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Leaning behind Alex, Freddie edged closer to Lucy and shielded his mouth with his hand. “Just look at her. I think our gifts have been overshadowed.”

Lucy elbowed him. “Can you blame her?”

Nineteen

That birthday glow began to fade, and within a month, Alex was in the shadows again. When an unexpected bus of famished tourists unloaded at Tasty Munch, bringing rushed orders for eight all-day breakfasts and six cheese omelets, a sneaky panic attack began to rise. If everyday stressors were triggering her attacks, how would she survive writing rejections or demanding theatre producers?

Negative fixations on unimportant things, such as the schizophrenic English weather and the mess left behind by her estranged flatmates, tested Lucy and Freddie’s patience. At least Alex still had her crush, but Mark’s birthday offer of another Vespa adventure had yet to materialize. They’d exchanged the odd text, but she never saw him. Alex didn’t dare ask Freddie about his whereabouts—girls probably bugged him all the time about his Irish mate with the killer smile—but one evening when Mark blew out plans to catch a film, Freddie joked that the only mistress in Mark’s life was his work. Well, since Freddie went there…Alex dived in, tossing Julia the Voicemail Girl back at him over her popcorn. Freddie’s floppy fringe shook defiantly; he denied that Julia was to blame—they only went out twice. He was adamant; it was Mark’s hectic whirlwind of auditions and bar shifts keeping him at arm’s length. It all conspired to quash Alex’s creativity. Her writing inspiration…gone on summer vacation with no forwarding address.

On the second Saturday in August, Lucy and Freddie dragged her to a London comic con in the hope that cosplayers, comics, and autograph sessions would revive her drowning spirit.

“Isn’t this brilliant? Your first British con. Look, it’s our tribe,” said Lucy, dressed in head-to-toe PVC as Storm from X-Men.

A child hidden in a Dalek costume wheeled by, accompanied by a tanned Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and a pair of tall Hobbits. “If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, I’m not sure what will.”

Alex frowned at the Sailor Moon cosplayers clustered nearby. “It’s kinda crap. This con can’t compete with the events back home. It doesn’t even have any major actors for autographs or photo shoots. The guy who played Ewok number six in Return of the Jedi? Hardly a must-see, is it?”

“Do you enjoy being a buzz kill? Seriously, Alex. You’d be more into it if you were cosplaying. Why didn’t you wear your Wonder Woman gear?”

Alex shrugged, her eyes flitting over her Batman tee and jeans.

“Not feeling any chirpier, then?” asked Lucy.

Alex flipped through a bunch of graphic novels on a vendor’s table. “I’ve been thinking about things a lot lately…it feels like the universe is telling me I’m not supposed to be here…in London.”

Lucy slammed a Watchmen graphic novel down on the table, the force of its reunion with the other volumes causing the whole display to shake and a skittish Pikachu cosplayer to scurry. “Oh, come on. I know you’ve been out of sorts since the fundraiser, but that’s no reason to second guess everything.”

“But if it was meant to be, wouldn’t it be easier?” Alex caught the crossed arms and cocked head of the vendor—dressed as Rorschach—and slinked away towards the Tower of T-shirts display. She tripped over the foot of a burly Angel wannabe and scowled at him.

“On my first day here, Tom mentioned how hard it is to break in. Take it from the failed actor. He knows how the industry chews people up and spits them out.”

“It’s not the industry at the heart of your current troubles, though, is it? It’s your psycho flatmate with a jealous streak. Don’t let that bitch piss on your bonfire,” said Freddie, dressed as a dapper eleventh Doctor with a red fez atop his rebellious hair.

“You’ve only been here for a couple of weeks. Nothing worth achieving is easy or quick,” said Lucy. “I think you told me that, smart arse. Yeah, wasn’t it some quote you wouldn’t shut up about online?”

“Probably, but…nothing’s worked out as I hoped. London’s been a clusterfuck from day one.” She pulled a half-eaten Dairy Milk bar from her bag. “Lost luggage, the box room, a deranged flatmate, writer’s block. And Harry. He’s a bit different on his own turf. I think he really believes all that class garbage. If I knew from the outset I was just his latest charity case, I wouldn’t have moved in.”

She snapped a piece off her chocolate bar. “Everything sucks.”

“Gee, thanks.” Lucy threw her hands up in the air. “What about us—me and Freddie? Are we Scotch mist?”

“I didn’t mean you guys.”

“I should hope not.” Lucy crammed a Supernatural top back into the t-shirt display.

Freddie draped his arm over Alex’s shoulder as they squeezed through the feeding frenzy at a popular collectables table. “I get it. You’re missing home. But I think that’s partly because you’re not feeling welcome in Hackney. It must be exhausting to work so hard to avoid spending time there—you’re practically part of the furniture at mine and Lucy’s after work. Not that you’re not welcome…”

Alex nodded. “But it’s not just that. If the theatre community here is as cliquey as it seems, I don’t think I’ll ever establish the right connections to be a success. Being American, the odds are even more stacked against me. I was supposed to fit in here, but I’m even more of an outsider than I was at home.”

She flicked a stray shard of chocolate from her tee and crumpled up the wrapper, shoving it into her back pocket.

Freddie squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe, but you’re not alone. We’re outsiders, too, in our own way.”

“Sounds like you’ve forgotten all the reasons why you left the U.S. in the first place.” Lucy raised her eyebrows and adjusted her white wig, peeling its damp strands from her forehead. “I thought you hated Tallahassee.”

“I do, but there’s always New York City or somewhere like that. At least I wouldn’t be circling the drain like I am here.”

“Circling? Well, at least you haven’t been sucked down,” said Lucy. “Stop being so negative. Bring back the balls-out Alex who knocked me flying at Pret. Where’d that girl go? The one determined to write her own happy ending. The one who made things happen instead of sitting around waiting for fate to do the hard work.”