Every time I close my eyes, I remember the ExcelsiCon Ball—the colorful lights spiraling down onto the cosplays and nerd shirts, the music, the conga line that Milo and Bran started around the entire dance floor. The spectacle of Darien and Elle dancing, like legends returning from the depths of Reddit threads and Tumblr rumors, the Starfield waltz that followed. The moments Ethan glanced over at me, and took me by the hand, and spun me around to “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin, laughing because I can’t dance and neither can he, this strange tension radiating off us like Super Saiyan energy. It made my skin feel tingly and my heart flutter.

And then I blink and I’m on the couch in Jess’s hotel room, with Ethan and Harper, sharing midnight pizza and watching the best Amara episodes of Starfield. I barely paid attention to the episodes at all—even my favorite ones!—because when Ethan shifted on the couch beside me all I could feel was the warmth of his elbow against mine and the way he slowly began to slouch until he fell asleep on my shoulder.

I quickly slide my box of pins off the table, trying not to let my embarrassment get to me.

This is the worst feeling ever. Knowing that Ethan and I wouldn’t work—we’re like a PS4 console and a Nintendo Switch controller. Incompatible.

Which is why I haven’t seen him all day. I mean, we don’t even have each other’s numbers. I wish I hadn’t given him the number for my favorite pizza joint instead of my real one. Stupid me.

But then, I guess it would hurt a whole lot more if I waited for him to text me and he never did. I don’t think I could go through that again.

Attendees make their final rounds through Artists’ Back Alley, and I hand out a few last pins. Harper’s phone buzzes on the table, and she reaches for it and smiles.

“Jess?” I ask, although I already know.

Harper responds to the text. “She’s in a meeting.”

“Another one? Because of what happened yesterday?”

“Something like that.”

“I hope she isn’t in trouble,” I murmur. I’d feel bad if she was, even though she did everything of her own accord.

Harper waves off my concern. “It’ll be fine.” Then she closes her sketchbook and stands, her arms outstretched. “Next time, don’t send someone pretending to be you,” she says. We hug tightly.

“Agreed.” Then we release each other and I pick up my box. The pins rattle alongside all of the artwork I bought today. “How’s your sister, by the by? Did she get into med school?”

“With scholarship,” Harper replies proudly. “And your brother? How’s the football thing?”

“We still haven’t gotten word whether he’s quarterback or not.”