Page 17 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

Um, what?

“Deep breaths,” Harper says.

“Did you hear that?”

“You know there’s always crazy rumors about you guys in the Vacation-verse.”

“I hate it when you call it that.”

“At least I didn’t call you Connel.”

I shudder. That’s our mash-up name in the fandom, though sometimes it’s Elcon. Both are on the long list of reasons I want out of this relationship.

I mean, would you want to be called something that sounds like it came from the planet Krypton? Especially if it was a constant reminder of the first guy to break your heart?

“You’d be on the hit list if you did,” I say to Harper.

“Ha ha.”

We watch Connor as he interacts with the fans. He is good at it, signing every book and smiling at each of the women like he might consider taking them to bed if they asked. Something I’m sure he’s done more times than I know about.

Then the selfies start, and he does his trademark move—cocking a finger gun at the camera while he makes a queek-queek sound with the side of his mouth—and the moment’s over.

“Can you sign this, Eleanor?” One of the BookFace Ladies pushes her book toward Harper.

Uh-oh.

“I’m not Eleanor,” Harper says, her voice tight.

“That’s me,” I say, stepping forward.

“Oh, um…” She glances between me and Harper. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“What happened to you?”

I reach up to smooth down my hair. “Oh, I fell into some ice cream.”

“Gelato,” Harper amends.

“Right. Anyway, you wanted me to sign?”

“Yes, please.”

I take the book and flip it open to the signature page. This isn’t the first time Harper and I have been confused for each other, and I get it. She looks like the kind of person who’d have adventures on the French Riviera and write about them. Next to her, I look like who I am: a woman who spends most of her days in stretchy pants with her hair in a messy bun.

On the other hand, my photo is right there on the back cover, and they’re supposed to be uber-fans. Would it be so hard to get it right?

Ugh. I sound awful, even to myself. In my defense, incidents like this play right into my imposter syndrome. Any normal person with my level of success would question whether they deserve it, but when it happened by accident?30 When it was never the plan? When it was the life plan of your best friend and sister?

Hell yeah, I have trouble looking at myself in the mirror sometimes.

“What’s your name?” I ask the woman. She’s in her fifties, and her face is already sunburned.

“Susan.”

I sign the book to her as Harper takes a few photos with her phone, then hand it back.

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