I swallowed hard and kept it together until the last of the students had left—except for Finch, of course, who skipped down the auditorium steps like the malicious fae child he was.
I said nothing and glared at him, which he took as an invitation to say, “I’ll see you at the play tonight, right? We’re seeingeveryoneat the play tonight, right?” He poked my biceps. “Right? Everyone who might be about six feet tall? Everyone who might have a dimpled chin?”
Finch had apparently run into Lucas at some point this past week. After smugly informing me of this encounter, he’d waited, as if I might beg him for information. When I’d stood firm, he’d begun peppering me with infuriating little factoids.
Lucas was blond. He had a nice smile. Big hands.
Unfortunately, Finch had also been witness to the last time Lucas and I had tried to move against the will of several gods and forces of the universe by attempting to meet each other. He’d watched as several members of a local Indie Comix Club—an organization I had not heretofore known existed—had embarked upon an uncomfortable ritual in which they praisedSurrogate Gooseand myself to the point of tears. Theirs, not mine.
Well, nearly mine.
Finch had known I was meant to be meeting Lucas that night, and to his credit he’d done his best to help me leave. He seemed concerned that Lucas and I barely had three days left in which to try to see each other, but he was obviously also a bit pleased that his play would have a role in this comedy of errors.
“Lucasiscoming?” Finch asked, his voice gone slightly hesitant.
I let my shoulders shudder in a heavy sigh. “I certainly hope so, Titch.” I tried to smile at him. “I assumeyou’reexcited for tonight?”
For a moment his wicked smirk almost faltered, something other than mischief and unadulterated joy contracting behind his eyes. Nerves? It almost looked like fear.
He shook it off and ushered a grin back into place. “I’m so excited I could pop.” He poked my biceps yet again. “You gonna run around screaming for the next couple hours?”
I shrugged dejectedly. “I think I’ll just wait in my office.” I’d brought some work with me, as always, though the Indie Comix Club incident had left me gun-shy and reluctant to act predictably.
“Great, see you later!” And he scampered off, forever bursting with endless, cheeky, intolerable energy.
I stepped outside for a quick smoke, then holed up in my office like I’d planned. I had brought work along, but I’d also brought something else. It sat snug at the very bottom of my bag and posed incontrovertible proof that I was turning into my father.
I shut the door and took a few quick nips from the flask, just to steady my nerves. I was simply sad about the workshop ending, nervous about the con tomorrow, rueful about missing Lucas’s dinner, and anxious about seeing him tonight.
After all, I was in control. I was the master of my own fate, making conscious adult decisions.
Which was why I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice message arrived from my agent.
“Did you find a meeting, pet?
This was one of my conscious adult decisions turning on me—I’d told Lakshmi that I’d contacted Karim. She knew what that meant.
“Yes. I sat in a church basement with a load of strangers and now I’m cured,” I grumbled, trying not to sound guilty.
Lakshmi clearly tried not to sound skeptical. “Glad to hear it.”
Ihadfound a meeting, and ithadhelped. But it wasn’t pretty.
And neither was drying out. All I had to do to stop drinking so much wasstop bloody drinking so much.
I could almostfeelthe whack Karim would have aimed at the back of my head and hear his scolding:“You think it’s that simple? You kill me, habibi.”There would be a reckoning when I got home, back to my safe, controlled environment, but for now I had to focus on short-term goals—those things I could realistically change. Goddamn fucking buggering bloodymindfulness.
This was far from my first time drying out or even my first time attempting it on my own. I knew what I needed, and while the sobriety tracker app suggested to me at the meeting was a nice thought, old-school sharpie marks on the bottle served just as well.
I resolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that sharpie marks didn’t have quite the same effect with a flask.
What I needed was towork.
I needed to work and utterly divorce myself from reality, from the many-flavored banquet of anxieties that threatened to fill every last part of me. First and foremost among these was the worry surrounding my and Lucas’s potentially disastrous first meeting. Tonight. There were so many,manyways I could cock this up.
What if I forgot how to form words or became suddenly and catastrophically incontinent? What if, upon meeting me, he flat-out rejected me because I offended and repelled him so? What if I’d completely misunderstood the tone of his communiqués and what I had perceived as flirting was actually friendly heterosexual banter, and the moment he realized my intentions he tried to kill me in a fit of homophobic passion? Perhaps he thought I was a woman? Or simply far more desirable than I really was? He had mentioned my fame; what if he was under the impression that I was also rich? Perhaps he was expecting Mr. Bond: English, sexy, and debonair, but would instead be met with Mr. Bean: English, neurotic, and humorously tragic.
Even if the worst happened, would it matter? I was leaving the country in three days.
