“You better not,” I say, shuddering.
She shifts gears. “Do you have your list of authors you want to see while you’re at the conference?”
“Yes.”
“Spare luggage for all the books you’re going to buy?”
I roll my eyes like she can see me. “Yes, Mom.”
“I’m just making sure you’re set up for success and smut. You deserve this trip.”
I sigh. “I know. I just wish Eslin could’ve come.”
“Aww. I thought this was your beloved girl's trip!”
“It was,” I tell Timantha. “But Eslin is sick, so now it’s just me. And as an unapologetic nerd, I’m very familiar with flying solo.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” she says. “I want you safe.”
I’ve reached the border now, cars lined up and inching toward the security checkpoint.
“It’s Canada, Tim,” I say. “I’m not wandering into drug cartel territory. The biggest threat here is being hugged too hard by a polite stranger.”
“That’s how they get you,” she says darkly. “You’re an American traveling into enemy territory.”
“Timantha,” I laugh. “It’s Canada and I’m a Black woman. They’re probably going to offer me sympathy citizenship.”
We’re both laughing when there’s a sharp knock on my window. I jump, nearly dropping my phone, and turn to find a large, very serious man in uniform staring straight at me.
“Hold on, Tim,” I say as I roll down the window.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Passport, please?”
“Absolutely!” I chirp, digging into my bag. In the process, my phone slips off my lap and crashes to the floor.
“Shit!” I blurt, then glance up at the officer. “Sorry.”
I spot my passport, grab it, and scoop up my phone in one swift, not-at-all graceful motion.
“Ma’am?” the officer prompts, one eyebrow lifting.
I look up. Then down at my hand.
And freeze.
My eyes widen in horror.
I’ve handed him a tampon.
“Ack! Oh my God, no—sorry!” I snatch it back, fling it blindly into the backseat like it’s on fire, and shove the actual passport into his hand. “Here you go!”
He opens it without a flicker of emotion. “Purpose of your visit?”
“The biggest event of the year!” I say brightly, hoping enthusiasm will erase the tampon from his memory.
He stares at me.
“RomantiComiCon,” I add. “A conference for people obsessed with romance novels.”
