We’re a block away, walking west on 34th Street toward 11th Avenue. Every doubt, every anxious thought I have wraps its tendrils around me in these final moments where I am cocooned by family. With Gramps on my left and Ollie on my right, I feel safe amid the rushing crowds. But I’m going to have to step away from that, from them, and enter the gigantic glass box that is Javits. I love books; I really hate crowds.
My pulse quickens with each step that brings me closer to the chaos.
“Can I do this?” I mumble to myself. “No, not a question. I can do this.”
Ollie hands the cupcake container to me. Inside are two dozen BookCon-themed cupcakes. I whipped them up at two a.m. because while no one asked me to bake—it wouldn’t be One True Pastry without cupcakes. Maybe I’ll offer them to volunteersand the other members of my panel, or maybe we can raffle them off to attendees afterward. Either way, they’re the first successful batch of cupcakes I’ve baked since I started therapy two weeks ago, and I will take that small victory.
“Youcan,” Ollie assures me. “If you can’t, well, you have me on speed dial.”
I frown. “No I don’t.”
Ollie rolls his eyes. “Metaphorically speaking. You know what I mean!”
Now, Gramps frowns. “But don’t I have you kids on speed dial?”
Ollie shakes his head. “Sadly, the speed dial has been reduced to metaphor status, Gramps.”
My phone buzzes with texts from Le Crew—myCrew.
I show Ollie the texts and for the first time, hope flutters in my stomach.
Inside, I am going to find Nash because he can avoid me in Middleton all he wants, but he can’t avoid me at BookCon. I’ll remind him that once upon a time, he wanted to be at BookCon with Kels and, well, here I am! Here, amid the books, I will apologize for my lie—but I will also prove to Nash that I amme.
I don’t know if he’ll forgive me, but I do know this is the best shot I’ve got.
These texts are proof. I’ve never been more thankful that Elle and Sawyer can’t keep secrets, not if their lives depended on it. Nash knows this. So, like—if he toldbothof them that he was thinking about texting me, it probably means that he wanted me to know. Right? Even if he didn’t follow through.
“You got this, Hal,” Ollie says.
“Totally.” Gramps gives me a thumb-up.
I laugh, because grandpas are not supposed to say “totally.”
Ollie and Gramps hug me goodbye, leaving me alone before I have a chance to change my mind. They’re off on another bro adventure, their first of many now that Ollie gets to stay. The condition was that we’ll spend all school holidays together in L.A. Which isn’t even a condition—I was planning on doing thatregardless.
In mere moments, Gramps and Ollie blend in on the crowded sidewalks and I am alone.
I reread the texts one more time for an adrenaline boost before pivoting to face the Javits entrance.
Breathe.
I go in.
Perks of being Halle/Kels: I skip the queue.
The show floor is basically what heaven looks like. A maze of booths filled with books and swag. The smell of paper and ink, fresh off the presses. And tote bags. So many tote bags. I’m free to wander the floor and be an attendee until thirty minutes before the panel, when I will have to go pick up my cupcakes stored in the speakers’ lounge, meet the other panelists, and prep. Yesterday, the moderator emailed us a short list of questions—so I am prepared-ish. Notecards are tucked in my back pocket, the beginnings of answers jotted down in longhand.
I spend the morning pretending I’m at BookCon with Grams. I peruse the stands for all the major publishers and my favorite independent presses, attend ARC drops every hour, buy the newest titles released by Grams’s imprint, and keep my eyes peeled for Nash.
I don’t know which are longer, the signing lines or the free tote bag lines, no joke.
I catch a glimpse of Lola Daniels signing ARCs and I just about pass out becausewhoa. Authors are everywhere. Industry people too. Like, as I’m scanning the crowds for Nash, I look the other way and make eye contact with Kristen Ellis, an agent I follow on Twitter.
“I think I know you from Twitter,” I say.
Kristen raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m Halle,” I hold out my hand. “From One True Pastry. Better known as Kels.”
