“Who wouldn’t want to go with her?” a Nox near me whispers to his date.
She takes each step gracefully, even under the weight of every eye on her—even alone. This is where, in all the movies, the guy sees what he’s been waiting for the entire plot. This is where his life clicks into place. The meet-cute where he falls in love. This sequence.
But this isn’t a movie, and I’ve already missed my meet-cute. The sky doesn’t suddenly crash in around us. The world doesn’t lose sound.
Because this isn’t where I fall in love. I fell in love across the cell signals and late-night texts with a girl I barely knew.
WHEN I REACH THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS, a tall boy in red offers his hand. “May I?” he asks. His uniform is neatly pressed, a Starfleet insignia pinned to his chest and a mask tied behind his Vulcan ears. Not a Stargunner, but close enough. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Sure,” I reply, and take his hand. He whirls me into the fray as the DJ starts another 8-bit anthem. We dance for two songs, but it’s not the dancing I thought it’d be. It’s not like Dad waltzing Mom around the living room. He’s a pretty awkward dancer, and I’m not much better. Besides, there’s some kind of cyborg next to use trying to grope his way to home base with a Night elf, and I’m not sure how I feel about that sort of union.
“So what’s your name?” redshirt shouts.
“Amara,” I reply.
Redshirt does not look amused. “No, I mean your real name.”
“Oh—well, what’s yours?”
He’s doing the redshirt equivalent of the white-man’s shuffle. Head bobbing, elbows in toward the chest, moving like a T-rex on drugs. I can’t take him seriously.
“Dave,” he replies. “Saw your costume at the contest today. You were…really something.”
“Thanks. It was my dad’s—”
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I spin around. A guy dressed as a young, soon-to-be-married Han Solo offers his hand. “Can I have the next dance?”
Then a girl in Final Fantasy garb asks after him, and then a humanized Pikachu after her, and then—there are just too many. Too many songs, too many dances, too many faces. I have never been popular before. I’m a nobody, just an extra in someone else’s movie. But no one here seems to have gotten the memo. It’s overwhelming and it’s sort of uncomfortable. If this is the kind of attention Chloe was after, well, she can have it. Give me my blog. Give me a dark theater. Give me Starfield.
Halfway through a pop-infused “I Will Always Love You,” I excuse myself from the din of the dance floor and make my way to the concessions. Most everything is picked over, but I grab a cracker with cheese and a small glass of punch.
I find a corner of the ballroom that’s dark and less populated and sit down against huge bay windows. My cheeks are hot from dancing, and I’ve been sweating in this jacket for three songs now. I tug at the collar and press the cool side of the glass against my neck, closing my eyes for one sweet second.
But then I hear footsteps. Walking toward me. I peek open an eye. Shiny black boots, embroidered at the calves with the Federation symbol. My heart’s already beginning to sink as I slowly look up. Black pants and a coat that buttons on the left side, golden knobs and shiny golden lining. Three chains draw out from one of the pockets, looping around under the left arm to the back of the shoulder, hiding under the golden epaulette.
Even in the dim lighting I can tell the coat is the wrong shade of blue, but what it lacks in color it succeeds in measurements. It hugs his slim waist and broad chest, tight across his shoulders—and he does have commanding shoulders. I’m sure even the collar would fit perfect around his neck if it wasn’t unbuttoned (which is actually a good idea; it’s way too hot for a wool jacket). The starwings clasped to the lapel glint in the city lights shining in through the window. It’s like the coat was made for him. And given that this is a cosplay ball, it probably was.
My eyes trail all the way up to his face, his brown skin and strong jawline, his piercing dark eyes beneath the black eyelet mask, and my heart sinks into my gut like a stone.
“Cheese and crackers,” I mutter. “You again.”
Darien Freeman puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head. It’s not adorable. It’s really not. “I came to ask the second-place winner for a dance, but I think I’m a little late, Princess.”
“It’s Princess Amara to you,” I snap back. “And yes, but I’m taking a moment. Alone.”
He puts up his hands. “All right.” And, miraculously, he turns to leave.
I close my eyes again, thankful for the moment of silence. Dad would love this ball. He’d love everything about it, even the crappy pop music. He would love the costumes, the intermingling of species, the heart and soul of people being something else for a little while. But I don’t feel like Amara right now. I feel exhaustedly like myself.
“Hey, that costume’s pretty amazing,” someone says.
Two minutes of peace—all I ask for is two.
“The details are so sweet. Was it expensive? Who did it?”
My eyes snap open. I glance up at whoever’s asking. He’s my age, dressed in one of the most ostentatious cosplays you could choose. Black robes, large shoulder pads, makeup that looks like scales. The ends of his adhesive ears blink purple and blue almost in time with the music. The Nox King.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean, what’s the name of the guy who made it?”
“It couldn’t have been a girl?” I ask.
“You know, I didn’t think I’d seen you around a con before,” he replies, as if that’s some sort of explanation. “Darien Freeman fangirl, right?”
“What?”
He scoffs. “Come on. You’re too cute to play dumb.”
I stare at him, suddenly very aware that Darien Freeman isn’t as far away from this conversation as I’d like him to be. I set down my punch, trying to work out the right words to say.
“For your information, the costume was my dad’s before he died, and my friend and I did a few alterations to it.” I don’t include the part where it almost got destroyed. “Actually, a few other cosplayers helped too, so you could say it was a cosmic effort.”
“Knew it.” The Nox King looks way too happy. “There’s no way you could’ve made that.”
“Oh?” I cock my head. “And why’s that?”
“Chill out, I’m not trying to be offensive.” He laughs. There’s a spot of black lipstick on his teeth, but I’m not about to tell him. “You just dressed up to get some attention and hey, it worked—”
“Excuse you.” I jump to my feet. “Starfield is one of my favorite shows of all time and—”