Page 50 of My Cosplay Escape
“Should it be?” I set the bottle down. The clink rattles off the walls in the quiet break room. “What have you done?”
His eyes wander over me. I am in my new gray suit complete with gold belt—Catstrike fromNightbat the Animated Seriescome to life. It’s a campy compromise, but I get to wear my mask and head cap, which means I don’t have to wear a scratchy wig over my wispy, fluffy blond hair every Thursday. There is no way I am going to show more of myself than I have to. But this costume is definitely more camp than dominatrix. #missionaccomplished.
“I don’t know,” Adam says, opening then slamming the fridge door. Is he annoyed that I am still wearing a cowl? “What happened to the vintage-camp idea?”
I walk over closer. This set of boots doesn’t give me the same height as my other pair, but it is closer to my sweet spot. I still have a good three inches on my five-foot-five frame, which gives me a different angle to admire Adam’s excellent jaw.
No, I still can’t say for sure if it was him in the alley on Customer Cosplay Night, but I like to pretend it was. I run a hand confidently up Adam’s right arm. “You don’t like my new look?”
A gray catsuit with just a bit of sheen shows a lot more of my body’s contours than my previous costume. The gold medallion belt sits low on my hips. My matte black leather gloves, tipped with black acrylic claws that, though pointed, are nothing that would scare a car-happy Camaro owner, embolden me.
“I like every square inch of you.” Adam puts his hand on my waist.
I press my bright red lips to the stubble on his neck.
Adam shudders. “The square inches you’re comfortable showing, that is.”
He slowly brings his other hand up my arm. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I gently drag my nails across his jaw. “You need a shave. I liked you better with a clean jaw.”
I have Adam pinned against the door of the break room, and I am fully prepared to have some fun. Fudge speed bumps. It’s time for answers.
Adam’s voice is tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please keep talking.” His touch is light. Maybe he thinks he’ll spook me if he holds me too close.
I purr in his ear. “Hmm. Dark alley. Dark night. Maybe it was someone else.” I pull ever so slightly away. Do I want to kiss him? That would make sense, right? You are supposed to want to kiss people you have feelings for, and I definitely have some strong feelings for Adam. None of them bending toward the sweet, lovable, Maybell June variety. I mean, once you kiss someone, you can never unkiss them. All that first-kiss energy vanishes. And while I did enjoy whatever it was I did that night a few weeks ago, it certainly wasn’t kissing. It was like Bollywood kissing. Yeah, it’ll make you blush, but my lips never locked with his.
My lips brush the bottom of his ear. The fringe of his dark blond hair tickles my cheek. He swallows and shuts his eyes.
“This is messed up.” Adam says the words like he is trying to convince himself. He pulls my arms away from him. Goldfish, he is pushing me away. “The new costume is great, Sabine. Really.” He leaves me. I’m once again alone in the break room. And once again, I am fudging furious.
Chapter Fifteen
No one walks through life without acquiring scars. We all develop Achilles’ heels. Rejection is mine. One of mine. I’ve got lots. Goldfish, I should see a therapist. Mom took me to one in fifth grade. The woman asked me about school and about Dad’s death as Mom sat on the couch next to me and blinked fast and hard throughout the entire forty-five-minute appointment. Brent was at Judo. “It takes time,” was all Dr. Branson had said. Shirley Temples, you think?
Do I want to talk about my shotgun wedding, my miscarriage, my divorce, my job at the gym, my econ class, or the fact that I want to make out with my boss while cosplaying, but never want to see him in real life? Do I want to sit on an overstuffed couch, with a box of tissues conveniently available on the coffee table, while I explain how mortifying, embarrassing, and angry being pushed away feels, even when I am parading around in a sexy superhero-fantasy costume? Do I want to explore why I am willing to even put on the mask and catsuit in the first place?
No.
Nope.
Time to review my no-speed-bumps rules over a ten-mile run. No, let’s make it fifteen.
* * *
I’m still nursing my bruised ego next Tuesday when Stacey finds me in the Student Union Starbucks. I made fudging sure to ask the barista to put my wellness and comfort tea in a reusable ceramic mug. I am over my mom’s guilt trips for using disposable cups.
“Hey, is this seat taken?” Stacey asks.
I look up from my econ book. “Stacey! Hey!”
A normal human being would have slumped into the chair next to me, but Stacey is magnificent both inside and outside of cosplay. The chair across from mine might as well be a throne.
“How’s the swim team?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s good.” Stacey smiles.
“And the girlfriend?”
