The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(37)

I recognize her now that I can see her face, even without her black glasses.

“I thought that was you sitting on the curb,” she says and nudges her head back to the Amaras. “I know this is kind of weird, Jess. Don’t worry, I won’t tell”—she adds when I give a start of panic—“but would you mind taking a photo of us? I need one for an article I’m doing, and there’s no one here and the light’s almost gone…”

The sunlight is beginning to dip below the Atlanta skyline. I should say no, because if any of those girls finds out that I’m me while I’m supposed to be at a photo op, but…

I finish chewing my pretzel and swallow. “Sure. Let’s hurry before the sun sets,” I say, taking her camera.

“Thank you!” She twirls around and hurries back to the group. They each strike a pose again and I lift the Canon to my eye, through the viewfinder, with the dusky light painting their glittering dresses and armored suits and polished military jackets in the perfect shade of blue, I think I see what Imogen was talking about. There are two dozen Princess Amaras smirking back at me, all of whom look different—different skin colors and body types and sexualities and gender identifications. Princess Amaras who have gone through the Black Nebula and those who led the Nox King’s military and those who fell in love with Carmindors and Zorines and Eucis. But they all have one thing in common:

They love who they are as Amara. They love themselves.

I click a few photos and quietly hand the camera back to the organizer. She fixes her crown before pulling the camera strap over her neck as the sun dips below the buildings.

“Just in time—thank you so much. I forgot to bring my tripod and I was kicking myself,” she says with a laugh. “You’re a life-saver. Really, thanks!”

“My pleasure, Elle,” I reply, and head back into the showroom.



* * *





I RETURN TO ARTISTS’ ALLEY. THE showroom hasn’t closed, but artists are beginning to pack up and the steady stream of attendees trickles away. I find the aisle with the purple Princess Amara banner and sheepishly walk up to the table.

Harper slams her hand against her chest. “Oh my God, you came back!”

“Um…yeah?” I push up my glasses again.

“I thought for sure I’d run you off.” Her dark eyes linger on the bruise on my cheek, and I quickly look away. “Did something happen to you?”

“I tripped over a Nox King’s tail.”

She winces. “That’s about the worst way to go.”

“Tell me about it.” I sink into my chair behind the booth. There are only a handful of Save Amara pins left. Harper’s been handing them out all day while I’ve been gone. That was very…nice of her.

I guess she must be good friends with Imogen—or was, before I stepped in. I’ve been nothing but cold or dismissive to her.

I’ve been mean and cold to everyone at this con, I realize.

Since when did I start acting like such a witch?

Harper’s packing up her things, zipping her pencil case closed and tossing it into a clear bookbag. I pick up one of her prints. It’s of Amara and Zorine in a heartfelt embrace, and I can’t help but blush seeing a girl with my likeness kissing the likeness of Fiona Oro, who plays Zorine. I hand the print back as I realize she’s putting them all into a box under the booth.

I bite my lip. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, why couldn’t you?”

“Why do you draw these fanart?”

She shrugs.

At first she doesn’t say anything, but then she takes the print of Amara and Zorine out of my hand. “You really don’t know?”

“I mean, I might but I’ve forgotten. Sorry.”

She tilts her head and studies me, as if I’ve surprised her again. It’s the same look she gave me earlier, the kind where she isn’t sure who she’s looking at, but it isn’t who she thought. I self-consciously tug on my beanie.

Crap, I’m not good at this Imogen thing at all.

“I mean, you don’t have to answer—”

“Mo, it’s because I think it’s nice to see ourselves represented. If not on-screen, then maybe in an OTP in fanart. Fanfic. It’s important to show that people like us exist. That we can be happy.”

That we can be.

We.

I’m reminded of Ethan asking me if I was happy. I haven’t allowed myself to be in a long time. I’ve dated who I was told to, and flirted with people who would get me on the cover of magazines, but I’ve been too busy and too worried about my career to think much about—

Well…

Anything else.

“Oh,” I say, lacking a better response.

“So,” she grins, still so near to me. I’m tempted to lean away but I really don’t want to. “Can I ask you a question, Imogen?”

I don’t know if I want to answer. I don’t know if I can. Because I’m beginning to realize that I definitely don’t know enough about Imogen to pull this off. I don’t even know where she was born. Is Planet Weird too mean? I clear my throat and say nonchalantly, “Yeah, of course.”

“Why do you like Starfield?”

I don’t, I want to tell her, but I bite my lip to stop myself from saying that. Partly because I’m Imogen right now, and partly because…I remember the feeling I had earlier when I looked through the camera’s viewfinder at all of those Amaras just being themselves. The best version of themselves through a character they love and relate to…