Geekerella (Starfield #1)(26)

Jessica squints at me for a moment before she pulls her legs off the side of the chair and sits properly. She looks me dead in the eye. “Darien, can I be real for a second?”

I can’t look away—her gaze is too intense. They’re going to need to give her contacts. Princess Amara has green eyes, green like the radiation from superheated quasars in space. “Um, yeah.”

She breathes in. “So, you’ve never done a big role before—”

What does she think Seaside Cove is? An after-school special?

“—but I have, and I know fans are the worst sometimes. The best, but also the worst. And you are a fan. So you’re going to be the worst to yourself. You’re going to judge yourself the harshest. My advice to you is—don’t. This is just one role. It doesn’t have to define you. Trust your instincts, trust your director, and it’ll be a cakewalk. And then you can go on to bigger, better things. This is a springboard, not a glue trap. Make sense?”

“Uh,” I say. But she’s already standing, and when she bends to kiss me on the cheek I feel the tackiness of her lipstick come off on my skin.

“I’ll see you on set, okay?”

“Sure thing, Princess,” I mumble.

She grins. “You’re not one of those method actors, are you?”

I mimic her grin, even though I don’t feel it. “Nah. If I really wanted to get into character, I’d call you ah’blena.”

“Isn’t that the Starfield question you missed?”

I give her a wounded look. “Did everyone watch that?”

“YouTube is forever, trust me. You’re looking at the most GIF’d red carpet moment in Golden Globes history.” She grimaces at her heels. “See you, Darien.”

And with that, Jessica Stone—my costar, my Amara, my fake girlfriend for the next twenty-some days—waves goodbye, one finger at a time, and leaves my trailer. But even after she’s gone, her words stick like tar on the walls.

Bigger, better things. This is just a springboard.

I turn back to the mirror and stare at the wannabe Carmindor in a uniform that is definitely the wrong color blue. And I have to wonder if I’m any different from her—or if I should be. Am I doing this just for a paycheck too?

That’s why Mark wants me to do it. He wouldn’t have booked me for the audition if he hadn’t seen dollar signs. Wouldn’t have hired a bodyguard if he didn’t picture my face on a billboard.

On the counter my phone buzzes, and I grab for it blindly, praying that it isn’t Mark wanting me to do another convention.

But it isn’t Mark.


Unknown 8:32 AM

—How do you get a one-armed Nox out of a tree?

—You wave at it!!!

I chew on my bottom lip to keep from smiling. At least I know one person who believes in Starfield as more than just a cash cow. I square my shoulders in the mirror and tuck my phone into Carmindor’s pocket.

Maybe it is a springboard. Maybe as a fan I’m the worst person for this role. Maybe I’ll screw it up more than someone who doesn’t care that way. Jessica wants artistic cred, serious roles, golden statues lined up on her mantel—and she’ll make a fine Amara. Serviceable, and certainly beautiful. The fans will accept her. Me, I’ve had posters of Starfield in my room since I was seven. I know every galaxy and every world in Federation space. I know the prince’s tics inside and out. I know his ending monologue. I know what he orders from the bartender at Belowgaze.

I don’t want Oscar nods or award speeches—well, not yet. I just want to be good. I just want to do the fandom justice. I could keep my head down and waltz through this shoot like the Darien Freeman the world thinks I am, but that’s not how my fanboy heart beats.

Because, most of all, I want to be good enough for a sequel.





AFTER WORK, I TAKE FRANK TO Our Blessed Days cemetery, a bouquet of daffodils cradled in my arm. Because it’s that day—The Day—and because…well, because I feel like I need permission. Or their blessing. Or something.

The graveyard is deserted and quiet. It’s one of the smaller ones in Charleston, not touristy because it isn’t as old as the haunted ones, but just as beautiful, with lazy weeping willows and oaks with large, gnarled roots. Franco and I are the only ones in the entire place, besides the night watchman. I pull out the droopy flowers from the WITTIMER vase and replace them with the vibrant yellow daffodils.

I sit back on the damp grass. Franco pants beside me, rubbing his head against my arm.

The tombstones are quaint and gray. LILY WITTIMER and ROBIN WITTIMER in crisp letters, newer than a lot of the other plots around them. Dad’s funeral is brighter in my head, Mom’s is a shadowy blur, but I remember the preacher’s words like an echo coming back from a dark, steep cliff.

Too young. Too soon. Too, too, too.

Too everything. Too little time. Too few memories. Too few “I love you”s exchanged from me to Mom to Dad. Mostly Dad. I miss Mom too, but I miss her like you miss a distant, beautiful place you’ve heard about but never actually visited. Her face is blurry, her smile a blank. I can’t even remember what she sounded like.

But in my head, Dad’s voice is still there. I hold on to it like a buoy, afraid I’ll lose it in the storm of time.

“I found your costumes,” I tell the tombstone. “I wondered for a minute if you caused the leak because it kind of felt like you were there, you know? Like you’re still…”