Mom: How was the wedding? How are you holding up?
I sent her a few group pictures I had taken yesterday.
Me: The wedding was beautiful and I’m fine.
Mom: You should do something nice for yourself, you deserve it.
Mom: Did you drink any water today?”
I take a picture of my emotional support water bottle.
Mom: Yeah, but did you DRINK any of it today or has it been sitting on your desk all weekend.
Me: I don’t think I like this attitude.
In the long list of emotional gut punches this morning, add to it my mom calling me out on my shitty drinking habits. And her messages spring the other gut punch to mind.
The Four Families are not my real family, and it’s time for me to remember that. Hell, despite the fact that the most powerful man in the world just sent me a ‘Love ya’ text, I’m not a part of his family either. I only talk to my real family through text messages and memes. I haven’t heard their voices in months.
So to recap, my hydration habits are shit, my cat is pissed at me, my ex-boyfriend didn’t care enough to even list me on his persons of interest form, and now I have to spend the evening with a bunch of elites in uncomfortable shoes and making small talk two nights in a row.
Yes, I am very aware of how fucked up my life is right now.
CHAPTER 4
Grae
There it is: the holy grail of nerddom. I think I hear angels singing as the light shifts like divine intervention. My heart swells with the impending joy knowing that my collection will soon be complete. And to think that only a glass case is what’s holding me back from the script.
It’s casually next to the sword of Henadalle. It’s the replica of the prop sword, but with real gold and jewels on the hilt, and it matches the necklace worn by the Celestial Goddess. There’s some sports stuff as well—a football from one of the Superbowls, but I can’t tell which one since some suit is blocking the sign. There’s the nightmare fuel puppet from the 80’s movies by the Jim Henson studio. There’s a sketch by Picasso that’s a bunch of squiggles and one continuous image, but I've never really been a fan. And then I gasp when I see sheet music signed by the Beatles—with handwritten notes!
I have already contacted my accountant to check on my budget. He laughed and told me not to waste his time, unless I purchase something in the mid six figures. Then he mumbled something about new money and hung up.
In my earbuds, I’m listening to a Knights of the Night Podcast. It's got great banter between the hosts which compensates for the shallow analysis.
As the host prattles on about his dog hopping into a delivery driver's car for the fifth time, I scan my surroundings, assessing who else might be my script competition. The room is filled with business types, a few millionaires I saw on top thirty lists, sports icons and actors who’ve only had a few hits but no Oscar nominations. New money, like me. Which means a lot of strutting around, trying to prove they deserve to be in the room. All people I’ve been actively avoiding for the last ten years of my career, and I’d like to keep it that way for one more evening.
The signage in this place is awful, but I see where I’m supposed to register for the auction.
I’m fourth in line. The man directly in front of me is a huge, football-player-type and is blocking my view. From what I can see, there’s a blonde woman in front of him, and a short bald guy chatting with a very uninterested female employee who’s assisting in the auction.
“Damn delivery driver wanted to charge me a return fee for my dog,” the podcast host says in my ear, and I huff a laugh.
The female employee, glances over her shoulder, makes a quick ‘oh I’ve got to go see what’s happening back there’ gesture, and walks into a back room. The bald guy's shoulders sink as he walks towards the bar. Sucks to suck buddy, but now there's one less person in line.
I peek around the human wall in front of me in time to see the woman throw her arms up in the air. It's a small gesture, but something about it triggers a synapse in my mind.
“He took the pen.” Her voice oozes annoyance and familiarity, or maybe I’m very used to the specific tone women use when they have lost all patience with men’s stupidity.
Well, I can move this process along. I dig into my inner coat pocket and pass my own Sunshine Ink 2.3 black roller ball pen forward. It came from the spring shipment along with ten thousand of its brothers. In my ear the hosts are droning on about this episode's sponsor, who also sponsors every podcast I listen to.
The woman turns around and asks if the big guy needs the pen, who shakes his head because another employee returns with a new stack of writing instruments. The blonde woman clicks the pen and twists around to me, “Do you want this back?”
The world stops. My attention drifts from her long blonde hair tucked behind her ear to her regal cheek bones and piercing blue eyes. Her lips, a bright red, the same exact shade she always used to wear.
I know how her lips taste. I’ve said her name in dreams and erased it from my songs.
“Kinsley?”
