Chapter thirty-nine
Lindsay
The next day, I message Quinn.
Not because I have a plan—I don't.
But because sitting in my sister's guest room staring at walls feels like surrender.
Quinn responds almost immediately:Meet me at your old apartment. I have an idea.
I don't ask questions. I just go.
When I unlock the door, Quinn is already inside, surrounded by chaos.
Fabric covers every surface. Rhinestones sparkle in little piles.
Duct tape, scissors, and what looks suspiciously like a hot glue gun sit on the coffee table next to a half-assembled costume.
She looks up when I enter, one knee propped on the couch, sleeves rolled up, determination written across her face.
"Good," she says. "I was hoping you'd get here before I finished." She gestures to the outfit laid out across the coffee table. "What do you think?"
It's ridiculous. Loud. Sparkly. Entirely unapologetic.
It's the costume I was making before everything fell apart. The one I abandoned.
And now she has a matching—well, kind of matching outfit spread out beside it.
I blink, struggling to understand what I'm seeing. "You finished my CAMICon costume?"
Quinn nods like this is completely normal. Like sneaking into my apartment to complete abandoned cosplay projects is just what friends do.
"Last day of CAMICon starts in three hours," she says matter-of-factly. "You shouldn't miss it."
I stare at the costume. At the quiet evidence that someone still expects me to show up. To be myself. To take up space.
"You don't have to go," I say, suddenly self-conscious.
Quinn snorts. "I know. I want to."
"But—"
"Look," she interrupts, setting down the hot glue gun. "You can keep hiding, or you can put on something ridiculous and remember who you were before. Before the lottery. Before Arthur. Before you tried to shrink to fit."
Her words land hard and clean, like a slap of cold water.
"I've been working for rich people my entire life," Quinn continues, reaching for more rhinestones. "And you know what the biggest difference is between old money and new money?"
I shake my head.
"New money apologizes," she says. "Old money never thinks it has to."
I look at the sparkly mess spread across my living room, and something inside me loosens. A laugh bubbles up from nowhere, startling both of us.
"This is insane," I say.
Quinn grins. "Exactly the point."
