Chapter Sixteen

I’m a swirled-up mess of excitement and nerves when Mom drops me off at Mark’s house the following Sunday. Today is the comic book event an hour away, and all of us are commuting together in his van. I can’t wait to spend today hanging out with everyone, chatting, eating food, and dressing up. However, an entire day with the group means an entire day with Logan, which is going to add a whole new level of complications.

Luckily, Kashvi and Sanjiv are already in Mark’s garage when I arrive, so I’m distracted from these stupid and confusing thoughts.

“Quinn, I’m sorry, what ?!” Kashvi exclaims as soon as she sees me. “Your costume is whoa!”

I look down with a self-conscious smile. It was hard to find a way to make the “Diana the Acrobat” costume work when it’s only forty-five degrees. The original costume was basically a brown fur bikini and knee-high boots with gold accents. Not exactly winter weather appropriate, plus my parents would have had an aneurysm. Instead, I found a short brown skirt at the local thrift shop, which I paired with thick tights and boots I already owned. For the top, I had to get more creative. I ended up deciding on a brown long-sleeved crop top, then added a gold belt and accessories from Grandma’s attic boxes. It’s an… abstract version of the original—more “if you know you know” than the others—but it was the best I could do. And even with all my modifications, I’m still wearing a crop top and miniskirt in the freezing cold.

“Thanks, I tried my best,” I say with a shrug. “I didn’t want to let the group down. You look awesome. I love how that tunic fits you!”

Kashvi didn’t own anything similar to “Sheila the Thief,” but I loaned her a patterned purple dress that matches fairly well. It’s longer than the tunic from the show, but the color is similar, and it looks great with her blue cape.

Sanjiv steps next to Kashvi to inspect my costume. He’s going as “Hank,” a ranger and the leader of the party, but honestly, he looks a little goofy in his green bodysuit and tunic. At least his bow is impressive. He nods approvingly. “Wow, nicely done, Quinn.”

“You better take your eyes off her, or Mark’s staff is going to be in a very inappropriate place in a second,” Kashvi threatens.

He jerks his gaze back to the van. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” I say with a laugh, though my cheeks are pink. I really should have fought to be the wizard, so I’d be completely covered in a billowing green tarp. Instead Mark has it. I hope all that fabric doesn’t hinder his driving.

Mark pops out of the van just then and only stares for a second before turning to the others. “I had to clean out the junk and toys, but everyone should be able to fit now.”

Sloane is next to arrive, dressed as Bobby the Barbarian. They look adorable in the full costume with a real horned helmet and stuffed unicorn under their arm.

I clap. “You look perfect.”

“The helmet keeps falling down, but otherwise I think it came together pretty well. You all look great too.”

“They better have a big prize for group costume,” Sanjiv says. “This was more work than any of my Halloween costumes.”

Mark, Sanjiv, and Kashvi are debating a playlist for the drive when Logan’s truck pulls up in front of the house. I fight to keep my expression bland. He’s only another friend, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing or what he thinks of my costume. This is all just for fun (and the potential for winning free stuff).

Unfortunately, my body takes no notice of my calm and rational thoughts. My heart stutters at the sight of him. I was wrong before— he should be the wizard instead of the cavalier because how am I going to keep my eyes off him all day? His costume clings to every muscle and line in his body in a way that jeans and hoodies never could. A breeze whips his long red cloak behind him and the effect has me swooning for him like I’m in a Regency romance. It’s only a costume—and not even a well-designed one—and yet I can’t stop staring as he comes around the truck toward us.

Our eyes lock and he misses the step onto the curb. He falls forward to his knees, his cloak getting caught on his boot.

“Oh!” I rush forward to help, but he scrambles and jumps back to his feet.

“I’m fine!” His cheeks are adorably pink. His gaze lingers on me.

“Having inner ear problems?” I ask.

“I think I might be.”

Most of the others are too caught up in their conversation to notice anything, but I’m not sure Sloane is fooled. “Nice cloak,” Sloane calls to him. “Bit of a tripping hazard, though.”

He shakes his head, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “Thanks. Glad to see I’m not the only one who brought it.”

“When it comes to D just tell me next time you’re going. It’ll give me another excuse to hang out with you.”

I turn to him. “Are you looking for excuses?”

“Always. I never want to avoid you, Quinn. But sometimes it feels like I need to, for both our sakes.”

The highway is perfectly flat, but my stomach flips like we just drove over a steep drop in the road. I don’t know how to respond, and I’m grateful that Sanjiv chooses this moment to yell a request for the next song.

“How are those campaigns coming along that you mentioned at the ice cream parlor?” I ask. “Are you still working on them?”

“Yeah. They’re okay.”

He’s clearly uneasy, but for some reason that makes him even cuter. “Will you tell me about them?”

“It’s just…” He looks out the van window and back to me. “My ideas aren’t very creative.”

“I doubt that. You’re probably being too hard on yourself.” I lean closer. “I promise I won’t judge.”

His eyes narrow, like he’s assuming I’m going to do exactly the opposite, but then he relents. “My parents and I watch a lot of movies together, and Dad especially loves thrillers. A few months ago, he put on The Bourne Identity and it got me thinking that it could be really cool to run a game that has that kind of feel. You know, something where it feels less like the party has a clear quest and more like their mission is to escape before they’re killed.”

“A campaign that runs like a thriller sounds interesting. Although it feels like escaping is the goal with most of the encounters we run through—like on the ship.”

“True. But I want this to be less obvious and more suspenseful.”

“So…” I think for a moment. “Something where the party knows they’re in danger, but they don’t know where the danger’s coming from?”

His eyes widen. “Yes. Exactly that! Instead of running into a monster and having to kill it, I want them to feel safe and then realize they’re being picked off one by one. That probably makes me sound like the evilest DM ever.”

“Not in the least. If the game is fun, people will love it. Have you worked out any of the details yet?”

“Not a whole lot,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck. “I do a lot of thinking, but my ideas tend to go in circles. But maybe something where the party is being tracked? Like by an assassin?”

I nod encouragingly before he can second-guess himself, and his words come faster. He might not have everything figured out, but what he has sounds awesome. I can already imagine how the others would freak out if he ran this game with us.

“If I can pull everything together, I’d like to try putting it online for other players to use,” he tells me. “It’d be really cool to know that strangers were playing my modules.”

“Absolutely. But it’d be even better if we could play it.” I give him a pointed look. “We should do it after our current campaign. I know the others would be up for it. You could give Sloane a break.”

“I don’t know. It’ll need a lot more work before that. And there’s so much pressure knowing that other people will be watching and judging online.” He pauses and regards me for a second. “But thanks for being into it. You’re the first person I’ve told, so I’m glad you didn’t hate it.”

I cock my head. “Of course I didn’t hate it. Thanks for telling me.”

“I have more notes on it back at the house. I could show you over pancakes sometime. Or”—he pauses, his jaw working back and forth—“maybe you could even swing by my place. If you were interested.”

I nod. I am interested—more than I want to admit.

At that moment, Mark blasts “Bohemian Rhapsody” through the van’s speakers, which means that (by law) we’re all required to sing the lyrics at the top of our lungs. But even if we aren’t talking anymore, it doesn’t mean I’m not fully aware of Logan’s presence inches from me. It’s like my entire body has become attuned to him, picking up on the slightest changes that no one else would notice. The small shift in his positioning that brings his knee closer to mine, his hand resting on the seat next to me. What would happen if I put my hand close to his and slightly brushed it? Or if I laced our fingers together like it wasn’t completely weird for us to hold hands? Would he pull away like I’d burned him? Or would he squeeze mine and whisper, Thank god. I’ve been waiting for you to do that.

It feels like getting a second life when I finally climb out of that van and into the bright March sunlight. I’m surprised by the crowds around the smallish stand-alone comic shop. It’s not a mob scene, but the parking lot is almost full, and more cars are pulling in. I scan the crowd, but I don’t see Caden, Paige, or any cars I recognize. I take a deep breath and reset my thoughts. No more obsessive thoughts about ex-friends or an off-limits boy. Today is about friendship.

I slide my arm into Kashvi’s. “This is fun!”

“We haven’t done anything yet.” She chuckles.

“I know, but still. It’s fun to be out together.”

The comic fest is an all-day event, including panels of comic writers and illustrators, meet and greets, giveaways, and even a “draw-off,” where people are given a prompt and asked to draw the best cover they can in three minutes. I definitely won’t be doing that, but we do sit in on the first panel. When we make it up to the signing table after, the gray-haired writer leans back, his mouth dropping open, and then points to us excitedly.

“Holy hell, are you Hank the Ranger?” He points to Sanjiv. “And Bobby, and Sheila, and even Presto! You’ve got the whole group!” He elbows the illustrator next to him, who is busy signing. “Did you see this?”

The illustrator hands the signed comic to the kid in his line and then glances up. “Going real old school, I see. I’m impressed.”

“This is one of my favorite cartoons—such good memories,” the writer says. “I love your attention to detail.” He points to Sloane’s unicorn.

“We play D&D, so it only seemed appropriate,” they explain.

“Are any of you comic fans or did you just come today to blow the others out of the water with your group costume?” the other man asks with a laugh.

“Mostly that last part, but we like comics well enough,” Sanjiv jokes.

“Better head to the back to get registered, then.”

We follow his advice, waiting in line to register for the costume contest and then having our picture taken. A panel of judges is going to compare all the photos before announcing the winners this afternoon. After that, we wander around. The store is larger than I was imagining, with multiple floors, and we quickly get separated. The boys elbow their way through the rows and rows of comics, while Sloane and Kashvi get caught up looking at their modest D&D novel selection.

Everywhere I go, customers stare at me. Lots of other people are in costume, but mostly they wear the standards—Spider-Man, Batman, a few Avengers, and plenty of Star Wars characters. And without the rest of my group around me, it’s probably not even clear that I’m wearing a costume since mine doesn’t have a cloak, wizard hat, or unicorn accompanying it.

The basement holds about five hundred Funko Pops, much to my delight. I’m so busy studying the selection that I don’t notice someone come into my peripheral view until it’s too late.

“That’s quite the outfit.”

My blood turns to ice. Paige stands to my left, her head cocked and her eyes narrowed. I can’t breathe, but I also can’t stop myself from turning to face her. I haven’t seen her since the last day before Christmas break, when she and Makayla breezed past me in the hall of my old high school like I didn’t even exist.

She looks just the same. I recognize her leggings from our annual back-to-school shopping trip. She’d been worried they weren’t flattering, and I’d been quick to argue they made her butt look great. Her blond hair is pulled into the same ponytail, her nails are long and bright, and her earrings are the ones she always wears—tiny hearts given to her by her grandfather before he passed away. And how could I not recognize the hoodie she’s wearing?

It’s Caden’s.

I force air into my lungs and keep my eyes on her, even though I’m desperate to spin around in case Caden is steps from me. I don’t want Paige to realize how freaked out I am to see her.

“It’s part of a group costume,” I explain.

My words come out defensive and her lips lift in a little smirk. “What kind of group has you wearing a skirt like that?”

“My new D&D group—we’re going as classic D&D characters.”

She laughs humorlessly. “You’ve already infiltrated a new group?”

“I haven’t infiltrated anything. A friend invited me to be part of an extremely fun livestream group, and they’ve all been really welcoming.”

“Oh, so you haven’t started ripping them apart, then? It’s probably smart to wait a few months so they don’t suspect anything.” She taps a finger on her chin. “Do you think they’re starting to see through you yet, or do I need to fill them in on any details you might have forgotten to mention?”

Her words snap me out of my frozen state. I cross my arms over my chest so she can’t see that my hands are shaking. “I didn’t do anything but tell Caden we were better as friends. You all destroyed our group without any help fromme.”

“Quinn, stop pretending you’re the victim. You toyed with him while it was fun and then you crushed him. We all saw it. You’re just mad because we called you out on it.”

My jaw drops open, and my eyes grow scratchy with tears. How did I ever call Paige my best friend? In retrospect, I should have known who she was from her quick judgments and cutting sarcastic words. But she never aimed her cruelty at me, so I brushed it off. Or worse, thought it was funny.

I turn and walk away from her. There’s nothing I can do to change her mind or make this better. But I refuse to cry in front of her.