I KEEP HOPING she’ll come by. That she’ll run up to the booth and find me, with a big grin on her face. That the spark from last night will catch fire, burning down everything around us. That satellites will fall, wars will end, and life will become infinitely less shitty.

But it doesn’t go like that.

In fact, I don’t see Peak at all, just an endless stream of people asking if we’re out of the con-exclusive Funko Pop. Which, yes, so stop.

I consider texting her anyway, cracking some joke about her just being in it for the Bat-Perks. I even pull my phone out of my pocket, my fingers curled tightly around it, her number burning up my arm where the ink stains my skin. It’s right there, and she’s right here, somewhere. I could try to find her or hit send on my phone or do anything to push down that first domino, but I don’t.

Because it’s pointless. Tonight, I’ll be with my mom on a plane back to our Seattle house, and . . . she’ll be off to god knows where.

I hate Seattle. It’s dreary and damp, and despite living there for years, I don’t really know anybody. I had someone, a good friend, actually, okay, more like an almost boyfriend, but that . . . didn’t work out. And Mom’s never home, too busy running the West Coast offices, so I just sit in a house with too many windows, watching anime alone. It will never feel like home the way the Connecticut house did before my “incident,” as my family calls it. The irony that I survived a backflip off the roof, only to lose my whole life anyway in the form of a cross-country “fresh start,” is not lost on me.

Dad still lives in the old house, with Gray in an apartment nearby. They’re only an hour or so away from this con, and every time I do this one, a part of me hopes we’ll skip the hotel rooms and stay at home, or at least that he’ll invite me back for dinner or something, but nope.

So yeah, it’s pointless.

But also, maybe it isn’t.

I let my mind wander, imagining what it would be like to get up and find Peak myself. To not cower in my dad’s shadow, waiting for whatever happens next. I shove up my sleeve and jab her number into my phone, typing out a text message: It was nice meeting you last night.

Oh Jesus fuck. It was nice meeting her last night? Why did I go with that? I drop my phone onto the table in front of me and run my hands over my eyes.

stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid