Page 97 of Female Fantasy
“Little minnow,” it hisses. “Merriah.”
I reach for the voice, but I lack the energy.
And death pulls me in the other direction.
Chapter Twenty
The second I leave the tavern, I feel like I can breathe again.
To confirm my suspicions, I inhale a big belly breath of polluted New York air and exhale slowly.
And you know what?
I have no idea what the fuck to do right now.
Me, Joonie, lover of plans. Flying by the seat of my perfectly tailored pants.
Do I message the Salty Girls? Give them the lowdown?
The idea of explaining to them that I went on this entire convoluted, semi-stalkerish (though admittedly epic) quest only to experience such an anticlimactic, lackluster finale is…unappealing at best. But now that I know them, I bet they’ll just laugh it off and tease me. Demand details and the next chapter of the fic I haven’t updated since Miranda Sings made that terrible apology song video.
And I have to get to Nico. To talk to him.
Maybe even tell him how I feel.
Admitting that I’ve been wrong is possibly my least favorite thing on the planet (after the cheating trope), but if I can get him to hear me out, I’ll do it. I’ll tell him that I shouldn’t have been so laser-focused on my checklist that I grew blind to what was unfolding in front of me.
Any good writer knows that even plotters get pantsed by their own characters sometimes.
Nico left in such a hurry this morning that we didn’t even discuss how to get in touch again. I have no idea if he’s obtained a burner phone or when he’s planning on taking a train back home or if he’s renting a car or a horse or a unicycle or what. The next time I see him could be at Sunday dinner.
In fifty years.
But he’s probably withher. The girl who wasn’t too stupid to dismiss Nico as a love interest. I don’t even know her last name. It feels so beneath me to be this jealous of a stranger, and yet…
There’s only one person I can call for help.
But I havea lotof explaining to do. And zero clue where to start.
I exhale, take out my dying burner phone, and do a bit of Googling. A number pops up, and before I can talk myself out of it, I dial.
The phone rings twice before somebody answers.
“Kabobs ’n’ Bits, Mystic’s number-one hub for Middle Eastern cuisine—thisshishis bananas.”
Something in my chest cracks open in relief. “Tey?”
“Joonie?!”
My brother doesn’t sound as happy to hear my voice as I am to hear his. He sounds, like, mega-pissed.
“Where the hell have you been? Did you turn off your location? I don’t recognize this number. Whose phone are you using? Why are you calling me at the shop?”
“Well…”
“I thought you were dead. Are you dead?” I can practically feel the spit flying from his mouth on the other end of the line. “You better be dead, because if you’re not, I’m going to murder you.”
I pause for a second.
