I sigh.
“Well, Nana, I came back. Just like I promised,” I whisper to the dead air.
“Are you ready?” my personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at Marietta, noting how she’s absently holding out the mic to me, her attention ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building. This local bookstore wasn’t built for a large number of people, but somehow, they’re making it work anyway.
Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently counting in my head. I lose count after thirty.
“Yep,” I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone’s attention, the murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of sets of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power through it.
“Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I’m incredibly excited to meet you all. Everyone ready?!” I ask, forcing excitement into my tone.
It’s not that I’m not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book signings. I’m not a natural when it comes to social interactions. I’m the type to stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question, while my brain processes the fact that I didn’t even hear the question. Usually because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.
I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She’s witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.
Come back, Marietta. It’s so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed.
The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands and a beaming smile on her freckled face.
“Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move.
I smile wide and gently take the book.
“It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.
Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.
“Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirety of my existence.
I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.
As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.
I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin, while a torch is being held to my flesh. It’s… it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red.
Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it obvious.
My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man. The majority of his body is shrouded by the crowd, only bits of his face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what I do see has my hand stilling, mid-writing.
His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white, reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand attention.
When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot, creating a big black ink dot.
“Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a bookmark, sign that too and tuck it in the book as an apology.
The reader beams at me, mistake already forgotten and scurries off with her book. When I look back to find the man, he’s gone.
>
“Addie, you need to get laid."
In response, I wrap my lips around my straw and slurp my blueberry martini as deeply as my mouth will allow. My best friend, Daya, eyes me. Unimpressed and impatient based on the quirk of her brow.
I think I need a bigger mouth. More alcohol would fit in it.
I don’t say this out loud because her follow-up response would be to use it for a bigger dick instead. I know this because we think the same and it’s exactly what I would’ve said to her.
When I continue sucking on the straw, she reaches over and rips the plastic from my lips. I’ve reached the bottom of the glass a solid fifteen seconds ago and have just been sucking air through the straw. It’s the most action my mouth has gotten in a year now.