Page 49 of My Cosplay Escape
“Saire?”
There is a very short list of people who call me Saire, and now Adam is on it. Goldfish, he’s cute when he’s struggling. “I’m working till eleven.” And movies, dinners, and runs all fall under my no-speed-bumps, no-dating rules.
“Then come to my club.”
“Your club? Oh right. Your superhero escape room? So I can meet your other girlfriend? The one Brenda mentioned, from Comic-Con?”
Adam’s face reddens. And yeah, it could be from the second set he’s just started, or I could have found his weak spot.
“Look.” He pulls himself to standing. Is he really that much taller than me? I guess I’ve never really stood beside him without the platform heels. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Brenda is just mildly annoyed that I never invited her to cosplay at my escape room. She’s a megafan of the industry with a bad habit of reading other people’s email and assuming the worst. I told her I met someone at Comic-Con this summer because I did, but I’m not dating her. She works for me.” He pauses awkwardly. “You can ask her yourself.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“About meeting my cosplayer, or going out with me?”
“Both.”
“Why?”
I glare at Adam. “Have you ever been called into your professor’s office because you were accused of an inappropriate flirtation?”
Adam smiles and leans a hand against the weight set. “As a matter of fact.” He’s got that look again—the one-with-the-universe, cheeky confidence that makes my spine melt.
“Well,” I say, trying hard not to remember running my tongue across his face. If it was evenhisface. Oh goldfish, I hope it was his face. “I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for you.”
“Look. I’ll make a deal with you. Go on one date with me—”
“And what?” I cringe at his sales-pitch tone. It is too hot, and I am too upset to play more games. “You’ll change my mind, and suddenly I won’t think you’re a pushy, rude, self-entitled Shirley-Temple-for-brains.” I push him as hard as I dare in the chest. “Let me help you out, Adam. You’re not entitled to any second chances. You’re not entitled to first chances. I don’t owe you a qualified no. I don’t have to give you the benefit of the doubt. And I sure don’t need to spend any more one-on-one time with you to know my mind. Get. Lost.” My chest rises and falls, like I’m approaching heaving-bosom territory. I somehow manage to be standing close enough to Adam to… well, close enough to feel him breathe in. Long and slow.
Nathan struts back to our corner of the free weights. “Hey, Sarah. Everything okay back here?” I swear he growls at Adam.
“Fine, Nate,” I say.
“I was just leaving.” Adam carefully tucks the TRX straps back into place. “Good night, Sarah. Thanks for showing me around.”
* * *
Piles of raw beets and grapefruits cover the kitchen counter. Mom is doing a juice fast again. Experiments like this happen often in the summer. I wonder if all schoolteachers recover from burnout in equally interesting ways. This year, some of the experiments are bleeding into the school year.
Mom appears from behind her industrial-sized juicer. “We can’t all be twenty-two with a metabolism that won’t quit,” she says.
Quit. The word spins circles around me. I should quit. I am in over my head. I’ve already sent Gwen a bunch of texts from my Sabine Kennedy number by accident. It’s only a matter of time before I mix them up with Adam. And I don’t want to get mixed up with him. I don’t want any more speed bumps. I don’t want to lose my second chance at my business degree because of a boy. Even if this boy is so much yummier than the stupid first one. No more speed bumps! No!
The fact remains: I need the Superhero Escapes side hustle. I need it now more than ever with tuition, books, and rides down to SDSU twice a week since Mom is no longer biking to work and needs her car again. I can’t quit.
Mom hands me a glass of dark burgundy juice. “Try some, honey.” It looks terrifying.
“No, thanks, Mom. I’ve got study group after class tonight and weights that won’t lift themselves. Cross-training, you know?” Lies. I have a gig dressing up as Catstrike and claws I haven’t yet finished sewing onto my new costume. At least the part about class is true.
Mom pours some of the juice into a glass pop-top bottle. Mom doesn’t believe in plastic anymore—another summer adventure that stuck. Thank fudging goldfish, Mom is back in the classroom. I don’t think I could handle any more of her summer fun. “For the road,” Mom insists. “Now off you go. Don’t forget your books.”
I make it through class and manage to finish my costume by skipping dinner and a workout. And after a couple of hours of escapes, I am desperate enough to reach for the bottle of beet juice in the break room.
“What are you drinking?” Adam asks, shutting the door behind him. He’s a stickler for maintaining the atmosphere for the customers. No behind-the-scenes glances allowed.
“The blood of my enemies,” I all but growl. It’s not bad, like citrus and dirt. Okay, maybe it’s bad.
He pauses. “Is my blood in there?”
