“Them, darling. Have I seenthem. Don’t assume.”
With that, this glamazon lifts a finger to tip down her spectacular cat-eye sunglasses, and I nearly fall over. Two shocking, swirling glacial eyes stare at me from a fully apathetic face.
“Ta-da.”
But this cannot be the same person. The most gifted prosthetic makeup team could not create such a seamless transformation. Hair color, complexion, bone structure—everything is different. Everything but those impossible eyes. And yet as I stand here, locked in their spellbinding stare, something tells me the Logic and Reason train left without me a long time ago.
“It’s … you?” I stammer. “You’re the wish granter?”
“Not today,” they say matter-of-factly, shoving the glasses back up. They hoist the bell toward an oncoming crowd of sightseers. “Today I do weather.”
I wince as the loud clanging strikes my ears, followed immediately by the accented voice shouting at everyone and no one in particular.
“It is about to—” They flinch, then delicately dab one red-nailed finger on one very high cheekbone and sneer at what they find there. Another exasperated sigh. “It is currently raining.”They turn to me blankly. “Damn. So much less impressive when precipitation beats me to the punch like that.”
They stare at me a moment, then sigh yet again. “You have a question or something, darling? It is going to downpour in thirteen minutes. I would like to be somewhere with a margarita in hand by then.”
I clear my throat, as if that will help me figure out where to begin. It feels ridiculous even putting this into words. “So, the other day I wished—”
“To be the next Anna Matthews protagonist,” says the strange person in front of me, lifting their sunglasses to the top of their head. “Next thing you know, Anna announces her new project, andyouget swept off your feet in a too-good-to-be-true way by a handsome veterinarian or bookseller or prince from a made-up European country. And now you’re wondering,how can this be,what is happening,I need answers. How close am I?”
I’m fairly sure my pulse has stopped.
“I think he’s a lawyer,” I croak.
They sigh heavily and, with all the enthusiasm of a theme park employee rattling off a safety speech, begin: “What’s happening is you got your wish. You’re the new Anna Matthews heroine. Whatever she’s working on now—the story, the characters, the dialogue—it all comes to life around you. If she writes you a love story, you get a love story. If she writes you the lottery, congratulations, you’re temporarily rich.”
“Temporarily?”
They snort. “It’s notpermanent, baby doll. Haven’t you readCinderella? When Anna writesTHE END, your carriage turns back into a pumpkin. The story will play out until it’s over, then it all disappears and your life goes back to normal. Ta-da.” They glance down to inspect their nails and, as an afterthought, add, “Unless you die. It’s like a dream; if you die in the dream, you die for real.”
The rain turns icy. My voice squeaks out of me. “Unless Idie?”
“Relax, sweetcheeks. Anna Matthews writes romance, no? But I have to say it to everyone. You’d be surprised how many people wish forJurassic Parkor the Great Molasses Flood.”
“I don’t understand, though,” I say. “How can I be a character in a novel when I’m also an actual living person? Is my real life on hold? Is everything I’m saying just dialogue in the book?”
They roll their otherworldly eyes, setting down the cowbell and retrieving an already lit cigarette from their coat pocket.
“Settle down,” they say. “The fiction doesn’t override your real life; it runs parallel. You’re still you and you still have free will. One hundred percent adherence to the plot is unlikely; the story simply adapts to your decisions. I had one lady wish to be inPride and Prejudiceand she gave Mr. Darcy a Xanax. She wound up with averydifferent version of that story.” They stare off as if haunted by the memory.
My heart hammers as the reality of this situation settles over me. According to Crazy Eyes here, Anna Matthews is writing the story of Jack and me as we speak. Unless I can outsmart her, my life is about to become a minefield of grand gestures and love declarations.
It would be ludicrous to believe. And somehow, it seems just as ludicrous not to, or to even consider my own opinion. Like standing upright and wondering whether I believe in the ground.
That doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
“How can this—” I splutter. “How can you—whoare you?”
They shrug, taking a long drag from their cigarette. “Some days I am this. Some days I am that. Once a month or so I moonlight as a server at Dick’s Last Resort. Wherever I go, I give people gifts. Wishes, curses. My presence. Whatever I feel like.” They lazily slide their sunglasses back on and glance my way. “Consider yourself lucky, darling. You’ve been given a wish cometrue … from the Gifter.” This, they say with a dramatic flourish, hands spread wide as if casting a spell.
I blink at them. “The Gifter? Not the Giver?”
“It was taken.”
The feeling welling up in me isn’t gratitude, but indignation. This person has impossible magical powers? Fine. That doesn’t give them the right to mess with people’s lives.
“Why?” I demand. “Why would you do this?”
