bad happens to one of my fans when I was supposed to be hanging out with him, won’t that, I don’t know, look a little bit bad? Wouldn’t that achieve the exact opposite of what it is that you want this little PR stunt to achieve?!”

“That would obviously be terrible!” Damien snapped. “I’m not an idiot, Lance. I know that something happening to Sam would be the end of both our careers. But for God’s sake, you need to learn when to calm down! He’s an adult, and he hasn’t even been gone for half a day! He’s probably just getting wasted at a titty bar or something!”

I ran my free hand through my hair, agitated. “He just left seeming so angry,” I said quietly. “And now he’s not back. We got into this stupid fight and now...Shit, Damien, what if something bad happens to him because I was acting like an asshole?”

I heard Damien take several deep breaths, which made me hopeful, but Damien quickly destroyed that hope. “Lance. I’m going to tell you something, and I’m going to need you to listen very carefully, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, already dreading what was coming next.

Damien sighed. “I can’t help you right now,” he said bluntly. “I just can’t. I’m half a country away right now, and I’m already at about maximum capacity with what I can handle. Your trip wasn’t the only thing I’ve royally fucked up. I have a lot of stuff I need to fix here in Seattle. And even if I didn’t, what could I possibly do? Teleport to wherever you are and harass the police with you because a grown-up left another grown-up to go to a bar? I’m not done,” he added when I took a breath. His voice was growing more and more tense as he spoke. “I’m losing it, man. Absolutely losing it. As in I’m seriously considering checking myself in somewhere. When I say I can’t help you, I mean it. I can’t. It’s just impossible.”

I had never heard him sound so scared. I knew he was neurotic because of all of his little tics and strange behaviors, but in the nine years I’d known him, I’d never actually seen it. He had always seemed so clear-headed. He was supposed to be the guy who always knew what to do, who always had a plan, and I’d always put all of my faith in the idea he would always have a solution. I never expected to hear him deny me.

“But what am I supposed to do?” I half-whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

“You’re supposed to think for yourself,” he said. Harsh a statement as it was, his voice was not unkind. “You come up with a plan. Go out looking for him. Or go to bed. Or do whatever, okay? But it’s up to you to deal with it. It’s out of my hands.”

“I’m not sure if I can,” I admitted.

“You can,” he said baldly. “I know you can. I’ve seen you do it.” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “Look, I know that you’re still having a rough time of it, but it’s been five years, man. You’ve gotten to play the crazy card for five years. I have taken care of everything for you for five fucking years. And I was happy to do it. And I’m still glad that I did it. But this time, I need to play the crazy card, okay? It’s my turn to have a crisis. I think I’m long overdue. And sometime down the road, that crisis will end, and then I can spend all my time making it up to you and I can go back to taking care of you, all right? But until then, you need to be the rock. You’re my support.”

I swallowed hard. He wasn’t wrong. Every time I’d had a problem for the past five years, Damien had done his damnedest to help me through it. And I’d had a problem pretty much daily. He didn’t do it just because I was his client, either. He did it because I was his friend.

It was the first time it occurred to me that not only was Damien my best friend, but I was his.

Man. He deserves better friends.

“Okay,” I said. My voice projected a confidence I wasn’t feeling and probably would never feel, but it needed to sound convincing.

There was a beat. “Okay?” he repeated hesitantly.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re right. I can deal with this.”

“You...you’re sure?”

I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. He was so contrarian that his first instinct was to question me, even when I was agreeing with him. “I’m sure,” I lied. “I can manage it. Go to bed, okay?”

“Okay.” Damien breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Keep me updated?”

“Of course,” I promised.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” I lied again. I hung up and looked around the room, then grabbed my coat.

It was time to go bar-hopping.

I left the hotel with a sense of purpose. Damien’s panic had made me believe that maybe I could actually handle the situation, if only because there was no other option. I had faked my way through the phone call well enough that I began my journey with false confidence and competence.

It wasn’t long before that fell apart.

I went to four bars before my façade completely crumbled. I walked into each, walked around a little with my hands balled awkwardly in my coat pockets, nodding at people I pretended to know and looking up at the bar every so often while still trying to scan the room for any sign of Sam’s bright, dirty blonde hair. I could feel my blood pressure rising with each new place I checked. I didn’t like going to bars I knew well with people I knew and liked, so going into a strange bar full of strange people where I just walked around suspiciously and left without buying anything was about to send me into a full-fledged panic attack. The worst part was that, from what Google was telling me, I hadn’t even hit the halfway point in my journey.

I wandered out of the fourth bar—a sports-centric place with cheap pitchers of disgusting beer and local college football jerseys tacked to the wood-paneled walls—and collapsed on their front stoop, my head in my hands. It had started to snow a bit, and I could feel the centimeter-thick layer of icy fluff melting into my jeans as I sat, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I was hopelessly lost, and not just metaphorically; I was a terrible map reader, and my phone couldn’t have been less help if it had tried. The battery on it was also starting to get dangerously low. I made a mental note to find another way to read fanfiction.

I found myself surprised by just how many times I opened my contacts and selected Damien’s name while I wandered. It seemed that every two minutes I was forgetting all the crap my friend was going through, which made me feel even more horrible. Even though I didn’t know exactly what was happening, I knew enough to realize Damien was well and truly at the end of his rope, but I’d come to depend on him so much that calling him during a crisis had become a part of my muscle memory.

I closed all the apps on my phone and took a deep breath. There had to be something I could do. Damien had actually given me some pretty good ideas, even in the middle of his meltdown. There had to be something I could go off of there.

Just plain going out and looking for him hadn’t worked so far, and I didn’t have much faith that would change. Even if I did go to every bar in the city, I could miss him. He could be bar-hopping, or he could be hiding.

Giving up and going to bed didn’t seem like a good idea, either. There were too many things that could possibly go wrong. What if he lost his key card? It was easy to do, especially when drunk and trying to pay for everything with a credit card. And if he got too drunk, he might end up so confused and lost he couldn’t find the hotel again. I told myself I needed him back in the room ASAP because we needed to get to Seattle, but in reality, I just wanted him back. Even with how tense things had been, being around him was comforting. There was a sort of safety and calm that I felt when he was near that I just didn’t get otherwise, and even though it had only been a few days, I’d started to get addicted to it. I wasn’t going to be able to sleep alone in that room knowing Sam was out in an unfamiliar city.

Come on, think, I told myself furiously. There has to be some way to do this without me getting frostbite or Sam getting mugged.

The words floated into my brain unbidden, and even though they were helpful, I wished I hadn’t heard them at all: “He’s probably just getting wasted at a titty bar or something!”

I sighed and opened Google again. With a heavy heart, I typed in the name of the city along with my least favorite phrase: strip club.

Fortunately for me, there was only one of them in the city.

I’d never been to a strip club before, and yet the scene inside still felt familiar. The bouncer at the door looked more bored than threatening and barely even glanced at the ID he asked me to give him. Inside, there was a door to what was charmingly referred to as a “love boutique” to the right of the main entrance. I had to force myself to take a step through the main door and was immediately hit by several sensations at once, all of them overwhelming. The smell of beer and sweat, the ear-ringing sound of “Hot for Teacher” blaring out of the stage’s speakers, the oppressive heat, the way the floor stuck to and sucked at the bottoms of my shoes...All of it may as well have been taken out of my own personal version of hell and shoved in front of me. It was enough to make me want to turn around and run back to my reasonably-priced hotel room and burrow my way into the crisp white sheets.

But I didn’t. I had a plan, dammit. It was my responsibility to make sure Sam was okay. He may have been an adult, but that didn’t make me feel any better about the idea of him roaming around the city by himself in the middle of the night. I couldn’t stand being by myself in unfamiliar territory, and even though I didn’t expect Sam to share all of my neuroses, I still had to believe that he didn’t really want to be all alone either.

Then again, people go to strip clubs for the express purpose of feeling less alone. Maybe he’d already found a solution to the problem I helped create for him.

The idea struck me like a punch to the gut. I didn’t want Sam to run away from me. The thought that I’d driven him out of our room was already making me sick with guilt, but I didn’t want to drag him back if he was going to do it kicking and screaming. I’d ruined enough of this trip for him already; I should let him have one night of his own to do whatever he wanted.

I just really didn’t want him to do all of that away from me.

As much as I tried to tell myself to leave and wait for him to show up at the hotel, my feet kept dragging me deeper into the strip club. I couldn’t leave without at least knowing he was okay and making sure I hadn’t completely botched everything between us. I told myself it was because Damien was going to want some good quotes from Sam that would put me in a good light and help my career, but really, I just couldn’t bear the thought of Sam being angry with me. Not only that, but I would never forgive myself if I ruined what was supposed to be a perfect week for one of my fans by being my regular, asshole self. All of them deserved more than that.

And kind, hard-working, generous Sam deserved much, much more.

I sighed and stopped for a second, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. You’re thinking like some lovestruck kid, I thought irritably. He’s just a fan who won a contest, remember? You don’t even know if he’s into guys!

Those thoughts were somehow even more painful. Thinking of him as “just a fan”—especially a straight one—made my stomach drop. I reflexively reached for my phone, completely ready to overthink all of my thoughts and feelings and throw it all at the overly patient wall that is Damien, before I remembered Damien had specifically told me not to call.

Not even two hours had passed since that conversation, and I’d almost called him at least twelve times. This did not say good things about me.

I opened my eyes and saw the bartender looking at me warily. I gave him a watery smile and he rolled his eyes and continued to wipe down the bar. Great, he’s probably putting me on some kind of watch list or something. I had somehow managed to become the creepiest guy in a strip club, and all I’d done was stand there.

I forged my way forward as timidly as I could, trying to avoid eye contact with everyone and everything around me while still looking for Sam. I was so busy trying not to even glance at the stage and the bored-looking, gyrating woman on the stage and her equally bored-looking, gyrating chest that I ended up stumbling against a table, my knees knocking hard against a chair. I went to apologize and found myself looking down at a drunk, middle-aged man with his hand shoved firmly down the front of his khakis.

Embarrassed, I whipped around and started hustling back towards the rear of the room. When I found the darkest, emptiest corner available, I collapsed into a seat and sighed. I went to lay my head down on the table in front of me, then thought better of it. I had a death grip on my cell phone.

I scanned the room, feeling helpless. I didn’t want to attract any attention, nor did I want to see anyone else interacting with their genitals, which seemed nearly impossible at that point, but I still needed to find Sam. I couldn’t just give up.

I sat, fiddling mindlessly with my phone. My brain screamed at me to stand up, take a quick look around, maybe even ask the bartender if he’d seen anyone fitting Sam’s description, but I felt like I was frozen. No matter how much I knew what I was supposed to do, I couldn’t actually bring myself to do it. It was depressing how common that phenomenon was becoming for me.

“Oh, wow!” I heard a breathless voice say, and I looked up to see a gorgeous woman hovering over me, her hands pressed to her heart. Her flawless, deep, espresso skin was covered in very select places with little triangles of golden bikini, and her ebony hair surrounded a surprisingly cherubic, friendly face in a black halo. Her hands flew to her mouth when I looked up at her, her dark eyes embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said immediately, still sounding stunned. “I just didn’t expect to see you here! It’s...wow. I’m a huge fan of your work, Mr. Epstein.”

I felt a slight jolt run through me at the words “Mr. Epstein.” No one had ever really called me that aside from Paul, who did it pretty much exclusively to tease me. I definitely hadn’t expected to hear it from a random stripper.

“Um...Thanks,” I said lamely, blinking up at her. I found myself almost wishing I was straight; her beauty felt like it was being wasted on me. Maybe Sam will like her, a malicious little voice in the back of my head said, and the thought made me want to punch something. At the same time, though, it reminded me of what I was there to do. “Um, hey, you wouldn’t have seen a super tall blonde guy come through here, have you? Stubble, green eyes, Buddy Holly glasses?”

“Hm.” She shifted her weight to one leg and scrunched her nose up in thought. Behind her, I saw an entire table of men intently watching every miniscule movement of her ass. “I don’t think so, but to be fair, there’s a decent amount of turnover with the customers here.” Her eyes were practically boring holes in me. I felt like a tiny little prey animal in front of an extremely competent predator. “Why?”

I ran a hand through my hair. My stomach was getting more and more jittery with every second. “My friend,” I managed. “We got in an argument and he left, and I need to find him.”

She tilted her head, still looking at me. “Right,” she said finally. “Well, I think I can do something to help you.”

Her hand seemed to extend towards me in slow motion, and a sense of panic gripped me. I jumped up from my chair, skittering backwards away from her and onto the table. She stared. “No,” I babbled anxiously, “that’s fine, that’s all right, I’m not...Um...I’m not really...” I took a deep breath before I blurted, “Please don’t offer me a lap dance, please.”

Her full lips twitched. “Relax.” I realized her hand had stopped midway between us. “I’m just trying to make a formal introduction. My name is Melissa Rembrandt. I want to help you find your friend.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my legs splayed across the table and was filled with a sense of abject humiliation. I could hear the men at the nearby table snorting with laughter. “Uh. Thanks, then.” I gingerly took her hand and shook it.

“You’re welcome,” she said, still trying to hold in a smirk. “Follow me.”

I trailed behind her, keeping my eyes on the floor and trying to look appropriately humbled as she guided me into the boutique just outside the main entrance. She and the woman behind the counter made casual small talk while Melissa dug around in the tiny corner between the desk and the wall. She slipped into a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a coat, and a pair of boots before turning back to me. “All right,” she said, dusting herself off in a businesslike manner. “Now, Mr. Epstein, let’s go look for your friend.”

I almost forgot she was talking to me. “Uh, Lance is fine,” I said awkwardly, scratching at the back of my neck and sheepishly following her out into the light, swirling snow. “I’m sorry about the whole lap dance thing, by the way. I’m...”

“Not into women?” she supplied, then smiled when I blushed. “I know. I told you I’m a fan of yours. I know just about all there is to know about you.”

“Oh. How very...not creepy of you.”

She grinned, and I marveled at her ability to be comfortable in even an abjectly uncomfortable moment. “I’m not going to skin you and keep your bones or anything, I promise. I’m just a fan.”

“Good,” I said, trying to ignore the feeling of my skin crawling all over my body. My hand was clenched around my phone again, though I wasn’t sure if I was going to call Damien or the cops.

“I’m doing my thesis on your work,” she continued, “so I needed to do some thorough research. Besides, a lot of gossip magazines covered your sex life when you first came out.”

“Really?” I asked, bewildered. “I didn’t think there was much to cover.”

“Realistically, there wasn’t. But the second someone comes out, everyone starts digging. There was a lot of speculation about you from people like Perez Hilton. Not that any of that means anything,” she added. “It just comes up in all your Google searches.”

“It does?”

“Yup.” Her smile grew, creating two little dimples in her cheeks. “It’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t Google themselves all the time, especially a celebrity.”

“Well, I’m not really a celebrity.”

“That’s even more refreshing.” She took a deep breath of cold air and looked up and down the street. “So your friend didn’t say where he was going or when he’d be back?”

“Nope.”

“And you don’t have his number?”

“No.” I sighed and ruffled my hair. “He’s not really a friend. He’s a fan. We’re supposed to be going to Fantasticon together, but...“

She cut me off with a gasp. “No way!” she cried. “This is the guy who won the essay contest?!”

“Yeah. You knew about that?”

“Of course I did! I entered it!” She shook her head. “Man, I would love to read what beat my entry. No offense to the guy, I’m sure it was great, but I have an MFA, for Christ’s sake. I thought I had it in the bag.” She didn’t sound jealous so much as awed.

“It was a good essay,” I said, looking around, distracted. “Sorry, but you said you could help me find him?”

“Right. Of course.” She shook her head. “Did he say he was going to a club of some kind?”

I shrugged. “He just said he was going out for a drink. I tried a few bars, but no dice.” I gave her a rundown of the places I’d already hit and she nodded along.

“It sounds like you were going alphabetically,” she murmured, almost more to herself than me. “That’s the order the Google search would have given you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you go to the Hen House?”

I just blinked.

She sighed a little and crossed her arms. “The Hen House is sort of a country bar. Pretty decent food and cheap beer. Also the closest to the only hotel in town, which is where I’m assuming you’re staying?”

Jesus. I’d been wandering up and down different streets all night and hadn’t even considered just looking at a map, or even asking the hotel clerk where the nearest bar was. It wasn’t like Sam was going to have a favorite hangout in a city he’d never been to. “I...did not try that,” I admitted slowly.

I appreciated the fact that Melissa didn’t mock me for my incredibly poor detective skills. Instead, she pulled her coat tighter around her and smiled. “Well then, let’s go. It isn’t too far from here.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” I told her, feeling guilty. “I mean, you didn’t have to leave work just to help me out.”

“I was leaving already, and I haven’t done my good deed for the day.” She shot me a mischievous look and added, “Besides, I thought I might be able to get a couple good quotes from you.”

“For?”

“My thesis. Remember?”

“Right.” I nodded, pursing my lips in thought. “Right, right. Well, here’s the thing about that—I don’t know what a thesis is.”

She was gracious enough to try to hide her snort of laughter from me. “It’s basically just a really, really long academic paper,” she explained. “I have to write one to get my PhD. It’s a little bit of a pain, but everyone has to do it. And I’m determined it won’t take me more than two years. I’m on a good track, and my advisor keeps telling me it’s going well, but more sources can never hurt.”

“Wow.” I felt a little embarrassed; she no doubt knew that I was a college dropout, and here she was, stuck writing about me so she could prove she deserved an advanced degree. I was a little surprised she was so willing to put up with me, the type of person who basically fell into success. “That’s really cool.”

She shrugged modestly.

“If you’re getting a degree like that,” I said, apparently ready to jam my foot as far into my mouth as it would go, “why are you working as a stripper?”

She snorted, but she didn’t look angry. “You know all those stereotypes about the poor college students surviving on ramen? They’re totally true. I get a stipend for teaching undergraduates, and I still make barely anything. Stripping fits my schedule, and it pays more than what I make at the university.”

“Seriously? That’s criminal!”

“Stripping is hard work,” she gently admonished. “But my pay at the university? I agree. Totally criminal. It was even worse when I was getting my master’s, though. I was stuck teaching nothing but freshman composition classes.”

“I remember those,” I said, happy to have something to contribute, no matter how meager. “It was miserable. Are they all that bad?”

“Pretty much, yeah. It’s just a bunch of bored kids who want to go out and party and have fun being forced to learn how to write in MLA format.”

MLA format barely even rang a bell for me. It wasn’t often that I felt old, but I was starting to in that moment. There I was, nearing the end of my twenties, and all I could even remember of college was writing a series of papers I didn’t want to write. If Damien hadn’t plucked me from obscurity, I probably would have stayed and messed around for as long as possible before either getting a degree I would never use or dropping out to become a full-time shut-in. At least I knew my skills as a hermit were up to snuff. No one could outdo me on that front.

We walked for a little longer before I realized I was being rude by being silent. This was a huge fan of mine, after all, and she was writing a paper on me. Not only that, but she was helping me find someone she had no reason to care about in the wee hours of the morning. I needed to give her more than just a couple shitty remarks about her career and a few clueless grumblings about her schooling.

“So, what are you getting a degree in?” I asked, hoping I sounded far more natural than I felt.

“Literature.”

I couldn’t help but snort. “Then why are you writing about me?” I asked. When she frowned, I hastily added, “I mean, my stuff is hardly literature. I write books for teenagers. Wouldn’t you want to study, like, Hemingway or something?”

She shook her head. “Literature is defined as such by those who consume it,” she said, sounding like a woman who had already explained this very thing way too many times. “Because I deem your work literary, I study it as literature. And I have a lot of good arguments for it, too. Strong thematic elements, excellent craftsmanship, and, of course, the fan base—well, they speak to your credibility, too.” She shot me a glance. “Have you ever read a Hemingway book that really, truly changed your life? Your perspective?”

I shrugged. “I only read The Old Man and the Sea,” I admitted, shamefaced, “and that was in high school.”

“And what do you remember about it?”

I thought hard. “It was about an old man. And the sea. And there was a big fish in it. A swordfish, maybe?” I shook my head. “I really don’t remember anything about it. I don’t know if I paid much attention to it.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes were blazing with the same passionate light I saw in Sam’s eyes when he talked about my work. It was strange to see that expression coming from people over something I’d written. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt as excited as they seemed to be. I felt like I should have cared more about my books than they did, but when I thought about the work that laid ahead of me, all I felt was a deep sense of dread. I wished I cared about it as much as Melissa and Sam did.

Hell, I wished I cared about anything as much as that.

Well, I sort of do, I told myself. I care about finding Sam.

That thought made me cringe. Why was I so...attached to this guy?

Stalker. Creep. Weirdo.

I shivered. Melissa quirked an eyebrow at me, and I made a show of tightening my coat, even though I could hardly feel the cold. I’d been walking around long enough that my whole body had gone numb. She took pity on me and continued talking.

“That’s actually the point of my thesis, you know. I’m trying to prove that young adult literature is still real literature. And beyond that, so is the stuff fans produce for it. The fanfiction that people write for your work is incredible. I’ve been reading fanfiction for about twenty years—I grew up on it—and their stuff is next level. You have some of the most talented fans I’ve ever seen, and I really want to highlight that. This is the next generation of writers, the people who are passionate about what they’re doing in spite of their lack of training, and I think they deserve a lot more credit than they get.”

Finally, something I could actually speak to. I nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely,” I said. “I just started reading it, but some of it is really, really good. I was totally blown away by how many people write about my characters.”

She smirked, but it wasn’t an unkind expression. “You just started reading it?” she asked, surprised. “Where have you been, man?”

I shrugged. “I was told not to read it. People said it could be dangerous.”

To my surprise, she rolled her eyes and just said, “Let me guess. Damien Cooper?”

“Uh, yeah.” I frowned. It wasn’t often that Damien’s name came up in conversation with anyone outside of the industry. Agents usually weren’t all that high-profile; it was one of the many things Damien liked about his job. “How did you know that?”

She sighed, looking a little impatient. “Research,” she said simply. “I told you, I’ve done a lot of it. And Cooper is pretty vocal about his stance on fanfiction.”

“He is?” It was strange to hear other people telling me things about my own friend. Even though he’d advised me not to read anything the fans produced, it never really occurred to me he would be so outspoken about it. It never occurred to me that he would be outspoken about anything, really, at least not in public. He may have been annoyingly opinionated in person, but I didn’t realize he even did interviews or anything like that.

“Oh, yeah. He hates fanfiction with a passion.” Melissa’s lip curled in obvious distaste. “He thinks it’s ‘damaging to authors’ and that any writer who reads fan works will end up in some awful legal battle. It’s asinine. I guess some of his writers read it anyway, but he’s been very clear on the issue.” She offered me a tiny smile. “Good on you for being one of the brave ones, Lance.”

I almost laughed at that. Brave. What a word to call me. “I’m just a little sorry I didn’t start sooner,” I admitted. “I didn’t realize it was so good. I mean, not all of it is good, and some of it is just...weird. Have you heard of something called, um, Elcest?”

She covered her mouth, but a little snort of laughter escaped anyway. “Oh, no,” she said, looking at me with sympathetic eyes. “You didn’t even know about that, did you?”

“I didn’t. I wish I’d never heard of it. I mean, they’re siblings, for God’s sake!”

“To be fair, some people have deluded themselves into thinking they were adopted or something,” she said. “But a lot of people like weird stuff. What can I say?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine taking such a lax stance on something like that, but then again, I was a little bit biased. “Well, at least it gives me something to talk about at my panel,” I mumbled. “I still haven’t really planned anything for it.”

“Of course, the big panel!” Melissa sighed almost dreamily. “I can’t wait for the end of the week. This is going to be my third Fantasticon. This time I actually got a grant to help me out with it so I could talk to fanfiction authors and you about my work.” She tilted her head and looked at me, and I could see a puzzle piece slipping into place. “That reminds me—why aren’t you there already?”

I gave her a brief rundown of events, trying to make Damien sound a little less guilty than he really was and omitting all of my arguments with Sam. It probably didn’t paint the prettiest picture of me, but I didn’t mind that. I figured most people already thought I was a dick. That didn’t mean I had to drag everyone else down with me.

She listened patiently, shaking her head and laughing in all the right places. She was an excellent audience. “I’m sorry,” she said at the end, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “This must be an awkward trip for you, driving across the country with someone you don’t know.”

I sighed, strangely relieved to have told an outside party what was happening. “You have no idea. I mean, I’m trying not to look or act like a loser around him, but this just wasn’t what I was expecting. I’m not a very...social person.”

“You don’t say,” she commented dryly.

“I’m just saying that I don’t want to let him down. I read his essay, and I could tell he was so excited about this opportunity to meet me and go to the convention and everything, and I’ve blown it already. The poor guy watched me eat flowers, chauffeured me all the way here from New York, got in a fight with a pimp, and had to drive while I was sitting there staring at my phone. And I’m supposed to be his hero.” I felt my steps becoming slower as my mood plummeted. If I thought I’d already hit my low for the night, I was wrong. “Maybe he should get into Ben Haywood. That guy’s real hero material.”

“Haywood’s a hack,” Melissa said, her voice clipped. “You’re a great writer, Lance. So you’re a little socially awkward. Who cares? I don’t think I’ve met a writer who isn’t.”

“You haven’t met Ben Haywood,” I muttered under my breath. It was true—Ben was one of those guys who was so nice that when he asked how your day was, you actually told him. He was a social butterfly. Some of the other guys at the agency may have been off, but I was the only one who was so actively, aggressively weird.

“I’m just saying, I’m sure you didn’t disappoint him,” she continued. “Hell, you jumped on a table to get away from me, and I’m not disappointed in you.”

“Maybe you just have a high tolerance for bullshit.”

“I don’t think that’s quite it. You haven’t seen me at Thanksgiving with my homophobic uncle.”

I chuckled, a small bright spot in the pit of failure I’d dug myself into. I realized I hadn’t tried to dial Damien’s number for the entire walk.

She finally led me into a small, homey-looking bar. The round tables were covered with gingham table cloths, the chairs clad with soft cushions and plush, red faux leather. Little hens and chicks were painted on the rustic wooden walls. Even the bar somehow managed to look wholesome. It seemed like the sort of place where people could get a cheap mint julep after watching the Kentucky Derby on TV, like a slice of Southern hospitality had been picked up and planted in the middle of Wisconsin. I wasn’t even usually fond of bars, but something about this one was just charming. It was warm and smelled of fried chicken, and my frozen legs instantly thawed. “Wow,” I muttered. “And this is how far from the hotel?”

“About a block and a half.”

I’m such a fucking idiot.

The bartender gave me a radiant smile when I walked in, and I just nodded politely. He was good-looking, and that flustered me. I could only handle one attractive man at a time, after all, and one of the said attractive men was sitting at a table in the corner, scrolling through his phone and nursing what seemed to be some cheap beer I’d never heard of.

My legs didn’t just unthaw—they nearly melted when I saw him. A wave of relief crashed over me with such palpable force I had to restrain myself from running to him and flinging my arms around his neck. He was okay, and I’d found him. I could have cried I was so happy.

I didn’t. Instead, I walked up to him and asked in a voice that came out far more accusatory than it did celebratory, “There you are! I thought I’d lost you!”

He looked up at me and scowled. The expression didn’t seem to fit the man who wore it, but that didn’t make it any less intimidating. “I want to be alone right now, Lance,” he murmured, keeping his voice low and glancing around the bar, as if embarrassed just to be seen talking to me.

“I get that,” I said, “but you should have at least told me where you were going and when you’d get back. I’ve been worried sick about you. You’ve been gone for hours.”

“So? I’m a grown man. I think I can handle two beers and quietly reading on my phone,” he snapped back.

I wanted to argue so badly, but nothing came to mind. Realistically, he was probably being the rational one, but I couldn’t just leave without him. I couldn’t go back to that empty, sterile room, devoid of his soft breathing and the occasional friendly exchange. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go.

It had been so long since I had anyone who cared enough to show me even a modicum of affection. How was I supposed to just leave him there when I needed him so much?

“I just...” I flailed my hands uselessly, trying to think of something to say that didn’t sound entirely pathetic. Instead, I just sighed and rubbed my eyes. “I wasn’t really freaked out for you,” I said, my voice quiet enough that I couldn’t be heard over the soft strains of country music playing in the background. “I was freaked out for myself.”

He blinked. “Did you forget that you are also a grown man?” he asked, trying to be patient.

I sighed and rumpled my hair. It probably looked Doc Brown levels of ridiculous by that point from all my anxious fussing, but at least it made me feel a little better for the moment. “I know,” I said heavily. “I know. But still. You left seeming like you were still really mad...“

“Because I am,” he confirmed flatly.

“...but I didn’t want to go to bed without knowing you were okay,” I finished quietly. When he looked up at me, I added, “I know, I get it, you’re a grown-up, but I was still worried. And honestly...I’m a little freaked out to be all alone. I know you’re a good guy who just wants to help people, and I think I might need your help a little right now. Not that you’re required to give it,” I added quickly. “I would just, um, like the chance to be less of a dick so maybe I can earn it.”

He looked down at his beer, swilling it around in the bottle for a second. When he looked back up at me, some of the hardness in his eyes had softened, even though he was still clearly annoyed. He looked over my shoulder and frowned. “And that woman is...?”

“Oh!” I jumped and spun around, giving Melissa an apologetic grimace, which she accepted with a small nod of her head. “Shit, I’m sorry. This is Melissa. She’s...“ I stopped myself, choking on my words. I was going to say “stripper,” but that didn’t feel right. Even though she stripped, she did a hell of a lot more than that. But at the same time, I didn’t know enough to actually describe her. “College student” was hardly a fitting label, but I didn’t want to reduce her to just a fan, either.

I didn’t have to wait long for her to take pity on me. She darted around me, her sweetest smile firmly in place as she extended a hand to Sam, who—instead of leaping onto a table like a cartoon elephant afraid of mice—took it and shook. “Hello, I’m Melissa Rembrandt,” she explained cheerfully. “Mr. Epstein was concerned for you and got a little turned around, so I figured I’d help him out, since I know the area. Besides, it sounds like you were the contest winner!”

“Um.” Sam glanced at me. A taut muscle jumped in his jaw. “Yeah, I am.”

“That’s so cool.” Melissa immediately pulled out a chair and sat beside him, crossing her legs comfortably. I sat on the other side of the table, keeping at least one chair between myself and either of them. “I entered the contest, but obviously I didn’t win. You must have done an incredible job. I hate to brag, but I consider myself a pretty damn good writer.”

Sam’s iciness melted even more, his shoulders starting to relax and his posture sagging into a comfortable slump. “Thanks, but I don’t think I really did anything that amazing,” he said with a shrug. “I just wrote down what I was feeling, you know? I’m sure that your entry was incredible.”

“I’d like to hope so. I’ve been totally obsessed with The Books of Veracity since day one. I’m writing my doctoral thesis on the literary values of the fandom and the fanfiction it produces.”

“No way!” Sam cried. All traces of irritability vanished, and he was grinning from ear to ear. “I’m the same way! I mean, I’m not doing a doctoral thesis, I don’t think I could manage something that amazing, but I love fanfiction! The BoV fandom is absolutely amazing. I’ve heard so many horror stories about other fandoms, but I’ve never had a single negative experience with another fan of this series. It’s always just a total outpouring of love and kindness, you know?”

“I know!” Melissa, who had been extremely composed while talking to me, was bouncing up and down in her seat, clearly delighted. “That’s part of why I chose to focus on BoV. There are plenty of other fandoms with much longer, more developed histories, but this one is surprisingly diverse.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw the bartender staring at her. Instead of being irritated, which was what I would have expected, she just snapped her fingers and pointed at Sam’s beer. The bartender hurried to bring her a bottle. “I’m hoping to do more research at Fantasticon,” she continued. “The panel should be a good place to find some fic writers and readers. And now I’ve got an in with the original creator, too.” She shot me a smile. “Maybe I can even have a talk with Damien Cooper?”

I went to tell her that was unlikely, and that I couldn’t betray my friend, no matter how many faults he had, but Sam cut me off, apparently perfectly comfortable with pretending that I wasn’t there. To cover up my discomfort, I copied Melissa’s motion to the bartender, but the man just responded with a glare. Right, I thought sourly, I’m not a hot girl, so he doesn’t care. What a dick.

Still, having to deal with a dick was better than being very pointedly ignored by the guy who was supposed to be my biggest fan, so I slunk up to the bar, trying to avoid glances from other patrons. “Hey, can I get a beer?” I asked, trying to sound confident.

The bartender glared at me. “What kind?”

Shit. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. In movies and TV shows, people would just say, “Give me a beer,” and the bartender would slide one over and listen to them talk about their woes. It somehow hadn’t occurred to me that I would need to give him a specific brand name. I tried to think about what beers I liked, but nothing came to mind. I realized a moment too late that Paul had always been the one ordering for me. He knew how much I hated talking to strangers, and even when he rolled his eyes in frustration over it, he would still go to the bar and get me something he knew I liked. How had I managed to survive for five years without him?

By never leaving your house and only talking to one person, idiot.

I doubled back. “Actually, can I get a gin and tonic?” I asked the bartender.

He gave me a curt nod and quickly mixed it up. I slapped down some money on the counter. I didn’t ask the price, but what I gave him must have been sufficient, because he snatched it up and turned away from me.

I slowly straggled back towards my table, sipping at my drink and trying to let the cloying sweetness of the tonic water and the bite of the lime wedge distract me from the fact that I both felt—and probably looked—like a complete idiot.

And the fact that Melissa and Sam were getting awfully comfortable with each other.

“You know,” Melissa was saying as I rejoined them without their notice, “one of the people I really want to talk to is eli_the_sweetie_pie. I mean, talk about an iconic voice in a fandom. He practically invented the Elinor Lee ship, and now it’s so huge people are petitioning for it to become canon!”

Huh. That was news to me. I sipped at my drink and listened; nothing I said would be all that important anyway, and I wanted to know more about the fandom. I knew I’d been converted into a huge fan of Elinor and Anna Lee, but I hadn’t realized people felt so passionately about the two of them ending up together. If there really was a petition, I’d never seen it—though that was probably Damien’s doing. I wondered how fans might feel if they found out that fanfiction had been the reason they were going to end up getting their wish if I ever got around to writing more.

Sam was smirking like the cat who’d caught the canary, though I wasn’t sure why. “I’m sure that’s not true,” he said, but his expression remained sly. “I don’t think he started the ship.”

“He may not have been the first writer to come up with it, but he definitely popularized it,” Melissa argued. “There’s some canon evidence to go off of, but there’s really not all that much, especially considering Anna Lee has only appeared in two books. And I think we both know that fanfiction tends to favor gay ships over lesbian ships pretty much every time. The fact that a lesbian ship blew up into such a huge thing has to come at least partially from outside sources, and eli_the_sweetie_pie is definitely the driving force behind it.”

I suddenly realized where I heard that stupid username before: the website. Eli_the_sweetie_pie was the one who had written all of my favorite fics, and they all seemed to be in the Elinor Lee ship. I thought about saying something, but I stayed quiet. To sit and listen to them without speaking was my self-induced penance, and I wasn’t going to let up on it. I just took another slow drink.

“You really think he had that much to do with it?” Sam asked. “I’m sorry, I’m just not sure I’m convinced.”

“He’s the most-reviewed author in the fandom, as far as I know,” Melissa shot back. “And the reviews are positive across the board. He doesn’t even get negative reviews from trolls. Known trolls give him positive reviews and respect! There’s no way that the ship would be what it is without him. Hell, the fandom wouldn’t be what it is without him. I mean, yeah, the original books get people through the door, but without seriously talented creators, a fandom just isn’t going to emerge. And eli_the_sweetie_pie was one of the first ten people to post a BoV fanfic. He was writing fics for it before most people even knew the series existed. How else would you account for that?”

Sam shrugged. His expression was still a little bit smug, but there was a sheepish quality to the light blush that rose up his neck. “You seem really into his stuff.”

“Of course I am. He’s the best writer I’ve seen thus far. Or he was, before he went dark. I’ve narrowed down possible other names he could be using on other websites, but no one is entirely sure what happened to him, especially since there are so many people who claim to be him writing under a new name.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised, still smiling. “Like who?”

“A lot of people are convinced that it’s ValientLeo,” Melissa replied, “but I don’t buy it. I’m pretty sure annaleelives is his username on AO3 and Tumblr. He just jumped ship from FF because, well, AO3 and Tumblr work better for most writers. There just aren’t the same rules on AO3, and the site seems to have a stronger sense of purpose than FF. Annaleelives hasn’t written a lot of fics, but that doesn’t mean anything. A lot of writers have fallen out of the fandom during the hiatus.”

Sam took a sip of his beer that did nothing to hide his barely-suppressed chuckle. “That’s a pretty convincing argument,” he agreed. “I’m impressed. Nobody else I’ve talked to has gotten it right yet.”

“Gotten it right?” Melissa asked, frowning. She leaned forward, her intense gaze fixed on Sam. Sam had been looking very self-satisfied until then; he seemed a little shaken by just how strong her stare was. “Are you telling me you know what name he’s using now?”

“I am,” Sam admitted, his smile faltering a little bit at the intensity in her voice.

“How do you know?”

Sam didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his phone and tapped on a few things before he slid it over to Melissa.

Melissa’s face transformed over the next few seconds from confusion to shock to elation. She turned back to Sam in flabbergasted happiness.  “Oh my God, are you serious?! Is this seriously your account?!”

“Yup,” Sam replied, his own grin growing.

I almost jumped away from Melissa for a second time that night when she screamed and threw herself at Sam, wrapping her arms around his neck. He yelped, then laughed, hugging her back. When Melissa finally let go, she looked positively frantic. “Oh my God!” she screamed, elated. “Oh my God! Are you serious?! You’re eli_the_sweetie_pie?!”

I could feel confused glares resting on my back, but I didn’t turn around to check on all the doubtlessly annoyed faces of the other patrons in the bar.

“I’m serious,” Sam said, beaming proudly. My heart started pumping at hyper speed, and I had to tell myself that it had nothing to do with the cute blond’s megawatt smile.

“Wait,” I interrupted, so overwhelmed by Sam that I forgot he was angry at me, “you wrote all that stuff on that site?”

His smile dimmed a little when he looked at me, but he took pity on me and at least responded, saying, “Yeah, I did. Have you really been reading it?”

“Absolutely! I’ve been totally obsessed with that site you showed me!” I grabbed his wrist without even thinking. His eyes darted down to look at my hand, and pink started to spread up his pale neck. I released him quickly, clearing my throat. “I’ve read a ton of your stuff,” I continued, slipping my hands under the sides of my thighs in an effort to keep from touching him again. “I loved it.”

His eyes widened, and I could feel the guard he had up start to fall. “Wait. Really?”

“Yeah. That’s all I’ve been doing on the road. I really love the way you write Elinor. I mean, you write all of the characters really true to the series, but Elinor sounds a little...I don’t know. A little different in your stories. A little deeper, a little more thoughtful. She’s fully realized and comes into her own in your stuff, which is really amazing to see. It’s like you somehow knew exactly where she was going to end up as a person.” I realized I was rambling and hunched my shoulders a little, embarrassed. “You’re...you’re very talented,” I finished lamely.

Sam’s face was practically glowing pink. He cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he said, his eyes snapping away from me and down to his beer, which he started spinning in idle circles on the tabletop. “That’s a really nice compliment.”

“Yeah. Well.” I glanced away as well, surveying the ceiling as if I expected to see anything aside from some lightbulbs and more wood paneling there. “It was true.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Melissa surveying us, her arms crossed and her expression pitying. I knew she could see what was going on, that there was tension between Sam and me. Hell, she could probably tell that the whole thing was my fault. “You know,” she said slowly, pretending to be suddenly struck by an idea, “I’m going to Fantasticon too. I was planning on getting there Thursday night and staying through the weekend. I was even planning to leave here tomorrow and start driving. Why don’t I join you guys on the trip?”

“Really?” Sam asked, sounding just relieved enough for it to hurt my feelings.

“Yeah!” Melissa chirped. “I mean, you guys could both really help me out with my research, and I’d love to be able to get a feel for fan and creator interaction. It would give me a whole new dimension for my thesis. And I would happily chip in for expenses.” She looked at me and added, “Only if it’s okay with you guys though, of course. I know it wasn’t exactly your plan to run into me tonight, and I know you probably want this to be a two-person thing, considering the contest and all.”

“No!” Sam quickly interjected. I frowned. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. “No, it would be awesome to have you along for the ride with us! The more the merrier, right? And besides, we would both love to help you out with your paper.”

There was a long, awkward pause before I realized he was leaving space for me to speak. “Oh, yeah,” I added. “We’d love to have you along.” Even I wasn’t sure if I was lying or not; as much as I wanted to spend time with Sam, I was starting to think we would really need a buffer.

“Great!” Melissa let out a little, giddy giggle. “This is going to be so amazing, you guys! I can’t tell you how much it means to me, really!”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam told her. “It’s no problem.” He shifted his gaze to me, and I noticed a steeliness cutting through his voice when he asked, “Right, Lance?”

“Of course,” I said, but my stomach sank when Melissa grabbed Sam up in another hug. “Don’t mention it.”