Surely. Freaking. Not.
Even if Stoneishis uncle—and I’m not convinced he is—surely freaking not.
I mean, I know that Archie knows about me, general, because most CubeCraft professionals know about the fans who are active in the fandom in the way that I am active in the fandom. Which is to say, he knows my username and sometimesdiscusses my video edits and fan projects in his videos, and he’s even posted reaction videos that have included him reacting to my edits.
I do not at all know how he would know about me, personal, though, because the username that I post my edits and projects under is a variation on his own username—CinnaRollLuvr88888 to his CinnaRoll47426. No indication of who I am outside of my love for him. I don’t haveanypersonal connections to my fan pages. I’m careful to the point of paranoia sometimes in keeping CinnaRollLuvr88888 separate from me, Sarelia Elowen Prim.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of my love for Archie and all things concerning him. I’m merely forced to be protective of my identity. The last thing I want is to cross my professional and personal lives by getting recognized while gazing adoringly at my dearest love in the middle of a convention center. I donotneed my readers to know what goes on in my life outside of whatever marketing ploy I’ve got going on at the moment. Work life balance, and all that.
As long as my pen name, Pearl Taylor, is active, my actual identity must be protected in as many areas as I can possibly protect it. Because readers? Readers arenuts. The scary, stalker-y kind of nuts, but not in a cute way. In an I-think-they’re-trying-to-steal-my-blood-to-clone-me-in-order-to-get-more-books kind of way. They’re like addicts willing to do anything for a hit, and my books are their drug of choice. In this scenario, I’m just collateral damage as they strive for more of the substance that keeps them going.
Protecting my identity, and thus my peace, has been even more important to me as I’ve approached retirement, which is really more of a semi-retirement for me, all things considered. Even retired authors have to keep marketing their books if they want to make an income on them. Which I do, because whywould I let an entire stream of revenue dry up when I can instead dedicate a mere handful of hours a month to keeping it thriving? That would be silly.
So. Protection and privacy—to the extent that I have no clue how Archie would know my legal name to be able to then tell his uncle, let alone anything else about me.
And yet, Stone assures me that is exactly what’s happened. “Raves about you, my nephew. He finds you quite endearing, you know.”
I know no such thing, but the possibility that hemightbe telling the truth… I begin to understand the reader’s desperation for their next hit—their hope that something sweet might be just around the corner waiting for them.
“How would Archie know about me?” I ask, even as my heart restarts and a thread of hopeful wonder winds around it. Maybe he knows about me from our souls finding each other in the deep of night as I sleep, our red strings of fate twining together so tightly that he wakes with a gasp every morning, my name on his tongue.
“He cyber-stalked you, I believe.”
Ah. Or that.
“And then he real stalked you, via me.”
Or… that?
“Did you just admit to stalking on two counts?”
Not that I don’t partake in a little cyber-stalking myself, but I’m a fangirl with a penchant for daydreaming and turning my glorified fan-fiction into published works of literature. Cyber-stalking comes with the territory. Stone is a middle-aged man in a Hawaiian shirt on the brink of retirement. For one of us, stalking is cute. For the other… not so much.
“I admitted to no counts of stalking, actually. In my tax records my work is labelled as ‘High Intensity Private Investigation.’ Archie’s the stalker, not me.”
Right. Archie. Stalking.Me.
“Not to sound skeptical,” I say, broadcasting my skepticism far enough that they are likely getting a read on it in Archie’s home country of Great Britain, “butwhyshould I believe you?” Beyond the fact that I’dreally, reallylike to.
“Ah!” Stone declares, pointing a finger at me. “I almost forgot!” He drops his finger to reach into the breast pocket of his shirt and pull out his phone.
I wait patiently, counting my breaths and willing them to stay even as my budding hope grows ever larger.
He didn’t hesitate when asked for proof. Hepulled out his phoneto find it. Implying it’sthereto be found.
My eyes, glued to the phone in his hands, widen when he turns it around.
“That’s…”
“Archie,” Stone confirms. “And me.”
A veryyoungArchie with a much younger Stone, specifically. They sit together at a table, little sandy-haired Archie in Stone’s lap, his face set in a wide, carefree grin as he looks at the camera. Stone watches Archie, his eyes soft and full of love.
“That was at his mum’s house when he was maybe four or five,” Stone says, then slides a finger across the screen to change the photo. “And here we are when he was a teenager.”
Teenage Archie sparkles mayhem at me next to a version of Stone that looks considerably like the adult Archie I’m used to watching online. My eyes flick up to the man before me. “You were so handsome.”
He huffs. “Iamso handsome, you mean.”
