The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(51)

“So that’s the only reason you came out here?” I ask. “For Jessica?”

“That’s not—”

“To make sure I’m not ruining her career? Was that what you were going to say?”

His lips press into a thin line. He can’t meet my gaze.

Oh, I’m right.

I scoff. Of course I’m right. Why would he ever want to just be nice to me? “Don’t worry Ethan, I won’t screw up your precious Jessica Stone’s career.”

“You think that’s all I care about?” he asks, clenching his fists.

“Well, the writing’s on the wall, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know the first thing about Jessica—or me—and here you are coming in to our lives thinking you know everything. Thinking that you can just mess with Jess’s life—play in it like it’s this funhouse ride. It’s not, Imogen. Jess’s life is real.”

I purse my lips. “If it’s so important, then why let me mess in it to begin with?”

“Because Jess needs to—” But then he stops himself, and looks away. “She just needed this.”

“So I’m important enough to pretend to be Jessica, but I’m not important enough to know the real reason why,” I infer, and he doesn’t correct me.

He just folds his arms over his chest, looking more uncomfortable by the moment. Finally, he says, “You should get out before security comes by.”

“You mean before I can screw up Jess’s career?” I mock.

“It’s not like you can screw up your own,” he snaps cattily, but then realizes what he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant—”

Oh no, he’s said enough already. I push myself up the side and out of the pool. I grab the keycard and the wig I’d stashed behind the potted plant. “No, I get it. Don’t worry, Ethan,” I snap as I leave, and he just stands there helplessly. “I won’t screw up.”

I clutch the wig to my stomach as I make my way through the lobby, where con-goers mingle with friends, some with their costumes slowly melting off them, others in pajamas. No one glances at me, no one looks twice, even though I’m sopping wet and my dress leaves a liquid trail behind me. The people who do notice me probably just see a mess of a girl, waterlogged, with runny makeup and pink hair stuck up in a spiky crown around her head.

Don’t cry, I think, unable to get Ethan’s words out of my head. Why did they make me so angry?

I think I’m angrier at myself more than anything. Because I actually thought—

I let myself think—

Because he’s so freaking insufferable, I actually—

I elbow my way through the crowds, breathing deeply so I don’t outright cry, and reach the elevators. There is a difference between loving someone and stanning someone. I can stan Darien Freeman and Vance Reigns and Chris Pine and Cole Sprouse all I want, because at the end of the day I know it’s a one-sided affair. Yeah, I freak out over movie stars. I think they’re hot or cute or SUPER ADORABLE I MEAN COME ON.

But loving someone? That’s expecting them to love you back. I don’t expect love at first sight. That heart-crushing, soul-melting, foot-lifting sort of fairy-tale romance that The Princess Bride sells you. But liking would be nice. A nice warm like that assures you that you won’t be left out on the curb during a fairy-tale ball night without a Prince Charming or a pumpkin carriage.

In the universe of Imogen Lovelace, however, that’s an impossible thing.

I push the palm of my hand against my eyes, willing myself not to burst into tears as the elevator doors glide open.

“Monster?”

The familiar voice makes me look up, and there are Milo and Bran. My brother must recognize the look on my face because in one long step he’s out of the elevator and drawing me into his arms. I press my face into his chest and he smells like the Stellar Party—vape juice and Oh No—and I try really hard not to cry.

“Let’s go get some food—I’m thinking burgers,” Bran says, and I nod against Milo’s chest, and they lead me out of the lobby and down to a diner at the end of the street.





AS IT TURNS OUT, I WAS STARVING—but for more than just food. For company. For a quiet moment like this. Harper and I laugh and talk about all of the things that I never talk about with anyone: the latest trash mag gossip, the perfect eyeshadow palette, that YA rom-com that had the most adorable kiss. We talk about her family—it’s big and loud—and we talk about our favorite bands and childhood crushes.

I want to tell her everything about me. I want to tell her about my parents, and how since I became an actress they live in a big house in Nashville, and they come to visit me as often as they can, and my dad is a computer tech and my mom works with charities. I want to tell them about our dog, and about Ethan, and about how lonely it sometimes is in that posh LA apartment my agent found for me. I want to tell her how I miss going for hikes with my dad, and I want to tell her about that red carpet stumble, and what it was really like on the set of Starfield.

I want to prove that Jessica Stone is not the aloof, cold robot everyone thinks I am. I am not a serial dater. I simply never cared. It was so easy not to care because I’m not built that way.

I’m not built to take a random person into a bedroom, I’m not wired to want those things, and so it made all those dates and chaste kisses with celebrities so easy. It never went further than that. It was never falling in love—it was never even falling into like.