The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(53)

“I think I finally see you, Imogen Lovelace,” she says.

It’s important to see that people like us exist. Her voice echoes in my head, along with Imogen’s.

But Princess Amara is dead, and she isn’t coming back.

Not even if I want her to.

And I don’t.

Do I?

I don’t have to wear that galaxy-glitter dress that pinches me under the arms. I don’t have to run in heels or dye my hair that god-awful red. Or actively ignore most social media because of the trolls. I don’t have to eat an inedible catered salad. I don’t have to listen to Dare complain about his uniform not being the right shade of blue. Or watch Amon act out a fight scene and stub his toe on a prop.

And I probably won’t meet Harper at another con. As Imogen, or as myself.

It was an accident that I met her here.

Almost impossible—

Impossible.

Things that would never happen in real life. A fangirl with wicked stepsisters and the actor she despises falling in love. A fashion designer and Geekerella’s stepsister finding each other. Colliding with your look-alike in a con bathroom at the edge of the world and falling for her internet friend.

Impossible.

I’m not Imogen Lovelace, I want to tell her, and now is the perfect time, when the stars are bright and the sky is wide, but the words catch on my tongue as I remember all those Instagram comments. The Twitter notifications.

What if she’s one of them?

Or what if she gets mad that I’ve lied to her this whole time and never wants to talk to me again? Is this how Dare felt when he had to confess to Elle? How did he get up the courage? I don’t know much about Harper, but I want to, and I’m afraid of all the things I’ll never get to know if I tell her who I am.

So like the scene in My Best Friend’s Wedding when the ship goes under the bridge—the moment passes and there’s no going back.

In reply, because I don’t know how to reply, because replying will break her heart, I squeeze her hand tightly and point up to a star and tell her its story because I can’t tell her mine.

Just a little while longer, I pray to the impossibilities. Let me be Imogen for a little while longer.





FOOD HELPS MY MOOD, AS DOES watching my brother inhale an All-Star Breakfast in five minutes flat. I swear to God he’s a black hole. Even Bran is slightly disgusted at the sight. There is nothing quite like it. Milo doesn’t ask why I was wet, or why I smell like a pool, or what happened to make me cry. He knows I’ll tell him, or I won’t. But then he says:

“So, Jessica Stone, eh?”

I look up from my coffee and involuntarily shiver. We’re sitting in a Waffle House, and my hash browns are cold because I only picked at them, and the coffee is warming my hands. “Um…what…about her?”

Bran, sitting beside me, picks up the wig on the seat between us. It looks more like a dead rodent right now, rather than Jess’s long and lustrous locks. He arches an eyebrow. “We know.”

“You…know what?” I try to play dumb, pretending that there’s a coffee ground floating in my cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She was at the Stellar Party,” Milo says, finishing off his fried egg in a single swallow. “So we know about it. Well, kinda. She was with Harper.”

I wince. “Has Harper found out?”

“No.” Bran shakes his head. “She thinks she’s you, and I think there’s something going on between them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I think J—” But he’s cut off when Milo kicks him under the table. They give each other a meaningful look, as if I didn’t just witness that. Bran clears his throat and says, “I think Jess is having a great time. Being you, I mean. And she isn’t half bad.”

That’s a relief, anyway. “I’m glad.”

“And you being Jess…she’s not worried you’re going to,” Milo makes a motion with his fork toward me, “you know, the Save Amara stuff?”

Of course he’d ask. He’s like the sixth member of the Scooby gang, looking for clues to the murder of my life. I breathe in through my nose and then smile because I’ve found that I lie easier when I’m smiling. “Nah.”

“Then why are you impersonating Jessica Stone?”

“She asked me to. She said she wanted to take a break for a while.”

Bran almost spews his coffee. “You don’t believe her, do you?”

“Of course not, but she hasn’t told me the truth yet, either. And I haven’t really been looking. I’m just, you know, enjoying the ride. It feels nice being seen.” The last part kind of slips out, and all three of us fall silent.

Somewhere near the kitchen, someone drops a coffee mug and it shatters on the tile floor and someone else calls for an order of hash browns scattered and smothered. I grab the ticket from the table but then hesitate when I realize I don’t have my wallet. Bran plucks the bill from me and scoots out of the booth.

“I’ll get it. Finish your hash browns, though,” he adds as he walks over to the register.

I sit quietly with Milo. He studies me with those dark green eyes, and I pick up my fork and start shoveling the cold, congealed potatoes into my mouth so I don’t have to answer whatever question I know he wants to ask. We’re siblings, and we’re close. I’ve told Milo everything over the years, and he’s told me everything, too. I was the first person he came out to in his freshman year of high school, although with our parents it didn’t really matter.