Page 3 of Business or Pleasure

If I told her I needed her, she’d probably find a way to do both: comfort me and save her client. But most of the time, when work and anything else are fighting for Noemie’s attention, work wins.

“Only if you’re sure,” she says. “You want to go back home, fire up DoorDash, and save me a couple samosas for when I’m done?”

“I actually might stay out a bit longer.”

She gives me a lingering glance, as though worried there’s something I’m not telling her. It’s the same way she looked at me when I learned about The Catch slashing its staff. My onetime dream job forcing me to find a new dream.

“Nome. I’m fine,” I say, with so much emphasis that it sounds more threatening than reassuring.

She gives me a tight hug. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “In case I didn’t say it before.” She did, when I turned in my draft and my revisions and then on the book’s release day, when she had to go into work early but had a spread of donuts and bagels waiting for me when I woke up. “You wrote and published a book. Two of them, in fact, with another on the way. Don’t let her take that away from you.”

I’m not sure I can put into words how much I love her in this moment, so I just hug her back and hope she knows. Clearly, I’m not the best at words today.

One great thing about this bookstore is that it has a bar, and I hate that on my way over, I have visions of Maddy sitting down next to me. I’d offer to buy her a drink and then tell her something that only someone intimately acquainted with Go Drink Some Water would know. She’d gasp, apologize, gush about how happy she is with the book. She’d confirm that all those months weren’t just a paycheck—they mattered.

Except this isn’t really about Maddy DeMarco at all.

It’s the bundle of self-worth tangled in the sheets on Wyatt’s bed, in the paychecks that don’t always arrive on time, in the lovely bedroom in my cousin’s lovely house that I’d never be able to afford on my own. It’s the persistent tapping at the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like a clock, wondering if I picked the wrong career path and if it’s too late to start over. And if I’d even know how.

It’s that every time I try to move forward, something is waiting to tug me right back.

The two bartenders are immersed in what looks like a very serious conversation, so I have to clear my throat to get their attention. I order a hard cider that’s much too sweet, and before slipping Maddy’s book into my bag, I open it up to the title page.

If I weren’t already gutter-adjacent, it would sink me even deeper.

For Chandler Cone, it says in magenta ink. Drink up!

EMERALD CITY COMIC CON

SEPTEMBER 8–10,

WASHINGTON STATE CONVENTION CENTER

Meet Finn Walsh, better known as Oliver Huxley from The Nocturnals! We’re delighted to welcome everyone’s favorite nerd to ECCC once again. Here’s where you can spot him this weekend:

PANEL:

Every Hero Needs One: Familiars, Friends, and Sidekicks

Friday, September 8, 6 p.m., Room 3B

SIGNING BOOTH:

Saturday, September 9, 4 p.m., Hall C

AUTOGRAPHS: $75 • PHOTO OP: $125

chapter

two

At first, I intend to do exactly what the inscription tells me to: become heavily intoxicated, which is probably not what Maddy meant and also might not be possible with this too-sweet cider. I snap the traitorous book shut, letting out a sigh that draws the attention of the man a seat away from me.

I meet his gaze and give him an apologetic look, but instead of the judgmental frown I’m expecting, he nods toward my bottle of cider. “What are we celebrating?”

“The disintegration of my self-esteem, sponsored by my complete mistake of a career. And the funeral of a relationship that ended before it even began.” I lift the bottle and take a sip, trying not to wince. “It’s a wake, actually. I have a front-row seat to watch both those things implode. Spectacularly.” Or at least, Chandler Cone does.

“Those aren’t easy tickets to get.” He holds his hands together, then bows his head as though paying his respects. “Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today to—”

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