Page 27 of Trip Me Up

10

NIALL

I staredthrough the truck’s windshield at the two-story, suburban Columbus bookstore. Fat snowflakes floated down, melting when they landed on the glass. My hands shook, and I gripped the steering wheel harder to hide it.

“We getting out, or you launching the book from the truck?” Grandpa leaned forward between the front seats. “Might be a touch chilly out, but I s’pose you could stand in the bed, do your talk from there.”

“Dad, give him a minute. He just needs to put his game face on. Right, honey?” Mom’s forehead creased, but her eyes shone with pride.

Game face. I drew myself up in the seat. Squared my shoulders. Nodded. “I’m ready.” If I said it, it might be true.

I jumped out and opened the truck’s small rear door for Grandpa, hovering nearby in case he stumbled. He was still a little off-balance with his arm in the sling.

His temper was unbalanced, too. “Step back, son. I’m not some frail old codger.”

“Sure, sure. Just need to get my bag.” When he stood steady beside the truck, I grabbed my battered satchel from the back seat and slung it across my chest.

Mom met us at the front of the truck, and we crossed the expansive parking lot. It was full of cars, but a couple of restaurants and a Tractor Supply shared it. The bookstore loomed larger until it filled my field of vision, brightly lit and crowded with shoppers on a Tuesday night. Why, why,whyhadn’t they scheduled the launch at the Enchanted Forest library? There was no way I’d fill any amount of space in this monstrosity. Maybe they had a small function room off to the side that wouldn’t dwarf my small crew of supporters.

I held the door for Mom and Grandpa and followed them inside.

“Niall, look.” Mom pointed at a sign. My larger-than-life-size face grinned back at us. Did I really have that many freckles? I winced. Maybe we shouldn’t have done the cover in red tones. The poster looked like Enchanted Forest in autumn, all reds and oranges and gold. It made my eyes burn to look at it.

“Someday you’ll be white-haired like me,” Grandpa said. “You’ll miss all that red.”

“Today is not that day, Grandpa.”

“It says we’re upstairs,” Mom said. Up the wide staircase, voices buzzed like that hornet’s nest we’d found in the hayloft a few summers ago.

Taking a deep breath, I ascended the stairs with the same trepidation I’d climbed the ladder to take down the nest. I hoped I’d get fewer stings.

“Niall!” Qiana hit me like a cannonball to the chest, her arms banding around mine. “It’s so exciting! Isn’t it exciting? Look at all the people! Look at my hair!” She shook her head, waving the red tips. “I matched your cover! Wait, where’s Gabi?” She peered around me like my agent would ever hide behind me.

My chest constricted at the reminder. “Can’t make it. A situation with another client.”

“Aw. I know you like having her here with you. Elaine! And Jerry! You’re here! I’m saving seats for you up front. Let me introduce you to Sam first.”

Sam.It was another Jenga block on the tower of nerves inside me. When I’d finished his book, I was an envious, irrational mess. How the hell had he done it? Written a literary masterpiece that was also a mind-blowing work of fantasy? I couldn’t have produced anything like it, not if I’d toiled for twenty years. Not with a roomful of assistants and typists. I’d looked forward to this day—okay, and dreaded it a little—so I could put a face, a person behind the astounding literary talent.

But when Qiana pulled the person into our circle, my brain stopped. This wasn’t Sam Case. This was someone I knew. Someone whose beautiful eyes had haunted my dreams, my imagination, my damned manuscript, for months. Lobelia. But she had another name. Samantha. Samantha Jones. Was she here representing the foundation?

“Niall!”

I blinked.

“Niall, are you all right?” Qiana clutched my arm. “You wobbled there for a minute. Need a chair? Some water? Essential oils? I think I’ve got some lavender in my bag.”

I blinked again, hard. Samantha was still there. “I’m good. What’s going on? Where’s—”

“Hi, Niall.” She extended her hand to me, pale and trembling. “Remember me, Samantha Jones? But I’m Sam Case on this tour.”

Now I did need a chair. “You’re Sam Case.” She was a grad student, not a writer. She wasn’t even a lit major. She’d said computer science. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five. When had she had time, or training, to write a masterpiece likeMagician in the Machine?My brain was stuck in neutral, unable to process the new information. I gaped at her, trying to rearrange what I thought I’d known before I stepped inside the bookstore.

“Sam.” Mom elbowed me in the side as she pushed forward and shook Samantha’s still-outstretched hand, the one I hadn’t touched. “So nice to meet you. I read your novel. It’s so interesting. I’d love to hear more about how you came up with the idea for it.”

If it was possible, Samantha went even paler. “Thank you. But tonight is about Niall and his book.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Mom released Samantha’s hand and tucked her arm around my waist. To Samantha and Qiana, it probably looked like a mother-son cuddle. It felt like a straighten-up-right-now-you-miscreant crush. Nearby, one of those fake shutter sounds clicked from someone’s phone. Qiana turned away to murmur to the person.

---