Opening Instagram, I search for Matt’s page, but don’t see anything. Maybe he deleted it. It makes sense. It’s not like he was using it. About to consider my mind made up for me, I then realize I’m logged in to my business account and not my personal one. I’ve been so focused on work and promoting our brand, I haven’t been on my personal account for months. Switching over, I search for him again and this time his profile comes up. I tap the screen and there are his two lone pictures in all their unfocused glory. I take the time to appreciate each one before I press the message icon so I can torture myself over concocting the perfect, spontaneous hello when my eyes go wide, and my breath stops altogether.
There are already messages between me and Matt. Or rather, messages from Matt to me. Seven, to be exact. My gaze pores over them as fast as it can, skimming each one as I make my way to the bottom. The first was four months ago, telling me about his new apartment. He loves the location but he’s sure his upstairs neighbor’s greatest life passion is tap-dancing. A few more down and he’s telling me about work. The hours are rough, but I’d love the craft service table. My heart is beating a mile a minute and then I reach the last message. The message telling me he’s coming to New York for Comic Con, and if I’m free, maybe we can get together for a drink, whether it be bottled soda or otherwise.
I drop my phone on the desk and cover my mouth with elated excitement. This can’t be real. There’s no way I’m this lucky. I pick up the phone to read the messages again, but then think better of it. I immediately call Marco back instead. He answers with a bland-sounding hello, but I barely hear it.
“I’m going,” I frantically tell him. “I’m going to go see Matt.”
He gasps out loud and it makes me smile, even more so than I already am. “Are you serious? You’re going now? Like, now, now?”
“Now, now,” I confirm. I stand up from my desk and pick up my bag from off the floor. “These autograph sessions probably hit their capacity in a matter of minutes. If I don’t go now, I might not get in.”
“I’m coming with you!” Marco almost screams. “I’ll meet you outside the main entrance in a half hour!”
I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. “Don’t you have work?”
“I haven’t taken a personal day in almost a year and if you think I’m missing this, you’resorrilymistaken. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
We both hang up, and I slide my phone into my pocket as I power walk to the door. I almost step out, but then something of vital importance comes to mind. I whip around and move to a clothing rack that’s tucked in the far corner of the room. I wrestle past what feels like miles of bras and panties until I find the garment bag I’m looking for. I grab it off the rack and fold it over my arm before heading right out the door.
Get ready, Comic Con. I’m about to grand gesture the hell out of you.
I’m not sure what I was expecting by way of my first ever fan convention, but it’s fair to say that it’s nothing like what I just walked into. The scale, the costumes, the crowds—all of it is so extreme, and I’m surprised to say that I seriously love it. Sure, I’m horrified at the prospect of Matt thinking I’m eerily eager and overexcited to see him by suddenly appearing out of the blue, but I took a half day to be here and there’s no turning back now.
I glance down at my latest text from Marco where he tried to explain where we should meet, and then back up again at the massive crowd I’m now immersed in. The odds of finding him seem grim, at best, when I miraculously spot him taking a picture with someone dressed as a reptilian character holding a sword. They’re posing for their second shot when I purposefully approach them.
“We’re supposed to be here on a mission, you know,” I tell Marco upon my arrival.
“I’m sorry. This will just take a second. I didn’t think I’d be into this, but it turns out I’m really into it.”
They take one more photo together before Marco bids farewell to his new lizard swordsman friend. We walk deeper inside, following the crowd as Marco shakes his head.
“I can’t believe this is just a random Wednesday. When I woke up this morning, I thought the most exciting thing that was going to happen was me and Derek deciding which dinner options we were going to meal prep this weekend and now I’m about to watch you reunite with your one who got away. These are exciting times we’re living in.”
“Okay, you need to pump the brakes,” I tell him. “I’m only here totalkto Matt, not elope under the Comic Con sun.”
“Talk to him, run into his arms whileBaywatchjogging in slow motion. It’s the same thing.”
Now nearing the epicenter of the conference space, it feels like we’ve crash-landed on a completely different planet. There are booths for everything. There are clothes, toys, a gaming section, a square of food carts, photo opportunity sets. And the costumes! The intricately crafted costumes. All of it is staggering and overwhelming and I get a thrill from feeling like I’m somehow part of it.
Soon enough, Marco and I find a directory, discovering that theOperation Starshipcrew is on the opposite side of the building. Of course. We get there twenty minutes later, and despite being three hours early, there’s already a mile-long line.
“Ain’t no mountain high enough,” Marco mutters. “Let’s do this.”
The hours pass as we wait, with Marco and I taking turns to walk around or grab snacks in the interim. We may or may not reread and interpret Matt’s messages upward of three times. When the line finally starts moving, our feet are on fire from standing so long but our building adrenaline dulls the pain. We’re almost able to see the table where the actors and Matt are sitting when a conference employee moves down the line, giving everyone bracelets. I watch as the amount that he’s holding gets smaller and smaller, and when he gives the final two to the couple in front of us, my heart absolutely nose-dives.
Stepping aside to call out to us and to the rest of the people standing in line behind us, the employee says, “Sorry, everyone, but if you didn’t get a bracelet, this is the cutoff. TheOperation Starshipautograph session will be closed from this point on.”
He walks away and Marco looks at me, dumbfounded. “Oh no,” he says through a confident little laugh, walking right up to the couple in front of us.
“Hi, hey, I’m sorry to disturb, but we really need those bracelets.”
“No way,” the man says, turning around to reveal that he’s dressed in a full galactic medic’s uniform, cape included. It’s not the best quality costume, but it’s not bad, either. “Once this is signed, my collection will be complete.” He holds up a promotional photo of the cast, which Marco and I both nod at.
“Totally understandable,” Marco goes on to say, “but what if I told you that we will get that photo signed for you, and in addition, my associate and I, who are both very well known fashion designers, will create a completely one-of-a-kind costume for you and your friend for next year’s conference. And yes, we are willing to sign a contract guaranteeing it.”
The man thinks on it. Looks us both over with a suspicious gaze. “Let me see your work.”
Marco and I whip out our phones and display some of our best pieces. The man puts on a pair of glasses he kept in his medical kit and reviews them. One intensely long minute later he hands our phones back, seemingly having reached a decision.
