Page 7 of My Cosplay Escape
“And after what happened…” I stoop to pick up a crumpled coloring page. “I swore off comics.”
“More of your rules, huh?”
“No more comics—rule number one. No more cosplay—rule number two.” I rub the back of my neck and wince as my eyes dart to the bright LEDs in the ceiling. Comics and cosplay are gateway drugs. One taste, and I’m a goner who has trashed her life worse than a trash panda in the compost bin. “I didn’t trust myself, so I sold off all my costumes before I moved back home…” I trail off, blushing so intensely I must look catastrophically sunburned. Once again, my eyes are focused on the toes of my Asics.
Gwen gently bumps my shoulder with her own. “Hey. I know you have at least one costume left. Add not looking up at the ceiling and then down at your shoes to your list of non-options the next time you have to lie.”
“I never finished my Catstrike costume. You can’t sell incomplete costumes.” And while I did manage to scrape a few bucks together for my collection, not finishing this costume had been such an easy excuse to keep one cosplay skeleton packed away in the suitcases under my mom’s guest bed.
Gwen stretches her quads. “A memento from your badass cosplay days?”
“I’ve never so much as run my finger over the zipper of that bag.” My voice is a weird mix of forlorn and loathing.
She straightens. “Let me take you to Comic-Con, and you can wear it just once. It will be your farewell tour.”
“It’s sold out.”
“Challenge accepted. Now come on. Perk up. We’re going to have fun, and I’ll personally make sure you do not end up leaving Comic-Con married or—”
“Pregnant,” I blurt out. I drop my face into my hands and sink to the floor. Face-palm GIFs have nothing on me right now. “I left my last cosplay misadventure pregnant.”
Gwen slides down beside me.
“It was really stupid. I was really stupid,” I say into my hands. I wince, as I know a barrage of questions are about to tumble out of Gwen’s mouth.
“Hey.” She pulls my head onto her shoulder, solidifying that she is the big sister I never had. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Nothing I do can ever make it okay. “I know.” I tug the twisted seam of my leggings straight. “But I really do not want to talk about this at work.” Or ever.
Gwen nods. “Okay, but if you ever do—”
I know. “Please don’t say anything to Brent or—”
“Hon, I’m your friend. If I had known, I wouldn’t have even brought up Comic-Con. Or mermaids.”
Oh, Shirley Temples. That’s how it starts. The walking-on-eggshells self-editing that leads to canceled friendships. Things are already getting weird, and I cannot lose my only friend standing over this. “I want to go,” I blurt out.
Gwen blinks. A shower of foam blocks rains down on us, accompanied by a stampede of little feet and giggles.
“Oh, no!” I cry in my exaggerated Kids Club staffer voice, the kind that makes grown adults cringe. “I’m going to get you.”
More giggles and shrieks.
“You sure?” Gwen asks. She’s scrutinizing my every twitch now.
But I am sure. I’d do anything to keep my new friend. Even break my rules one last time. “Just promise not to leave me alone with any shady guys. Or sperm-bank reps.”
Gwen laughs. She puts an arm around me and gives me an encouraging squeeze. “It’ll be fun. There are only so many chances a woman has to parade around in spandex looking ridiculous and sexy for a crowd.”
“I think you just described the nature of a gym.” I perk up into my promotional pitch voice. “And we are open twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year.”
Gwen laughs.
“You have noticed how the moment you walk through those glass doors, everyone gives you the elevator eyes?” I groan. “It’s like you sign some imaginary waiver that you’re okay with everyone checking you out.”
“Come on, you do it too,” she says.
I grin. “I work here. I’m supposed to keep an eye on things.”
