Chapter Two: Chloe

Chapter Two

Chloe

Present day…

Spiraling.

It’s what’s happening to me…I think. And the fact that I’m not sure only proves just how fast I’m spiraling. Falling down at a dizzying rate. The world spins so fast I can’t make out anything around me. I’m a big fat fucking fake and it’s only a matter of time before they expose me, and what better way than to do it on live TV, broadcast nationally to several million viewers.

Fuck.

What was the question? Sweat drips between my breasts, thankfully out of sight from the live audience’s prying eyes. I’m regretting turning down that pre-show glass of wine, going instead for some gross concoction of kale, green tea, and some nasty shit that was probably scraped out of a dirty fish tank with a fancy name slapped on it.

I swallow hard and force a smile, flicking my eyes from the show host to the audience.

“Fight like a girl,” I say, not recognizing my own voice leaving my lips. It’s not an answer to the question I was asked, I know, yet the audience erupts in cheers nonetheless when they hear the catchy tagline to my series. I take their enthusiasm in stride, stealing a few seconds to close my eyes and try and find my center—which I’ve never been able to fucking do, even after overpaying for private yoga session for the last five years.

“You’ve started a feminist movement,” Helen, the show host goes on, fanning the flames of my rabid fans. “Was that always your intention?”

My smile turns genuine, and I push myself back into the game. I’ve got this.

“Honestly,” I say slowly, leaning forward. It’s one little word, but three killer syllables. Because honesty and Hollywood aren’t things you say simultaneously. “I didn’t have any intention on anyone even reading the series when I started it,” I admit, and the audience laughs. “I had voices in my head that demanded I tell their stories, and it transpired from there. But it was always important to me that my female characters show strength and let others know what could happen if we don’t take control over our own narrative. And I have to say I’m so proud of my ShadowFans who did just that and raised half a million dollars for the program they started to help girls in developing countries get an education.”

The crowd breaks out into cheers again, and my heart swells in my chest, sucking it all in. The fame. The love from perfect strangers. Knowing my words have touched so many people. It’s surreal, even after all this time. I may have twenty novels under my belt, had my name appear on the New York Times bestseller list multiple times, have an insanely supportive fanbase, and a super popular paranormal romance series that got made into a TV series—and season one won two fucking Emmy Awards—but I still feel like the same outcast I did the day I moved to LA.

A loner.

The weirdo.

Forever alone.

Too much for anyone to handle.

Surround me with a thousand adoring fans and all it does is remind me how alone I actually am. I’m a walking and talking cliché, I know. And I hate myself for it.

I made it.

Did the impossible.

And for that, yeah, I feel like the bad-fucking-ass my fanbase thinks I am. The nerd, the underdog, the girl everyone made fun of made is not only in the scary world of publishing but now is flourishing in Hollywood. I’ve dated actors. Gone out with producers. Partied with reality TV stars. Signed books all over the world and had my novels translated into more languages than I knew existed. I went from writing fan fiction to my own original stories, and those novels hit it big time with the paranormal and sci-fi loving crowd. My characters became a voice in the much-overdue feminist movement, giving hope to those who’d otherwise been hopeless, as well as just providing an entertaining-as-fuck series for pretty much everyone to enjoy.

“Tell me more about Kellie,” Helen says, and the audience eagerly agrees. “How did you come up with such an interesting character?”

My lips pull into a smile, genuine this time, because I can talk about my characters all day long. They’re all me in some sense, just a little less neurotic, even the ones who fight demons on the regular. I’ve put myself into each and every one of my characters in some way or another, and I stand behind creating realistic and relatable characters one hundred percent, which I know caused waves at last year’s Comic Con.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I refocus my energy on the live interview, telling myself I’ll get a burger—a real one, maybe, not a vegan alternative—if I can pull this off. Deep down, I know I can. I’ve done tons of interviews just like this one, and I love talking about my characters. A rush goes through me, and I reach for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of me. I take a careful drink, always afraid I’m going to dribble water down my chin or drink it the wrong way and spend the next three minutes coughing.

Never in my life did I think taking a drink of water could be this stressful, but welcome to show business. I’m able to drink without choking, drooling, or spilling water on the table when I set the glass back down, ready and excited to launch into a full conversation about Kellie, the leading lady in my paranormal series.

We take a few questions from the audience, and we’re getting close to a scheduled commercial break, signaling that I’m nearing the end of my interview, thank goodness. It’s always been a little difficult for me to keep my eyes on the host or the audience and not get distracted with what’s going on backstage, with the things I can see but you have no clue about when you’re watching a show.

“Before we go,” Helen says, seamlessly lifting her own glass of water to her lips and taking a drink like a pro. “I think we all are dying to hear about this.” She smiles, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth. “The romance,” she says, and the crowd cheers again. My stomach tightens and I smile, suppressing the fact that she got me. “Who inspired Marcus?”

I can talk about feminism, kick-ass-take-no-shit female leads all day. But ask me about love? Hah. This is where I’m exposed, where it’s obvious I’m a big fat fucking fraud. I’ve been in relationships before, all ending the same way: epic failure. I know nothing when it comes to matters of the heart.

And the truth could put a damper on my career as a romance novelist. I write about true love. Soul mates. First kisses and transcendent lovemaking. Of being brave enough to follow your heart. To fight tooth and nail for that person you know you’re meant to be with.

But the truth of the matter is I’m still hopelessly clinging to a ghost of my past. It’s pathetic, I know. But the heart wants what the heart wants, no matter how stupid it is.