She unpicks a stitch. “How’s yours doing?”
“My what?”
“Your sourdough. Did you follow the instructions that came with it?”
I crumble under the slightest interrogation. “It was so many pages, Daph. Why do I need to read so many pages to eat bread?”
Her mouth turns down in the corners. “Is that a no?”
“Regrettably, it’s a yes, and this thing has taken over my kitchen and my life and my mental health.”
“Well, have you made any bread yet?”
“No! But I don’t want it to go to waste, so I keep feeding it, and it keeps growing, and I’m not convinced it won’t swallow my building whole while I’m gone this weekend. Say goodbye to Park Slope, because it won’t exist by this time next month.” I just barely refrain from pointing out that if she hadn’t moved to California last year, we would still be roommates in Brooklyn, and none of this would be an issue.
Daphne’s spit take soaks our table. We’re mopping it up with flimsy napkins when a small voice pulls our attention. “Um…excuse me?” Two teen girls inTorcher for LifeT-shirts hover just outside the patio. One of them nudges her friend forward. “Your turn,” she whispers.
“Are you Margot Darling?” the second girl asks, and it’s habit more than anything that makes me wince.
“She is!” Daphne beams. “Nice shirts, by the way. I have the same one.”
“Are you signing books?” the girl asks me, and the hopeful note in her voice makes my shoulders relax. Only fans call themselves Torchers—I should have known they came in peace. “I’ll be in one of the tents on Sunday morning.”
“We’re going home today, and we drove two hours just to meet you,” she says, still hopeful.
My eyes widen. “Really? Even though I—”Fucked up beyond measure, I don’t say, because Daphne’s foot comes down hard on my toes.
“She’d love to sign them,” Daphne says.
Muscle memory takes control, and I usher the girls forward so I can sign and personalize all six books. Then we hug and take pictures, and I feel like I’m floating as they walk away. Meeting someone who loves the thing I made never gets old.There was a time—right up until about ninety seconds ago—when I worried those days were over.
Daphne shakes her head. “They woke up today and decided to spend four hours driving to meet you.”
“Weird, right? They could have watched, like, a hundred YouTube videos in that time.”
“Mars. They drove all this way just to meetyou!”
“My ego is big enough, don’t make it worse.”
Daphne spins her finger in a circle. “The festival is expecting a hundred and twenty-five thousand attendees this weekend, hundreds of whom are here to seeyou. You’re not a Karen; you’re Margot fucking Darling! Your book has sold in twenty countries. The movies have made hundreds of millions of dollars.Youare the star here. If you don’t want him on your panel, do something about it. Start your revenge arc!”
“No character jokes,” I groan.
“Mars!”
“Fine. You’re right. You’re right!” I stand up, jostling the table and knocking Daphne’s yarn to the ground. I bend to help her clean up, but she shoos me away with the flick of her wrist.
“Go!” she orders.
I nod once, my determination growing and solidifying in real time. “Yes. Good. I’ll make West sorry he bothered to show up.”
“Good.” She nods in approval. “And after you do—stop thinking about him.”
“What?”
She gives me a small smile that could be either pity or pride. “You’ve worked hard to be here, Mars. Don’t let him get in your head.”
8
