This should be easier, I think. As the kid whose parents own one of the biggest comic-store chains in the country, the son of “the man who helped make comics mainstream,” I should be able to meet anyone, right? Like, I shouldn’t be so goddamn freaked out right now. Sometimes, sometimes I can. I’ve eaten pizza with the guy who plays Captain America in the movies, brought water to the people who created Ms. Marvel, shown Stan Lee and his assistant where the bathroom is. So yeah, I should be able to. Except.

Except.

Vera Flores-Jones is different. She makes her own way and tells stories that actually say something, that actually matter to me. She’s the self-made person that my dad pretends to be, and he’ll always hate her for that, but I don’t. I could never.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” someone asks. It’s the artist across from Vera, and he looks a little worried.

“Yeah, great,” I say. “I’m just in the middle of an existential crisis because I disappointed the one person whose approval I’m most desperate for, and I met a girl who won’t text me back, and tonight I have to fly across the country by myself, and I’m spiraling into a deep depression, and my anxiety disorder is not helping with that. How are you?”

“Uh, good?” he says, and wow, yeah, I’ve got to get that whole trauma-dumping thing under control.

“Awesome,” I say. “Well, I’m just gonna get back to it, then.” The guy gives me a confused nod, and I inch closer to the edge of Vera’s table to check out the prints she’s selling. I linger as long as I can without making it weird, before slotting myself in line behind the others. I’m three people away and still torn on my print—a fish guy with some girl underwater or a creepy clown—when somebody gently pushes past me.

“Sorry, excuse me, sorry,” she says, not even looking at me, and holy shit, it’s Peak. Of course she’d be here; she’s probably the biggest Vera Flores fan on the planet, based on her cosplay last night.

And I didn’t even get to talk to her about it last night, since I was so busy freaking out. I bet she even has the original Kickstarter editions of the books like I do, I bet she’s memorized half the comic scripts, I bet she knows it all. And I swear to god I will drop to one knee and beg her to leave with me right now if she’d only turn around and recognize me—even if she did cut in line.