Page 153 of What I Like About You

Stella McQueen, an editor atBustle, is moderating. In the moments before the attendees enter the conference room, she introduces herself, and reminds us that of course we’ll have a rapid-fire round and Q&A at the end.

Energy radiates from Celeste and Lilah.

“Is it Halle or Kels?” Celeste asks.

“Halle,” I say. “I’m Halle.”

“One of those cupcakes better be for me,” Lilah says.

Pete reaches across Lilah and takes one off my plate. I bite my tongue and let him do it, even though the platter I’ve designed is now asymmetrical—a perfect twenty-four become twenty-three. Prime numbers make me twitchy.

Annaliese leans across Celeste. “Red velvet?”

And that is how the Blogger IRL panelists come to savor a One True Pastry cupcake in the moments before we begin. I pass them out, tongue-tied, but it’s okay because I realize I don’t have to speak or explain or draw any more attention to myself. My cupcakes speak for me.

Pete licks chocolate frosting off his fingers. “These are great, Cupcake Queen. Color me impressed.”

“Thanks.”

I still can barely process that they know who I am.

Sitting between two bookish icons? I, Halle Levitt, have peaked.

I will not squeal, though—that cannot happen. Today, I am a professional. A mutual. Not a fangirl. I can be a fangirl tonight, on Twitter, when I retweet the professional panel photos and post selfies of my own.

I glance at my phone and it is ten minutes until start time. Right on cue, the doors to the conference room open and attendees flood in. I count them by twos as they come in and my heart spikes to new heights every ten people.

Two. Four. Six. Eight. SO MANY PEOPLE.

Twelve. Fourteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. AHHH.

None. Of these. People. Are. Nash.

Focusing on the door is driving me mad, so I shift my eyes down to the notecards in my sweaty palms—so sweaty that ink has smudged and transferred onto my skin.Shit. I try to decipher the more illegible notes, try to remember what I wanted to say. I can’t remember and oh my God, I am going to blank out. Right here. Onstage. Okay, it’s not a stage. It’s like an elevated platform. But still. What is my name? What does OTP even stand for? I don’t know anything. I don’t—

Celeste swipes the cards out of my hand, crumples them in a ball, and drops them on the floor.

“I get it,” she whispers. “I almost passed out before my first panel from the nerves. But you’ll sound rehearsed. Notecards mess with your brand authenticity.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms. “Um. Okay.”

“You be you,” she says. “Trust me,that’swhy everyone is here.”

“Not the cupcakes?” I ask.

She smiles, surprised. “Okay, mostly the cupcakes.”

Microphone feedback echoes through the speakers. Stella stands and everyone claps and I’ve been to enough panels in my life to know that this is how it begins. It is happening, the moment that defined my senior year, the hour I’ve been counting down to since an email landed in my inbox six months ago. This day has been so hyped in my brain—I don’t know how to process the fact that it is happening,actually.

“Welcome to the first Bloggers IRL panel! This year, BookCon invited six of the most innovative book bloggers to—”

My phone lights up on my thigh. A notification. FromNash.

It takes everything in me to flip my phone so it’s facedown. He’s not here. So I can’t be distracted by him. Not now.

It’s panel time.

Each blogger introduces themselves, starting with Tara because she’s seated next to Stella. I’m fourth to go, and I stumble through my introduction, in which I try to sound goofy and whimsical. I think I succeed, but blank out immediately after, so it’s impossible to tell.

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