Page 48 of Totally Geeked

Her face lights up. “Oh, you do? That’s wonderful. What’s it called?” she asks, her phone out in her hands, already clicking on her web browser app.

“Gordie Goes Bananas,” I say, and then watch as she types, clicks a link to my book, and hits buy now.

“Oh wow. It’s about this, about Banana Ball. That's fabulous. Hey, Archie, look what mummy just bought you?” she says, turning to the small boy beside her. “This man here wrote a book about Banana Ball, see.”

“Cooooool,” Archie says, pulling her phone away to look at the cover image she’s enlarged for him.

“Do you think I could get an autograph so I can put it with the book when it comes?” she asks, and I feel the heat rising to my cheeks but not like it used to. Seeing her excitement, Archie’s excitement, it’s what I always wanted my books to do.

I flick back a few pages in my sketchbook to a drawing I did of Gordon pitching the ball, it’s similar to a few others I’ve already got, so I tear it out and sign,Maybe one day Archie cango Bananas, too,then add my name at the bottom and hand it to her.

“Oh, this is… thank you so much.”

“No worries,” I say, and she rolls it up and carefully slips it into a small pocket on the side of her bag.

It’s the easiest interaction with a reader or soon-to-be reader I’ve ever had, and I didn’t need Harrison there to do it. He was right all along. I can do this. I can talk to people about my book and my art and not be a rambling mess of nerves. Even though I just did it without Harrison, I know it is his support and having him in my life that has helped me to get here. He showed me who I could be, or as he puts it, who I always was. He said I had the confidence inside me all the time, but I’m pretty sure he somehow gave me some of his. Can confidence be a sexually transmitted disease? If it is, I don't ever want to be cured because this feels amazing.

Chapter nineteen

Harrison

I arrive at Gordon’sand the party is in full swing, he’s standing by the DJ booth, and I head that way. He’s not going to be happy I didn’t bring my boyfriend to meet him. I mean, I didn’t have to. He lives here right now, but Arlo is right, we can’t tell him at a party.

“So where is he?” Gordon asks, glancing behind me.

I shake my head. “Sorry, he couldn't make it.”

His smile turns into a frown, but he wraps an arm over my shoulder and swings me toward the booth, where two women are wearing headphones and vibing to the music.

“Don’t worry, man. I’m sure he’ll make it next time. This is Niki,” he says, and the woman closest to us takes off her headphones and holds out her hand for me.

“Hi, I’m Harry,” I say, shaking her hand.

“Gordie’s told me all about you, Harry. I hope you came to dance?”

“I’m not sure you should believe everythingGordiesays, but I’ll be dancing if the beats are right, that is.”

Her eyebrows rise as does her lips into a playful smile. “Oh, they will be killer, you can count on that. Let me know if you have any requests.”

Gordon chimes in, “Nope, no Taylor tonight.”

“Mother is always welcome,” Niki laughs, and Gordon shakes his head. Niki slips her headphones on, nodding to the beat, and then after a few buttons the track shifts to become a mashup of whatever she was playing before and Blank Space. I knew I was going to like this girl.

Gordon drags me over to the bar and orders us both beers.

“So, what was his excuse?” he asks me, and I shake my head.

“No excuse, he just couldn’t make it. It was short notice.”

“Yeah, but it's the weekend. Didn’t you two already have plans together?”

Arlo and I did have plans. We were going to persevere through this party until we could no longer stand it, then sneak off into his room or a bathroom to make out.

“Nope. I’ll be seeing him later in the week.”

“Well, feel free to invite him to a game. I want to meet the guy who has my best friend using the B word.”

I spot Arlo making his way down the stairs wearing black jeans and a dark blue Henley. His hair is styled with some kind of gel, and the rosy glow on his cheeks tells me this is all to drive me fucking crazy.

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