The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(13)
That [censored] needs a cheeseburger
Jess’s so fat must be the stress getting to her
Go ruin some other franchise, faker!
They are endless. And I am so tired of them already. I begin my daily routine of reporting and blocking, reporting and blocking, but my thumb stalls on the screen. What’s the use? They’ll just come back tomorrow, and bring their friends, and I will still be one girl standing in the mouth of the Black Nebula as it opens wide and they wait for me to self-destruct.
I won’t give them that pleasure.
But I don’t know what else to do. The contract might be in the bottom of the trash, but I’ll still have to sign it. I’ll still be here.
I drop my phone and grab a pillow, pressing it against my face, and cry.
“JESSICA!”
I look up at the barista, who slides a cup across the counter. My heart skips a beat until I notice Brienne of Tarth pushing through the line to get her drink. I exhale and turn my attention back to my phone, where I’m sending another furious tweet to a Twitter troll who can’t seem to get his head out of his nostalgia hole. Jessica Stone didn’t ruin Princess Amara’s character, I want to type, but I know that if I reply to every one of these garbage cans, I’ll find myself in troll hell.
The barista approaches the counter with four drinks in a tray and squints at the name. “IHM-OH-GEN-NE?”
“Well that’s one way to say it,” I murmur as I elbow my way to get my order. Two hazelnut lattes, an iced caramel macchiato, and whatever the hell Milo ordered. My phone must have dinged twenty times—can’t he just be patient?
I shift the bag of vegan tacos to the hand that’s holding my phone and grab the tray with the other.
One-handed texting, here we go.
Oh my God, he’s not patient at all.
MILO (6:57 PM) —Got the grub?
—Hey, hey you.
MILO (7:00 PM)
—HAVE YOU BEEN EATEN BY A WOOKIEE?
MILO (7:01 PM)
—DO I HAVE TO GO SOLO NOW?
MILO (7:01 PM)
—COME BACK TO THE HOTEL TO LEIA YOUR HEAD DOWN.
—PS - I got some MEGA SUPER ULTRA WTF STARFIELD news to SHOW YOU
MILO (7:07 PM)
—No like really where are you do I have to release the hounds.
Release the hounds is code for texting our mothers. Ugh, he’s more dramatic than I am. Tray in one hand, vegan taco bag looped around the other, I reply—
IMOGEN (7:08 PM)
—OMG CHILL OUT leaving now
—Also Wookiees don’t eat humans, they’d be too chewie.
MILO (7:08 PM) —this is bran pls bring food faster
—milo is about to go full super saiyan he’s so hangry
IMOGEN (7:08 PM)
—OH MY GOD I’LL BE THERE SOON
—SHEESH
I better get these tacos to the hotel before Milo starts eating his own arm off. If there’s one thing about teenage boys that’s absolutely true, it’s that they are a freaking black hole of food. Like, I’ve never seen someone eat so much in my entire life.
“Monster?”
I freeze. I know that voice. That deep, captivating timbre. A lump lodges in my throat.
This can’t be real life.
But when I turn, I realize that this is most definitely real life. He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named is standing right behind me, a curious look on his adorable face. His brown hair is long and swirled back into a man bun and there’s a little stubble on his cheeks, but it’s patchy and doesn’t quite pull off the hipster vibe I know he’s going for. But otherwise he looks exactly the same—sporting a gamer T-shirt that barely covers his biceps, and jeans, and Vans, and God why does my heart unexpectedly feel so heavy and awful?
“It is you!” he says, and his curious expression quickly morphs into a smile that looks sincere.
The barista calls another name and a Ghostbuster squeezes past. We take the cue and step to the side. He pulls me into a hug and I prickle at his touch. I don’t return the embrace, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Oh man, Imogen, it’s so great to see you!”
LIAR.
He lets go and looks me up and down. From my black jeans to my probably not-so-clean black hoodie to my black SPACE QUEEN beanie pulled over a pink pixie that definitely needs a wash.
For one inconceivable moment, I wonder if he approves—
APPROVES?
What am I, some heroine in a nineteenth-century romance novel?
Ugh, I hate my feelings sometimes. I hate the inexplicable way my brain works. And I hate the way he chews on his bottom lip, and the sea-glass-green color of his eyes, and the way his voice is always so soft and rich and tender, even when it’s really not. I hate— All of it.
Not in a secretly-love-him sort of way, but in a we-dated-for-nine-months-and-he-stood-me-up-at-the-ExcelsiCon-Ball-and-then-dumped-me-in-a-text-message sort of way.
I yank down my beanie, avoiding his gaze. “Hey. What do you want?”
He looks hurt. “I’m just happy to see you—I thought I’d see you this year. Your, uh, fandom thing is really something. Excited about the news that just leaked?”
I try to ask “What news?” but he just talks over me.
“You always go in with a bang, don’t you, Monster?”