Page 106 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
But Mike wants to be friends. And that’s fine.
A few months ago, it would have been laughable, but that was because he had the gall to say what no one else would. That I wasstuck. That I was prickly. That I was settling for a life I didn’t want.
And I hated him for it, but that was before I knew he lovingly, thoughtfully annotated his personal library. It was before I saw him in plays. I knew Mike had talent. A good caricature on a delicious-looking specimen is more than a cheap cosplay trick. But even at the escape room last April, there was obviously something more happening for everything to click.
When it comes to Mike, there are lots of somethings more. Timing. Intelligence. Presence. It all amounts to talent, and talent has been and always will be attractive to me. But I know that so much of that talent stems from hard work and clever study of the greatest minds in humanity. And that’s indefatigably hot. I can’t for the life of me get past the books. His annotated insights are next-level. They’re direct evidence of passion and commitment that translates into a quality of craft that makes me shiver.
So yeah. I should talk to Mike. I should tell him all these things. Instead, I write snippets of them in the margins of his book of sonnets.
I should subsist on a steady diet of more than just fiction.
I should do better.
But all these shoulds are creating a brick wall of self-loathing.
All these shoulds make it that much harder to act.
The reason I am shoulding versus doing is simple—I’m scared. If I tell Mike any of this, I’ll lose my spines. If I tell Mike, he’ll see that all the prickles are the only defense I have for a wildly romantic, mushy heart that is yearning for more than a friend.
This morning, I should have canceled my FroggoDoggo date with Princess Kitty 2000. Any woman who agrees to take a cat to a food and wine festival needs her head examined.
“Remember that the lighting at midday can be pretty harsh, so use the parasol for filming.” Cheryl looks at me. “We should have discussed wardrobe, but at least you’re not in sweats.”
I look down at my long denim skirt and oversized fuzzy lilac cardigan and feel slightly judged. I scratch Mitzy’s chin.
“It’s unseasonably chilly, so I think the fur coat will be exceptional.”
“You want me to put your cat in a fur coat?”
“Yes! The powder pink, I think. With the London blue topaz tiara. After you film some content, come back for her coffee chat. Would you be willing to go live today on Instagram? So many fans think we’re pulling tricks with editing. And engagement has been down.”
“Let’s do it!” What do I care? I get paid either way.
“Wonderful! Remember to ask her about what she enjoyed at the festival.” Cheryl pulls me aside. “I’m hoping the outing perks her up a bit.”
“No news from Dr. Fernandez?”
Cheryl’s shoulders sag. “He thought it might be kidney disease, but the tests came back fine.” She pats my arm like I’m the one who needs consoling. “But how are you, Beatrice? Fully recovered?”
“Antibiotics cleared me right up.”
“I’m so happy to hear it.” Cheryl grabs her luxury handbag. “If you get a chance to walk by the beach, make sure you film Mitzy looking at the waves. Sometimes I get so distracted by how pretty her eyes look with the ocean in the background I forget she likes to watch the surfers. Ta-ta.”
After getting the cat dressed—and realizing my life has no meaning—I hook Mitzy up to her harness and get her in her stroller, which looks like a suspended bubble on wheels. Mitzy sits like a turkey inside it for most of the ride. But when we get to the festival, she stands, preens, and poses for many a picture.
“Would you like an autograph?” I ask as Cheryl instructed. I hand the paw print stickers to all who walk by. I take lots of photos and video of Mitzy doing her thing. I get to the point where I’m actually enjoying being out with this cat.
Cheryl didn’t see my surprise—I’m wearing a custom-made “I Heart Princess Kitty 2000” T-shirt for the occasion. It’s not a pink fur coat or topaz tiara, but I think I make a pretty good wingman.
“Can I get a picture?” a familiar voice says behind me.
Of course Mike is here.
“That depends.” I take his cup of ice cream. “Are you going to make fun of Her Highness?”
Mike fishes out his phone. “Never. Her hired help is a different story.” He leans in close and snaps a selfie of the three of us while I sample his ice cream.
“What flavor is this?”
