When Costanza, who’s sleeping stretched out on the floor between us, starts kicking his legs and making happy little dream noises, she even looks over at me and smiles—until she remembers she’s mad at me and looks away again.
Blake dozes in the seat next to me, the kids chat, Costanza chases dream squirrels, Marguerite studies, and I allow myself to bask in the contented feeling of the whole scene.
Before I’m ready for that quiet calm to end, the plane lands. Helene meets us at the airfield to take Costanza to the ranch, and there’s a car to take the rest of us straight to the convention.
I’ve been to Comic-Con a few times for my previous Hemlock movies, and yet I still stare at the huge, colorfully costumed crowd at the convention center, people spilling out around the edges like the time Ivy added bubble bath soap to our dishwasher.
Blake squeezes my hand. “Game face time,” he says, as much to himself as to me.The press stuff for big films like this can be exhausting, especially at major events like Comic-Con.
Luke is pressed up against the window, wide-eyed, and even Ivy bounces in her seat with excitement.
“Time to Dash!” Luke announces. He’s dressing up as Dash fromThe Incredibles,and he digs his mask out of the duffel bag we brought containing costumes for both the kids and Marguerite. Not only is dressing up fun, having costumes with masks will keep the kids anonymous in the crowd—a luxury they don’t get all that often.
A large part of me wishes Blake and I could do the same.
“Okay, remember to stay close to Marguerite the whole time,” I say with a pointed look at Luke, who has an unfortunate habit of wandering.
Luke nods, though I have a feeling the excitement is chasing my words out of his head before they have a chance to stick. My chest tightens, picturing him disappearing into the massive crowd, the people shifting and churning around him like a riptide, leaving no trace of my little boy behind.
My breath grows shallow. Not just at the horrible image but at the kind of heft it has.The kind I’ve learned to identify as a thought that will play over and over, insisting that if I don’t text Marguerite every five minutes or think about my son enough, something terrible will happen to him.
The meds don’t prevent these thoughts completely, though they’re much rarer now.It’s not real, I tell myself.Just OCD.Then I lean down and give Luke a huge hug, which he quickly wriggles out of. Still, cuddling my son even for a brief moment is enough to give my brain the little dopamine boost it needs to kick itself out of its rut.
“Don’t worry,” Marguerite says. “I told Luke if he doesn’t hold my hand, I’m going to tie our hands together with a big red ribbon. One with mushy hearts all over it.”
Luke wrinkles his nose but giggles as Marguerite tickles his side.
I let out a breath. Marguerite’s got this; she always does.
The thought subsides with my quick mental trick—another benefit of the meds and loads of practice. It may yet come back, though.
I’m glad I’m going to have Blake with me if it does. I look up and notice he’s watching me carefully. Is he starting to be able to tell when an OCD thought hits? When I have to coax my brain back to sanity?
If so, is that a good thing?
Ivy pulls out her own mask—she’s in a matchingIncrediblescostume as Violet—as the car pulls around to the VIP area cordoned off for celebs, and Marguerite puts on the mask to become Elastigirl.Then convention liaisons meet us and escort Blake and me to the celebrity green room, while Marguerite and the kids head out to the main convention halls.
The first panel Blake and I are on goes well. It’s set in a huge room with thousands of attendees, but the room itself is so dark we can’t really see more than a general mass out there, like we’re on stage at a rock concert. We’re on the panel withTroy and Bertram (whose flight arrived late, leaving him rushing up onto the stage, looking flushed and annoyed), as well as Hannah Verhoeven, the girl whose webcomic was the genesis of this movie. She’s young, in her mid-twenties at most, and looks perpetually startled—though maybe that’s just the look she gets when put on a stage in front of so many people, along with the A-list stars of the movie that only exists because of her.
Feeling the comforting weight of Blake’s hand on my knee under the table, I remind myself to thank her. Profusely.
Despite the massive crowd, the panel goes well.The questions were pre-screened and all asked by the moderator, a slight, charismatic Indian-American guy named Jai who does some big comics podcast. He asks one question about Blake’s and my relationship, but it’s pretty softball as far as these things go, and Blake quips about how grateful he is for my very specific attraction to guys wearing shiny gold visors.The crowd laughs and cheers, and then we’re back to movie-specific questions.
Which makes all of us—especiallyTroy—very happy, something I needed after days and days of growing stress on set, a good portion of which I can’t help but feel responsible for.
We’re escorted off for a few hours of VIP photos and autographs.Then one more panel, and our Comic-Con obligations will be fulfilled, and we can actually spend a night at home. As a family. With Blake.
I can’t wait.
It’s this thought that carries me through until that last panel, which I can tell right away is going to be different than the previous one.This room is much smaller, well lit, and the crowd seated in front of us is limited to one hundred people—the mega-fans and reporters willing to pay a hefty amount for tickets to this event where they’re allowed to ask the questions themselves.
Normally I prefer smaller group interactions with my fans, but with all the issues surrounding Blake and me, this crowd scares me far more than the stadium-level masses.
Like at the other panel, we’re set up at a long table, with water bottles for each of us and a placard with our names in front of our designated seat. I’ve got Blake on one side of me and Bertram on the other.
Troy’s down at the end, talking with Sarah, who isn’t going to be on the panel but has a reserved seat in the front row, with a little brown-haired boy wearing glasses who looks about four or five. She rarely talks about her son—she doesn’t ever seem inclined to engage in personal conversations in general—but I’ve seen the pictures she keeps on her daily schedule clipboard.
Bertram groans when he sees the placard on the other side of him, labeledPeter Dryden. “Not again,” he mutters. “I was stuck next to the man on the flight here, and I swear, Kimberly, there isn’t enough wine in all the first class cabins in the world to make that trip palatable.”
