The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(54)

“But I wanted to tell you first,” he had said. This was back when he was scrawny and a little shorter than me, and I could still suplex him splendidly in the community pool. “Because you’re my best friend, Monster.”

“You’re mine, too, bro,” I had replied, and scrubbed his curly head.

But how could I tell him that I can’t live up to the example he sets? That I’m just not built that way. That I’m afraid of being nothing in his shadow.

He sets down his fork, a frown tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Monster…”

I chase the hash browns with a gulp of coffee. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? And don’t tell anyone about me and Jess—not even our moms.”

“Of course not, but why do you think—”

“Okay.” I slide out of the booth to end our conversation, grabbing the wig as I go. Helplessly he lets the topic drop and we wait for Bran to pay, and they escort me back to the hotel before hitting up another all-night showing of Galaxy Quest. I wave goodbye from the lobby and head inside.

The problem is, I can’t get into my own room without my keycard, and guess who shockingly forgot to take it? Along with my phone, credit card, and bag. I’ve got no choice but to shuffle up to Jess’s suite.

I barely insert the key into keylock before the door jerks open.

Ethan towers in the doorway, vibrating like a human-looking sock puppet full of angry bees.

Uh-oh. That’s definitely not a happy face.

His fists are clenched, his shoulders jarringly straight, his mouth set into a thin line. He glares down at me from behind the shadow of his glasses. He’s changed into dry clothes, sweatpants and a loose tee, although with one look I remember the sight of his wet shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest. I quickly put those thoughts out of my head as fast as I can. His hair is kind of wild and dry, not gelled like it usually is, and he has a cowlick on the right side that I never noticed before. A part of me wants to lick my palm and try to flatten it, but he looks like a tower of angry cats and I fear for my hand. The way the muscle in his jaw throbs, I think he might just want to strangle me.

I clear my throat. “Ethan…um, hi. I, um, left my stuff in here.”

He breathes in through his nose, and a little of the tension melts. He sidesteps so I can slip past him into Jess’s hotel room. It’s just like when I left it. I grab my bag that I’d thrown on the couch and loop it over my shoulder.

“I think I’m going to go back to my hotel room for the night. So, tomorrow morning…”

And that’s when I notice all of the freshly ironed shirts hanging in the bathroom doorway. An ironing board stands just behind the couch, the iron giving off a soft hiss of steam.

He was…ironing?

“Where have you been?” he asks, closing the door with too-measured gentleness. His voice reflects his true feelings: quietly controlled rage.

Oh. It clicks.

“You iron when you’re worried,” I say, hazarding a guess.

“And fold laundry, and mop floors, and hem pants—and don’t change the subject. Where have you been?” He folds his arms over his chest, a finger tapping agitatedly against his biceps.

“Out,” I reply. “Why do you care? I wasn’t being Jessica.”

“You went off on your own!”

“Of course I did! Aren’t I allowed to? You obviously don’t care what happens when I’m me, only when I’m being your precious Jessica.”

“Imogen—”

“And you know what? I get it. She has everything! She’s not living in anyone’s shadow! Don’t worry. Jessica Stone’s intact. I didn’t tell anyone her secrets. Besides I’m no one. I’ll always be no one. It’s my lot in life, right?” And then I do something I know I should not do. I adopt Jessica Stone’s perfect lilt and I purr, “But I think your love for Jess might be a bit unrequited?”

A muscle on the left side of his jaw twitches with annoyance.

I know I’m being nasty and cruel. But he was nasty and cruel, too, and I’m too tired and emotionally compromised to reel myself in.

So is he, apparently.

He rakes his fingers through his thick black hair. “Forget it! You know why I was mad? Because of this.” He digs his phone out of his sweatpants pocket and hits a contact. He puts the call on speakerphone and my stomach drops into my gut when I read the name.

IMOGEN LOVELACE.

He even spelled my name right.

Although he’s calling it, my phone doesn’t start ringing, and shame eats at the edges of my ears because I remember I put in the number for my favorite pizza joint back home. It rings three times before one of the co-managers answers, “Junie here, and you’re calling the Roman Pizzeria, what can I get for you—”

He stabs his thumb on the END CALL button, his dark eyes seething at no one but me.

I swallow hard.

Oh.

Right. I forgot about that.

“Is this some game to you, Imogen?”

I clench my jaw and look away. Okay, I hadn’t really thought that plan through. And all of the little things are starting to come together. Him ironing, calling my number, being angry with me—it means that, whether it’s because I’m Jessica or not, he was worried about me once I’d stormed off. And that makes me feel just a little worse for yelling at him.