“Don’t worry, he’ll be here.” Finch took my elbow again and gently led me toward the stage. The room was seriously starting to fill up with a much larger crowd than had attended the previous panel. The low roar of the rabble rumbled through me like seismic waves. People were already standing in the back of the room.
I took my seat beside the pink-haired person and they smiled at me. I tried to smile back but my face felt numb. The moderator stood, and just like Finch had said, made a series of opening remarks, during which I continued to scan the crowd as best I could.
Everybody and his brother-in-law had shown up with a camera, it seemed, but I was keeping an eye out for the fancy kind that would match the cases and stands often strewn around the flat. I was looking for a glitzy camera and a flash of green eyes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Finch being strange in the front row: He was rather pale and rigid, gripping the edge of his seat. He kept glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously as if afraid someone would see. Well, Ididsee, and I followed his gaze to the corner of the room, near the middle row, where ...
Of course. Skyler.
And standing beside him—
My microphone let out a sharp burst of feedback as I accidentally knocked it over. I scrambled to set it upright again while ignoring the expressions of concern and likely ire directed at me by the other panelists. I was just grateful I hadn’t knocked over my water glass, or worse, the jug.
Lucas Barclay looked rather different when not covered in horse. The hair was blond and not naturally spiky, the face was tan and assembled in a series of attractive squares and triangles. I’d observed the wide shoulders the night before, but now in combination with the face of a good-natured cowboy ...
I crossed my legs under the table and immediately started gnawing my knuckles, trying to stop blushing and hoping against hope that he hadn’t caught me staring at him.
But he had—he grinned, showing beautiful white American teeth, and gave me a shy little wave. I smiled in spite of myself and forced my knuckles out of my mouth, using the hand to wave back instead. Miraculously, I didn’t knock over anything else.
He’d come. He’d actually come. Did that mean there was still a chance? Even though we only had a couple of days left, did he want to pursue this strange thing we’d begun?
Despite the fact that it should have been cataclysmically awkward to stare at each other for as long as we did, neither of us seemed able to look away.
Lucas wasn’t taking pictures, and I was only brought back to myself when the bloke next to me nudged me hard in the ribs.
“W-wha?” I blinked away the daze. Pink-Hair was giving me an amused smile while gesturing toward the moderator.
A dapper and extroverted man suited to his job, the moderator was chuckling at me. “And it appears Mr. Demetrio has allowed his mind to wander. Are you prepared to tell us a bit about your goals forSurrogate Goose?”
Ohright.I still needed tospeak.
I swallowed and nodded, heat pulsing in my face. Then I pulled my microphone forward, hunching toward it, and smoothed out my tattered page of notes. Lucas was giving me a quiet, encouraging smile, and I could feel it idiotically reflected on my own face.
“I, urgh, haven’t any, errmmm,goals.”Oh, brilliant start, Demetrio.“That is, not—not any that would make sense to anyone who wasn’t me.”And that sounds as if you think you’re smarter than everyone, well done.I shut my eyes tight for a moment and tried to start over. “I started making this comic during the darkest period of my life”—my voice had gone reedy and fragile, but I soldiered on—“a-and it helped meoutof it. I know it’s got this reputation for being bleak and ... and hard to understand, and honestly that’s because I’m just faffing about.” I worried my hands, trying not to be overcome with relief when a laugh rippled through the crowd.
I ran a hand through my hair and then left it there, leaning forward on my elbow, holding Lucas’s gaze like it was a lifeline. His eyes narrowed and his grin widened. He bit his lip. I nearly groaned. Instead, I glanced down at my notes and kept talking, riding this wave of serotonin as far as it would take me.
“It’s always been confusing to me why other people enjoy the comic.” At this, there was a murmur of ascent from along the table. They were smiling and nodding in understanding. Marveling along with me that others might find anything of value in our creations.
None of us knew how or why this worked.
“It’s confusing,” I continued, “but it also makes me incrediblyhopeful. This thing that I make b-because it helps me makesensewhere there otherwise is none, it actually appeals to the rest of you. Or s-some of you, at least.” I swallowed, glancing around the crowd. “I dunno how many of you were dragged here.”
Another laugh.Oh god, this might be going well.I took a shaky breath.
“I’ve had time to think this past month, while I was t-teaching at Norsemen.” I had to stop as my students howled and hollered in the way of Americans whose hometown, school, or sports team has been casually mentioned, and I couldn’t help grinning at the lot of them. “Settle down. Anyway, I realized that while we like to pretend that we make art for, well,artsyreasons—you know, mysterious, spiritual, unknowable mid-life crisis reasons—and I know it doesn’t sound very edgy, but I think all we’re doing is making bids for connection. We just want each other to be happy.” I found several faces in the crowd I recognized—Robin, Skyler, the students again—all beaming. “It feels good to make people happy, and that doesn’t always mean making happy content, necessarily. It might mean working through some real shite—” I winced “—sorry, er,crap, and processing it as best you can using, heh,penguins—” several audience members whooped “—or bloody obtuse literary allusions, or intense graphic contrast. There’s no inherent meaning to any of that.” I ran both hands through my hair again, swallowing and avoiding the eyes of the other panelists. “I know it soundstrite, but my intentions don’t matter, when you come down to it. There’s only as much meaning asyouput in. Y-you beingyou. Er, notme.” I looked over at Lucas again, helplessly.
He was grinning at me and had his arms folded over his chest, as if waiting to see what I would do next.
“I must say, the thought that this drivel I make—” I glanced along the table “—thatwemake, out of the mankiest, most cack-handed,obnoxiousbits of ourselves—”
Pink Hair and the tattoo twins muttered again in agreement.
“—can actually reach you lot, make you less bored or less lonesome ... It’soverwhelming. In my case, I’m taking my own darkness—and not a sexy, bloodysibyllinedarkness, mind you, a crusty,pongydarkness, full of moldy half-eaten takeaways and ink stains on the carpet—” The crowd gave a mirthful roar, and somehow even in the cacophony, I could pick out Lucas’s warm, golden, sunshine laugh.
“And somehow making you smile.” I did so myself. “That’s the job. You reach out with your tender bits, and if you’re lucky, someone reaches back.”
The hall hummed with a warm, intimate silence. That increased in cringe by the second.
