Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
They’re not signed by me. No one would care if my name was autographed on the world-famous comic book line. Sometimes I slip a couple issues in front of my dad when he’s super busy, and when I hand him a marker, he’ll scribble his signature on the cover. A big get from the owner of Halway Comics, who publishes The Fourth Degree.
Once my dad narrowed his eyes and asked, “What’s this for?”
“Local comic shop. Supporting the locals and all that jazz.”
New York is not local. So yeah, it was a tiny lie. But this bookshop isn’t a chain, so I figure it does mean something. And my dad never snatched the comic away, telling me, your mom owns Superheroes & Scones. Don’t give signed copies to the competitors.
Nope, he just nodded and resumed his work. I’m sure he believes I’m giving back to a smaller store. Not using his signed comics to secure parking in New York.
If he asked, I’m not sure I’d even admit to it.
Once we reach the apartment building, I go through the familiar routine of showing the front-desk security my ID with Frog, then we slip into the elevator. Punch the 21 button. Rise and rise. Get off at the 21st floor and walk.
Deep red walls and industrial lights line the long stretch of hallway. Something about the Cobalts’ apartment reminds me of The Shining.
Eliot and Tom love it.
At the 2166 gold-numbered door, Frog and I part ways. Reality warps in at the speed of light—she’s the bodyguard. I’m the famous one.
“See ya,” I tell her with a Vulcan salute.
Frog smiles. “Text me when you want to leave the Cobalt Lair.” She sometimes jokes that there are snakes and vipers living in this apartment, but in my eyes, the Cobalts will always be more feline than reptilian.
More lion than snake.
I flash a thumbs up before knocking on the door. It swings open before a second knock, like the person on the other side has been waiting for me.
“You’re late,” Charlie points out as I slip past him. He doesn’t mention my Spider-Man costume.
I yank off the mask, taking a big gulp of fresh air. One thing is certain—the costume is toasty. Sometimes I feel like a gooey marshmallow being roasted on an open flame. Not the best feeling.
“You’re still here,” I point out.
“A miracle,” he replies dryly.
Most of the time he dips early. Tom once said that if Charlie was a constellation, he’d be the Big Dipper. To which, I told Tom, “The Big Dipper isn’t a constellation.”
Tom stopped strumming on his guitar like I just lifted Thor’s hammer. “Say what?”
“The Big Dipper is an asterism. It’s just a pattern of stars within a constellation.”
Tom’s mouth fell open. “Which constellation?”
“Ursa Major. Also known as the Great Bear,” I said while typing on my laptop. “Technically, the Big Dipper is the seven brightest stars from that constellation.”
Tom snorted. “Charlie would be the seven brightest.” And that was the day that we determined Charlie Keating Cobalt is the Great Bear of constellations.
Charlie leads me further into the massive and spacious bachelor pad, vaulted ceilings in the kitchen and living room. Leather furniture, a fireplace, and huge full-length windows draw most eyes first. Dark wood floors evoke warmth and comfort—nothing too stark white or like hotel-living. It’s lived-in but clean.
I’ve been here so many times that I’ve memorized each decoration, an amalgamation of each of the four Cobalts’ tastes. There’s the crystal chandelier, the antique globe on the floating shelf, the lamp shaped like a lynx, the glass coffee table that’s been replaced three times, the skeleton of a frog, and books.
Tons of books.
With so many trinkets, you’d think it’d be in disarray, but everything has a proper place, appearing super neat.
Charlie approaches a colorful painting hung on the wall. Canvas is ripped and the frame broken. It’s a Van Gogh.
He puts a hand against the edge of the cracked frame. It slides easily like it’s on some sort of mechanism, revealing a small safe behind it.
I stare at my feet as he spins the dial. “I appreciate you still doing this for me,” I say. “Especially after it was stolen that one time.”
After two bottles of wine, Eliot confessed that someone from his theatre company slipped into Charlie’s room during a party and swiped my manuscript.
Eliot prefaced the whole story with the fact that the manuscript was recovered and all is well. So I didn’t fret too much. Really, I worried more that Charlie would bail on me. That he would realize I’m not worth all this trouble.
So far, he hasn’t.
Charlie continues spinning the lock. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen my edits.”
I sling my backpack off my shoulder. “I like your brutal honesty.” I want to get better—even though with Charlie’s edits, I still feel like a failure. And how can I fail at something that’s purely a hobby? I don’t know, but I’m right there. Sinking underneath a sea of horrible comments on Fictitious. But I won’t let them dig too deep under my skin.