Delia:OH HELL YEAH it’s gonna be so good to see you, we’re gonna eat so much ice cream and barf <3
I smiled down at my phone for a long minute, and I sent her a GIF of a sparkle-puking cartoon cat before my eyes could fixate on the heart.
Robin was returning, hands full of what looked like gigantic salty, caramel-y Death Star-y abomination goodness, hair bouncing and a bright smile lighting up his face. We’d only just decided to be friends and I’d have to tell him that I was leaving.
Was I running away again?
“I told them to throw all the salt they owned on here,” Robin chirped, shoving one of the giant popcorn balls at me before plopping back down on the bench, “so RIP your blood pressure.”
“Thanks.” I chewed on my lip for a moment. “Um. So, I think I’m going to pop back home for a little bit to visit. Only for a few days.”
Robin froze, Death Star halfway to his mouth. “Oh. Yeah, okay. Everything okay?”
Define okay.“I think so, it’s just ... I have some things to work out with Matt.” And Delia would be there. I needed to be able to face her. To get closure. “Like, I’m not looking forward to the bus ride, but it’ll be nice to see him again since we’ve made up.”
Robin was nodding a bit jerkily. “Right, right. Um, so buses suck; what if I drove you there? Unless that’s weird. Is that weird? I don’t want to overstep. I totally get it if you want to do this alone—”
“That would be great, actually,” I said, a wave of fondness rolling through me at the delighted surprise on Robin’s face. “Thank you.”
It hadn’t even occurred to me that Robin would offer to drive me all the way back to Seattle. But spending some more time with him sounded nice, and I’d have both him and my family in the same place; everyone who cared about me along for the ride while I tried to figure out who and what I was—
Maybe I didn’t have to do it alone this time.
August 15th
ThankfullyTakoyummywasn’t far from the convention center and we beat the dinner rush, because we’d no sooner been seated when the restaurant flooded with teenagers dressed head to toe in costumes, each more cumbersome and vaguely impractical than the next.
Kinda made me wish one of theSurrogate Goosepenguin cosplayers would show up, just to see the look on Armand’s face.
As it was, he visibly relaxed the moment we settled into our corner booth and I’d ordered for the both of us. His hulking frame, which he’d held so rigid during the panel, slumped into the upholstery.
I grinned, reaching for my water glass. “That bad, huh?”
“No, not really. That was barely the eighth worst experience of my life.” He gave a rueful grin, settling further into the comfort of the booth. “So ... ‘Tell us about your artistic process,’ huh?”
I nearly did a spit take as laughter bubbled out of me. It had been a split-second decision, as dozens of fans had lined up to ask Armand questions about his craft and the enigmatic narrative of his comic (only one of which he attempted to answer), and I couldn’t help myself. “I was simply giving the people what they want, Armand—everyone wants the dirty, dirty secrets about what goes on behind the scenes. And it just so happens that I’ve had a front row seat to the carnage.”
Armand blushed prettily, so I continued, “But seriously, though, your talk was so good. I’m a lowly peasant so I didn’t understand all the art terms, but the way you held command of the room ...” I cupped the back of my neck and rested my elbows on the table. “It wasincrediblyimpressive.”
My god, his face was so red. “Are—” he swallowed “Are you taking the piss?”
“Not even a little bit.”
The same shy, crooked smile I’d seen slip when he’d caught sight of me from the stage made a stunning reappearance. “Fingers crossed that Drake House agrees with you. Which—” His face suddenly fell. “I guess I’ll find out on Sunday. When I’m back in London.”
I’d almost forgotten he was leaving the day after tomorrow. For a moment, the fun, tingly tension that had surrounded us turned into a much more urgent and melancholy tension. “Right.”
“You know,” he rumbled softly, clearly trying to recover the date-atmosphere. “You’re not what I expected.”
I knew it. I knew he’d be disappointed. And why wouldn’t he be?
I forced a playful tone. “What, were you expecting a slobby, butt-ugly troll?”
“No,” Armand said, and his cheeks had never stopped being pink. “I suppose I just never expected you’d be a sexy cowboy.” He then tried to adorably cover his eyes with his hand and disappear into the booth.
I coughed in shock, and this time my face joined Armand’s in the fiery color palette. “You’re not exactly what I expected either.”
“I-I’m not?”
