Tristan had planted the idea in my head with his confession the week before. I’d balked at the prospect of outright lying, but there were several reasons a fictional entry appealed to me. First, I could incorporate the product placement easier. Second, I could share something less humiliating. And third, I could finally read something that wasn’t a love letter to Tristan. It wouldn’t have to be totally invented, either. I knew just the anecdote to share.
Chapter 17
I got to the bar a little early to chat with Alfie, but Miranda greeted me, and I worried for a heartbeat he’d taken a night off. It was strange how quickly I’d grown accustomed to seeing him each week.
Miranda reached into a plastic bin to retrieve a steaming wineglass, wiped it down, and hung it above the bar. She didn’t stop moving, and it was a little mesmerizing and soothing to watch her polish each glass methodically.
“Did you get things settled with Alfie?”
“Oh. Yeah.” My cheeks warmed as I pictured myself out on the sidewalk in my sweatpants, telling him he was gorgeous. He probably thought I was a freak. Somehow I didn’t think he did, though.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I’d been spoiled by Alfie knowing what I wanted before I ordered it. I shook my head and watched the other patrons taking up residence on stools around me.
When Alfie returned from the kitchen, I picked him out of the crowd immediately, like a celebrity had appeared in the faceless mob. He glanced over and saw me and, without asking, slid me a glass of club soda with a wedge of lime. What a sweetheart. I held it up like a toast.
I dropped a five on the counter and sat back to mentally prepare myself for the contest, still unsure about my plan. Some of the contestants had told anecdotes, and Tristan had convinced me that improving on the truth in this situation wasn’t the same as lying. I knew I wasn’t constrained to my diary, but I still needed the crutch of reading. People like Tristan had the talent to wing it, but not me. Would it be too deceptive to pass off my story as a journal entry?
The first moment Alfie stopped moving, I flagged his attention. “Hey, Alfie. I’ve got a question for you.”
He threw his towel over his shoulder and sat back against the counter behind him. “Shoot.”
“Is there a rule against making things up for the contest?”
He rubbed his chin. I liked how he kept a neat dusting of facial hair. It wasn’t enough to count as a full beard, but more than a shadow. It suited him. “Well, there’s no rule. I mean, how could we possibly verify?” His lips pressed together as he continued to weigh the question. “But it does take away from the spirit of the fun somehow. I’d like to think people are sharing authentic stories.”
Guilty. I shifted on my seat. “Have you embellished anything you’ve shared?”
“Me? What would I have had to gain from that?”
True. He wasn’t even competing.
“But if someone was obviously lying, they wouldn’t be disqualified.”
“Why? Is someone inventing false narratives?”
I laughed like a defensive robot. “Ha-ha. How would I know?” His quizzical expression made it obvious he suspected me. I didn’t want him to think I was confessing to anything overtly shady, but I also didn’t want to betray Tristan, so I said, “My boss wants me to introduce something specific into my reading this week, but I’d have to revise history in order to jam it in.”
His forehead wrinkled. “What does your boss have to do with it?”
“Have I not told you why I’m even here?”
Someone flashed a twenty at him, and he excused himself for a few minutes to mix a drink, but then he whispered in Miranda’s ear before stepping out from behind the bar. He waved me to follow him. “Come talk.”
We took a seat at an empty table. As he stretched out his long legs, I ran my eyes all the way up his body. A pair of chocolate brown boots peeked out the ends of his dark blue jeans. He’d left his heather gray Henley untucked and unbuttoned just enough to reveal his collarbone. That little glimpse made me imagine his chest underneath, and my eyes followed the buttons one by one down to where they stopped above his sternum. I remembered that brief peek at his forearms a week earlier, and I swallowed, picturing his pecs, his abs, his . . .
I dragged my wayward eyes up to his curious stare, sure he’d read my mind. I flushed.
“So tell me. Why are you here, doing this contest?”
“Well, first, I have a crippling fear of public speaking.”
He tilted his head with a wry smile. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes at his deadpan joke. “You coached me into staying that first night, and I thank you. I needed to get over that initial hurdle. And then your pep talk on the phone got me here again last week.”
“You’re welcome.” He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee. Damn, he was sexy sitting like that. “I’m still waiting to hear your story.”
“So there’s this gamer convention in Germany in a couple of months, and someone needs to go there to present a demo of our next video game title. Normally Aida would go. You remember Aida? She’s—”
“Your friend that came with you the first week.”
“Right. And she’s—”
“About to have her hands full with a newborn.”
“Exactly. So there’s an opening, and I want it. Badly.”
“Why exactly?”
How to explain my reasons? “I mean, why do people go to Comic Con? To geek out with other fans over shared interests. I love video games, and I want to hear pitches for games that are yet to be developed and meet the people who design the games I play, or who play the games I’ve designed. Not to mention, I’ve never been out of the country, and that would be a kick-ass trip.”
“Okay, but why do you need to go for a demo? Can’t you just go?”
“That’s a good question. But, well, it’s pretty expensive. And yeah, I could swing it, but . . .” I didn’t want to go into my entire financial situation with him. The games we’d developed had done well enough to allow Reynold to reinvest in the company, which meant hiring more developers and artists and building customer service, not to mention paying Reynold his cut. We needed one breakout title to ward off the existential threats. Meanwhile, my salary covered rent and essentials but didn’t stretch far. I’d been putting money in savings, of course, but I’d have to borrow from myself or someone else to afford a flight to Germany. It seemed like a frivolous way to spend my money when I could go on Reynold’s dime. Instead of telling Alfie all that, I said, “But then I wouldn’t be able to eat for a month.”
He laughed. “So I take it the demo involves public speaking.”
“Exactly. And Reynold—that’s my boss—doesn’t think I can do it. He thinks I’ll choke.”
Alfie tapped his thumb against his lip, listening, thinking, hearing me. “So this is your way of proving it to him? And now he’s throwing in additional challenges.”
“Bingo.”
“So what’s the endgame? How do you prove yourself worthy of this great reward? Do you have to win the contest?”