Page 15 of Female Fantasy
EGC begins addressing the queries methodically, one by one. She answers a few painfully obvious questions (“Did Oceania really die in book three?” Give me a fucking break. Locals.) She dodges some interesting queries about the space-time continuum and the rules of the universe. I find myself itching to abandon my work project, open a new blank document, and start drafting a fic that features Ryke and Merriah on an intergalactic mission, soaring through space.
I’m seconds away from acting on my fantasy when EGC clears her throat.
Stilling right away, I sit up straight.
“Thank you so much for tuning in, dear readers,” she says, as if addressing each of us individually. “You know how much I appreciate your devotion and patronage. The final question is:What celebrity was the blueprint for Ryke?”
EGC laughs, but I roll my eyes. What a dumb waste of a question. Couldn’t that reader just look up a few fan edits and call it a day? Jesus Christ.
“Funnily enough, the character of Ryke wasn’t based on any of my celebrity crushes. While I did do a lot of mythological research to construct his backstory, the actual character dossier was fully inspired by my old college friend, Ryan. They even look alike. And he’s single, ladies!” She pauses for a second, her eyes growing wide. “You know what, I don’t think I’ve ever revealed that before! Shoot. He’ssogoing to kill me.”
She breaks out into giggles before bidding viewers goodbyeand ending the live stream. In my fanfic forum, the Salty Girls are blowing up my notifications, freaking out about her comments and allusions to time travel.
But not me.
I can barely breathe, let alone think about the implications of an underwater wormhole.
Ryke.
Real.
Ryke isreal.
Evelyn G. Carter just revealed that there is a living, breathing man out there whose chivalry and good looks inspired the character of Ryke.
A man whom I have never met.
Have not yet properly thanked.
A man who doesn’t even know I exist.
My pulse grows erratic. Hands shaking, I reach for my phone.
First, I Google the names Evelyn G. Carter and Ryan together.
Nothing.
Irritated, I pull up her Instagram account and search her followers for the name Ryan. But that yields seventy-two results. Ugh. I don’t know what I was expecting. The woman has over a million people following her.
Refusing to be deterred, I begin clicking on each profile, one by one. Until finally, I find one user with the words “Kenyon alum”in his bio.
Do you know who else went to Kenyon?
One Evelyn G. Carter.
She called him an old college buddy. Thishasto be him.
Hello, Ryan Mare.
The bad news? His profile is private.
The good news? I’ve never let a little security stop me before.
A more intensive search leads me straight to his LinkedIn.
While his profile is relatively barren (no profile picture, zero hobbies listed, definitely no endorsed skills), I deduce that Ryan Mare is about thirty-two, based on his graduation date.
The best part? According to his employment status, he’s worked at an environmental start-up for the last three years.
