Page 16 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
Chapter 5
After that evening in April, I asked Nadeen three times a day for four weeks if I had any messages. Nothing. I stared at my phone for hours every weekend. Nothing. I tried to ask Adam, without asking Adam, about Mike.
I gave my complimentary tickets to the escape room to the paralegals at work who are always taking pictures of their lunches and posting them to Instagram. I figured they’d be more likely to talk up Adam’s room than me. And while I did make it down opening weekend to congratulate Adam and snap a few pictures in front of the finished mural, I steered clear of Badpun’s cell.
So no, I haven’t seen Mike since I met him in cosplay and then met him out of cosplay. I have thought about him… I may have found him on my socials, not that I followed. Professional headshots mostly. A few innocuous pictures of beaches.
I may have also started casting him as the hero in all the novels I’ve been reading. I’m not exactly proud of this, but I also didn’t consciously decide to do this. Internal autofills are weird.
So that’s the stew I’ve been marinating in for the past three months. I meet a cosplayer. I swear there is a connection, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Then when I finally do see him again… He’s insulting, smug and dismissive and tells me that I’m not just a pet human but a cactus.
What if Mike’s right? What if staying in my prescribed lane has atrophied the human parts of me? Here lies Beatrice Hero McKinney, nothing but a sad little corporate hack whose last tether to humanity is the book her nose is always in. Because I do have a book with me at all times. Books on my phone. Books on my Kindle. A paperback on my nightstand. Pretty hardcovers on my shelves. Reading is the only escape I have from the monotony of my life. But it isn’t enough to stave off the cynical, bitter rancor I feel.
I’m aware that resenting the good fortune I’ve enjoyed is embarrassing and unflattering and adds to the self-loathing. I have a seemingly charmed life. And I’m not happy about it. Because it’s not charmed. It doesn’t even feel like mine.Autopilotisn’t the right word. I feel like a passenger, a grouchy backseat driver at best in my own life. Oh gosh. What if I wake up tomorrow morning and I’m completely transformed à la Kafka’sMetamorphosis, except I’m an overgrown saguaro? Maybe a cute little prickly pear cactus. If I don’t figure out how to work regular cardio into my life, golden barrel territory for sure.
I am desperate to connect with someone, anyone, who is not paying me hourly to solve their company’s legal problems, buttry making friends when your dad is not just your boss but everyone’s boss, and you live with your parents. And before I go down the shame spiral, can I just say that renting in Del Mar is impossibly expensive on a single income? The two times I tried being a roommate, the Barbies up and got fiancés, and I had to move out. Fine. I moved back home. Saved money. Commuted to work with my dad. And…became a sullen, prickly cactus. If I were in a Regency romance, I’d be owning my future in spinsterhood.
But what am I going to do? I may not have student loans, but I am years away from having enough money for a place of my own. My parents are more than happy to have me under their roof, but I’m not going to ask them for more. Julie and Portia never needed help and, honestly, taking a handout to get my own place when they’ve cut Adam off just feels all levels of wrong. Plus, it would give them leverage that I don’t want to give. I’ll figure this out on my own. Nose to the grindstone. Nose in a book. Fade to black.
I’ll check back five years in the future to see how much the cactus formerly known as Beatrice McKinney has changed. Spoiler alert: not much. Cacti are naturally slow growers. But that’s okay. Because I’ve got books. I’ve got a respectable career, even if I hate it more with every passing day. It’s fine.
That’s what I thought. My life was fine. FINE. Thanks very much. I was not exactly happy or content, but I was fine. I may have been jealous of Portia’s natural talent, Julie’s family, and Adam’s devil-may-care choices. But I was fine.
Then Mike showed up in my room. On my bed. And he was more attractive than I remembered. And charismatic and insulting.
Oh my gosh. He’s one hundred percent right about me and my life. I can’t keep living like this. It’s not a life I’m living, but a sentence.
So that’s where my head is now, at a grandpa-grandson birthday party. I slink into the love seat next to Portia.
“So, Bea, how does it feel to be the last one living at home?” Portia sips her drink.
“Don’t do that,” Julie says in her gentlest voice. It’s the same she uses to tell Eaton not to rub cupcakes in his hair. “She’s super sensitive.”
I want to snap and tell Julie I can fight my own battles, but I smile instead. “It feels like I’m saving a ton of money. Thanks for asking.”
“You dating anyone?”
“No. No, I’m too busy to even swipe right. That’s how you and Drew met, right? You swiped?”
Portia doesn’t take the bait. “Not too busy to collect cacti or read Russian melodrama.”
“How is Tolstoy considered melodrama?”
“Too busy? Or too embarrassed?” Julie says, and now I want to rub a cupcake in her hair. “It has to be awkward telling people you live with Granny and Pop-Pop.”
Portia frowns at her empty glass. “I thought you were on her side.”
Julie splays a hand across her chest. “I am. Sisters do the tough-love thing. And Dad says Bea never goes out with any of the other associates. Mom says you come home, eat in bed, and read yourself to sleep.”
“Yeah, well, did Mom mention that I often don’t get home until eleven? The minute I’m not the first one in or last one out, people start accusing me of being a nepo baby.”
Julie frowns. “I thought you had to be a celebrity to be a nepo baby.”
“Right?” Portia agrees. “I’ve only heard of actors being called nepo babies.”
“My point is that I have to work twice as hard to prove I deserve to be at McKinney, Rosenberg, and Wallace.”
But the horse has left the barn. “We need an expert witness,” Portia says before standing on the patio chair. “Excuse me. Any actors in the house?”
