Page 51 of Role Play
I type out a response, then delete it. I want to tell Sora that maybe there’s a different deal we can work out, but there’s too much to figure out prior. First off, this might be a momentary lapse of judgment amidst a psychotic break for Hannah. It’s quite possible she’ll think things through and come back to her senses, see the light, and dump Henry.
But even in that scenario, I doubt her jilted ex will be willing to pay for Dakota’s education any further, meaning I’ll have to double my contribution or enroll Koda in public school. But if I do that, I’ll have to move anyway because the local elementaryschool that Taio and I live close to has full-time security guards, drug dogs, and metal detectors at every entrance. So, hard pass.
Fuck.I pinch the bridge of my nose, endless scenarios, all with dead ends, crashing together to form a tension headache. There’s too much to figure out. I’m not sure about anything right now.
Well, one thing.
Brownstone or not, I still can’t shake the urge to see Sora again. I ignore her prior request as I text her back.
Me:
Looking forward to your book signing, Sora.
I can’t wait to be the world’s best boyfriend.
Sora:
You ass.
I smile to myself, picturing her cute scowl.
Me:
*kissy face emoji*
chapter 13
Sora
“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” I mutter, squinting at the printed map in my hands. The ballroom of the Grayson Event Center stretches before us like an endless sea of rectangular tables draped in black linens, each numbered with a small placard. I tug my rolling suitcase behind me, the wheels catching on the plush carpet.
“Table fifty-six,” Daphne reminds me, effortlessly pulling her own dolly stacked with three boxes of my books. “The email said it would be in section C.”
“Which is…where exactly?” I scan the room, overwhelmed by the labyrinth of tables and the buzz of activity as authors unpack boxes, arrange bookmarks, and set up elaborate displays.
My stomach twists with a familiar anxiety. Everyone else seems to know what they’re doing, confidently arranging Instagram-worthy tablescapes. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if my hastily printed bookmarks and the single banner I ordered last minute will make me look like the amateur I am.
Daphne must sense my spiraling thoughts because she bumps her hip against mine. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“That thing where your eyes get all squinty and you start mentally comparing yourself to everyone else.” She flips her long blond hair over her shoulder and gives me a stern look. “Your books are great. Your table will be great. You belong here.”
I wish I had half her confidence. Daphne moves through life like it’s a runway designed specifically for her—all five foot nine of her, with curves in places I’ll never have them and a smile that could probably end wars. And yet she chooses to spend her Saturday helping her neurotic best friend set up for a book signing that will likely be a complete disaster.
“What if we didn’t bring enough books?” I fret, peering into the box on my dolly. “Or too many? What if no one comes to my table and I’m just sitting there like a loser while everyone else has lines?”
“Then we’ll go get drunk afterward and burn the leftovers in a cleansing ritual.” Daphne grins. “But that’s not going to happen. Now come on, it’s probably around this corner.”
We navigate around a partition, and suddenly it’s easy to spot my table.
Because Forrest is already sitting at it.
My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine in my chest. I haven’t seen him since that morning at the brownstone when he kissed the top of my head and walked away with my ten thousand dollars. I’ve been cycling through anger, embarrassment, and a reluctant admiration for his audacity ever since.
He’s leaning back in the folding chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking unfairly gorgeous in dark jeans and an earthy-green henley that makes his eyes look almost golden. When he spots us, a slow smile spreads across his face that could only be described as smug.
“There she is,” he calls, rising to his feet. “The author of the hour.”
