“Goner”—Twenty-One Pilots
Jesus Christ…
The pain radiates from my toe to my ankle, all the way to my shin.
"Fuck!" I hop on one foot, holding the other as I take several deep breaths in an attempt to make the pain subside. I glare at the corner of the dresser where I stubbed my toe. Dumb piece of fucking furniture.
I can't stop my body from shaking or myself from sweating. I've tried three times to put on eyeliner. But due to my unsteady hand, I've made a mess of it and had to wash off this ridiculous makeup twice. I've never been one to pile on cosmetics. I don't see the point. All of it is a lie. It's for vain girls with nothing inside their heads, for shallow people who only have their looks. Think about the damn word makeup. To make up for something you lack. Yet, here I sit in front of my mirror, attempting to draw a perfect thin black line around my round eyes.
And why?
Because in precisely two hours, twenty-seven minutes, and fifteen seconds—give or take a few—I'll be face-to-face with EA Mercer. Just the thought makes a large lump form in my throat. I swallow around it. Around it because it won't budge.
How many people get to have coffee with their idol, with the person who helped them ignore the shitty environment they grew up in? With the person who influenced their decision of what to do with their otherwise seemingly doomed existence?
Calm down, Miranda. Using my left hand, I steady my right and slowly, carefully—successfully—manage to line my eyes.
Once I finish applying my face, I step back and stare at my reflection. Pale skin. Hazel eyes framed in thick made-up lashes. As I stare at myself, I can't help but think that with all this shit on my face, I actually look like a 1940s pinup. Nice dress. New shoes I bought on credit. Full face of flawless makeup. I look completely put together, girly, and possibly sociable. Oh, how fake first impressions can be. But if there’s one thing I've learned in life, it's that impressions determine everything.
Really, looks determine everything. No one cares if you're smart or nice or caring. No. People care, first and foremost, about your appearance. And for the first time in my life, as I take in the stunning redhead in the mirror with polished nails and a trim waist, I believe that my looks might possibly help me.
Just before I turn to leave, I coat my full lips with a bright red lipstick that reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. After all, the one thing I've learned from reading each of Mr. Mercer's books a minimum of four times is that he has a penchant for an hourglass figure and a redhead with slut-red lips.
"Would you like more water?" the gangly waiter asks for the second time in five minutes.
I force a smile and shake my head. "No, thank you though."
I glance at the dainty antique watch on my wrist. Five minutes overdue. I tap my foot on the floor of the empty coffee shop. Clasping the glass with both hands, I go over the possible questions he may ask me. What are your goals as a writer? To be you. What made you decide to write? You. Who is your favorite author? You. You. You!
I clear my throat and remind myself to not answer "you" to everything or else I may scare him. After all, I can't have him thinking I'm some crazy, obsessed fan. I'm not. I'm a reader—no, I’m a writer. A writer, not a stalker.
I swallow around that lump once more, and as I do, a shadow falls over the table—a shadow that sends chill bumps scattering over my skin. Slowly, I glance up, my pulse steadily picking up as my gaze scans up a pair of jeans to a freshly pressed dark gray shirt, to the face of the man who changed my whole world. This man's mind is beautifully mad, and the worst part about this meeting is that I now realize he may be just as beautiful physically as he is mentally. Tanned skin. Dark, impossibly bottomless eyes. Thick, messy brown hair. It's enough to make even me—a girl who cares nothing at all for men—swoon.
And swoon I fucking do. My mouth is suddenly dry, my mind a jumbled mess. Sweat slicks my skin, and my head spins. For a brief moment, I fear the sheer delight from being so damn close to him may make me faint. I manage a polite smile, fighting to keep it from spreading all the way across my face.
"Mr. Mercer," I say, holding out my hand.
Everything seems to move in slow motion, and my pulse goes crazy at the thought that I am actually about to touch him.
He stops several feet in front of the table, glaring at me, but he doesn't take my outstretched hand. His eyes narrow slightly, and I break out into a sweat. The smile quickly fades from my face. Without a word, he pulls out the chair across from me. The second he sits, he snaps his fingers at the barista then redirects his attention to me. He's not actually looking at me—no, he's studying me like an opponent sizing up the rival they know they'll too easily knock to the ground. I anxiously drum my fingers over the table and clear my throat as I wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.
"Ms. Cross, I must say I appreciate your timeliness. There's nothing that pisses me off more than someone who's late for a meeting. So for that, I thank you." His eyes never leave mine, and it's both intimidating and unnervingly sexy.
Never in my life did I think I'd be sitting across from EA Mercer. I try my best to stifle the sweat beginning to creep down my forehead.
"Thank you, Mr. Mercer. I…" I take a breath. I remind myself to remain collected even though every muscle in my body is ready to give out. "It's such an honor to even be considered for this opportunity. I—"
The barista stops at the end of the table and stares at us.
Edwin looks at me, annoyance etched on his face. "Coffee. Black. Ms. Cross, have you ordered already?"
"Miranda, please." I shoot a smile at Edwin before I glance at the barista. "I'll just stick with my water."
A nervous smile forms on the barista’s face as he nods and scurries off. I don’t blame him. Mr. Mercer is intimidating.
"So how much do you know about what I'm looking for here? I realize I didn’t give much guidance, but you do understand whomever I choose will be co-writing my next novel—potentially ghostwriting," he says with a sliver of arrogance to his tone.
"Uh, yes." My heart rate accelerates. "I knew about the co-writing bit, of course, the contest and all. I think that was clear in the email, but I, uh, I wasn't aware it may be ghostwriting…" I ramble, telling myself to shut the hell up.
Edwin straightens, narrowing his eyes on me. "And is that a problem? You do understand the opportunity I'm presenting, correct?"
My mouth has suddenly gone dry. "Yes, I absolutely do, and I didn't mean for that to sound, um, I didn't mean for it to sound…" Shit. Get it together, Miranda. "I didn't mean for it to sound unappreciative. I'd love any opportunity to write with you, Mr. Mercer."
"Good." His dark eyes lock with mine in the most intense stare I've possibly ever witnessed. "Very good… because I liked your story, Miranda. I don’t like many other people's work, and after the thousands of shit stories from your peers my assistant sent over the past month, yours certainly stood out."
Edwin’s stare remains glued to mine.
A smile tears at my lips. "Thank you very much for—"
"Don't thank me. I'm not one for doling out compliments. I find them pointless. I am only stating a fact. You still need a lot of work, but I think the potential is there. I'm not set on who I will choose just yet—or whether or not I'll choose anyone at all. This is not something I wanted to do. Not by a long shot," he scoffs.
And what do you say to that? What kind of response could I possibly give to that? While I assumed he'd be arrogant, I didn't think he'd be rude. He almost seems disgusted by the idea of co-writing with someone, which does take away from the appeal, but no amount of arrogance in the world could make me step away from this opportunity.
"The fact that you see any potential with my work at all, honestly, is enough. I've read every single one of your books—several times—and you're a genius with words. So whether you decide to go any further than this right here, well…" I nervously drum my fingers over the tabletop, and he smirks. Something in that smirk makes me uneasy.
"That's what I like to hear. My publisher wants this book by December. That means we have a little over two months. While I don't often meet anyone's deadline but my own, I would like to get started on this book right away. If you are chosen, I would ask that you come out to my cabin to work. Whether you have school or not, this is the timeline. Would that be an issue?"
"Not at all." I shake my head. "I can take the fall semester off."
He stands. "Well, Miranda, my assistant will be in touch if I decide to work with you. Have a good day."
He turns on his heel, slipping his jacket on, and walks briskly for the door. My mouth gapes. I know I should say something, but his sudden departure has me at a loss for words. Did I really just come all the way out here for this?
I stand abruptly, the legs of my chair scraping over the floor. "Thanks, Mr. Mercer. It was nice to meet you," I call feebly, shaking my head at how stupid I sound.
Of course he doesn't respond or even turn. He simply continues toward the door, leaving me standing in an uncomfortable silence.