I don’t know what came over me before we left my apartment this morning, but I nearly had a nervous breakdown over deciding what to wear. I stood in my closet for fifteen minutes, staring at everything on my hangers. I left the closet three or four times and came back, as if the clothes inside would change—sort of like when the fridge is empty, but we keep coming back to look again because we’re so hungry we hope we missed something. A new outfit never showed up inside my closet, so I chose to do the only logical thing anyone could do when faced with a fashion crisis; I called DeShaun over to rescue me.

My beloved DeShaun Rhoades is the fashion columnist at Dover News Journal, and he takes fashion very seriously. Aside from just being appalled by the clothing choices Vance made every day, DeShaun has even come for me for wearing outfits that I swore were cute. Since today is the day I will meet my favorite author, I didn’t want DeShaun to see me and snarl, because then I would’ve been thinking about it the entire hour-long drive from Dover to Christiana, and I couldn’t have that. I’m stressed enough as it is. So, I called him into the room and he chose something simple but cute—black pants, a dark purple and white top, and dark purple tennis shoes to match. His approval made me feel better, and I was able to go the entire drive without him complaining about me, but now that we’re here and it’s about to begin, I keep looking down at my outfit.

“Stop critiquing my work,” DeShaun says when he catches me. “You look good, girl. You gotta relax.”

“I can’t relax,” I snip. “It’s Nathan Booker. I read a scene last night where the therapist handcuffed his girl to a chair that had a Magic Wand vibrator fastened to it through a hole in the seat. He made her sit on it for an hour, coming over and over against her will while he lubed up and slowly stroked his dick in front of her face. Every time she came, he would let her suck his dick for a second, then pull it away.”

“Damn,” DeShaun says, raising his eyebrows.

“Right? It was the hottest torture I’ve ever read. I mean, who thinks of something like that?”

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

When we reach the entrance to the bookstore, a woman stands in front of a small door that rests within the lowered gate. She has a warm smile on her face with a green and white Barnes & Noble vest over her shoulders, and a name tag that reads Monique. She grins sincerely as we approach the door.

“Good morning. Welcome to Barnes & Noble,” she says when we reach her, immediately extending her hand to Juliana, who leads our group. “Tickets please.”