Page 40 of Foes & Cons
“Oh yeah. This is for you,” I say, almost dislodging some thoracic vertebrae by reaching down for my backpack. I rummage inside. “Sorry, it’s not my best work, but it’s the law that you have to wear a crown on your birthday.”
He takes the mostly crushed crown I made using manicure scissors, a hotel room notepad and a ton of gold sparkly eyeshadow (do NOT tell Roxy).
“Thank you,” he says, nodding. “That’s really sweet.”
He smiles at me, but his eyes seem emptier than I’ve seen them before. His hands shake as he fiddles with the crown and there’s a sheen across his forehead. He’s either suffering from heat exhaustion, or there’s something else going on.
“Are you OK? Do you need a drink of water or something?” He nods, and I go to stand and remember my predicament. “Oh, um . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
“I can shout for them to bring one over?” I suggest. He shakes his head, his smile wavering and his eyes darting around the room. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
He looks at me. Tears glisten in his brown eyes, and I blink at him, a huge lump forming in my own throat. If I knew him better and I wasn’t currently trapped in a chair, I’d be wrapping him in a huge hug right now. He takes a deep breath, grimacing as if the air is peppered with broken glass.
“I’ve been kind of in the middle of . . . an anxiety attack for a couple hours now,” he says, his vocal cords strangling his words so they come out tight and muddled. He shakes his head. “Reading sometimes helps but . . . I . . . I’m sorry, it’s . . .”
He grimaces as the cappuccino machine hisses loudly.
“Hey, it’s OK, let me . . .” I say, pushing myself back from the table. “Come with me; I know a place.”
I take a deep breath, grab the underside of my chair with both hands, then pull myself up until I’m standing. Or semi-standing. Wearing a backwards chair. I shuffle from my spot, offeringsorrys andexcusemes as I stumble through the coffee shop.
“Are you there?” I call over my shoulder. “Are you following me?”
“Um, yes.”
I ignore the very strange looks as I amble across the foyer and down a long corridor. The convention noise starts to hush, and we reach a pop-up banner that readsPress Pause. We walk into a medium-sized room with roof lights and bifold doors letting actual outside light and air in. People slumped on beanbags do a little double-take at my chair situation but look back at their books or phones.
“Where are we?” whispers Fake McKinley.
“Chill-out area. For when convention life gets too much. Roxy has been here many, many times.”
He nods and walks over to the doors that open onto the hotel grounds, and his chest fills with air. I give him a minute then follow him, careful not to trip on any beanbags.
“OK?” I ask, my back and thighs protesting against my weird body position.
“I think it’s passing,” he says, nodding. “Happens sometimes. Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” I say, trying not to think how fucking weird we look right now: someone with a chair stuck around their thighs talking to a headless werewolf. Anyway.
He takes a deep breath and puts his hand on his chest as he smiles weakly at me.
“Sorry,” he says again, his skin pale.
“Don’t apologise,” I say. “We don’t even need to talk. You’re cool.”
“Thank you.” He runs a hand through his hair and tries a laugh, but it comes out empty. “I’m knackered now.”
He slumps against the door, making it wobble ominously. He needs to get off his feet but all the seats are occupied and I’m not sure he’d get up from a beanbag. I look for somewhere else he can sit before he collapses.
Duh, Eliza.
“Sit down,” I offer, turning away from him and sitting back on my chair.
“Huh?”
“There’s room, isn’t there?” I say, craning my neck. “My bum isn’t that big. Despite whatsome peoplemight imply.”
