I take another gulp of my drink to calm my nerves. The idea of a hidden secret, something so monumental it made me bawl in a bar, shakes me to my core.
She gnaws her lip, eyeing me anxiously. “The doc said to start small and work up slow, so… I really hope we’re doing this right.”
A knot forms in my throat. “So it’s not about Taylor being my boss, a sex doll, Spider, or the apartment?”
They both squirm.
“We’re not sure.”
I gawk at them, mind racing. The noises of the bar fade away as my heart pounds in my chest.
There’s something… even worse?
Lucy
“This latex is giving me a yeast infection, I swear to God,” Libby grumbles, adjusting her skintight suit. “Why couldn’t we just wear activewear?”
I try not to laugh as we move through the busy convention center. With my expert body paint skills, they both look badass, though they won’t admit it. Libby rocks a black catsuit, while Priya confidently embodies Poison Ivy, her curves concealed under vines and leaves topped with a fiery red wig.
What a great Saturday. Getting them here was a miracle thanks to the amnesia card. If my memory returns, I might continue pretending it hasn’t, as it’s a great way to get favors. Surviving my first week back at work makes this fun outing feel well-deserved.
Sometimes I meet up with other comic fanatics, but my comic bestie is in L. A. and can’t make it to these events.
As for my outfit, I chose a more modest version of Miss Nova, minus the provocative cleavage and groin windows. Wearing a metallic blue bodysuit dotted with shimmering stars and a glowing crescent moon emblem, thigh-high solar flare boots, bold supernova blue lipstick, I feel both sexy and badass.
“We can’t show up in gym clothes while everyone else is in full cosplay,” I remark. “Go big or go home.”
“Or go to a normal bar dressed like regular New Yorkers,” Priya mocks, but I ignore her.
The exhibition hall pulses with infectious energy. It’s an explosion of colors and creatures. Every superhero, mutant, villain, robot, ninja, and spy seems to have gathered.
A Stormtrooper clumsily steps on my toes, while a Viking breezes past us, his fake shield clattering against the floor.
I navigate the girls through the crowd, with Libby adjusting her clothing every couple of seconds to deal with ungracious wedgies.
But I breathe it in, feeling content. Spidey’s webbing. Cowboy hats. Power rangers. Catwoman’s leather catsuit. The Joker’s green hair and purple suit.
Memory or not, this feels like home. I’m wrapped up in that comforting sense of belonging, amidst people who passionately channel their inner hero-or villain.
The crowd parts, making way for a Dalek from Doctor Who, shrieking “Exterminate!” in an electronically distorted rasp. I know I’ve got a big goofy smile on my face.
A Pikachu struts by us in stilettos and a mini skirt, its plump, furry behind wiggling seductively.
“Is that the yellow thing from Pokemon?” Libby mutters, blinking rapidly. “I feel like I just dropped acid.”
I smirk at her, watching discomfort shift to reluctant intrigue.
A formidable Kratos from God of War muscles his way past us, two plastic axes slung over his shoulders.
Priya ogles his bare chest appreciatively. “Would not say no to that one.”
“So, what now?” Libby asks, eyeing the Jessica Rabbit sashaying past. “Do I have to get into character or something?”
I smile. “You can if you want. Or you can soak in the atmosphere.”
The sight of a well-defined ass encased in shimmering red and blue material sends my pulse skittering. Daredevil. The Lev Gleason kind.
But disappointment crashes through me. It’s not him.
“Let’s go find the bar,” I suggest, scanning for the nearest one.
Libby’s face lights up. “They serve alcohol? This just got a lot more appealing.”
We order beers at the bar. It’s my first taste of alcohol since the accident, so I go for something weak. As we sip our drinks, the atmosphere begins to mellow the girls.
“It’s kind of empowering, really,” Libby muses, her eyes gleaming. “Hidden behind a mask, you could be anyone, do anything.”
“Not quite anything, Lib.” I chuckle. “Let’s remember this isn’t some masked swinger’s party.”
As an Elastic Man saunters by, Priya recoils, her face contorting. “Please God, tell me that’s not the same pervert as last time.”
“I doubt it,” I reply. “There must be hundreds of Elastic Men here.” Like Daredevils.
Another Daredevil passes by, and I almost jump out of my skin. He’s tall. Sturdy. But it’s not him. My pulse spikes with each familiar red and blue suit until hope dwindles to nothing.
Daredevils are everywhere, both the Matt Murdock variety and the Bart Hill, teasing and taunting me. Duplicates all around, making my search for one unknown man feel futile.
This mission, searching for a guy whose face I couldn’t even recognize in a lineup, is becoming my comic version of Where’s Waldo.
I take a swig of my beer as we meander through the throngs of people and stalls.
“How did your clinic session go this morning?” Libby asks.
My jaw tightens. It was the first joint session with Mom, which is probably why I’ve chosen to drink now.
“I think I left in a worse state than when I went in,” I mutter. “She just has a knack for winding me up. She’s constantly nitpicking.”
I gulp down more beer, the memory still bothering me. The girls appear uneasy.
“I did notice that,” Priya says. “But she’s probably just not good at dealing with stress like this. Most moms don’t need to deal with amnesiac daughters.”
I grunt in response, not wanting it to spoil my mood. This is my happy place, a comic convention.
For sixty adrenaline-fueled minutes, I scour the crowd, my body tense with anticipation at each glimpse of a Daredevil. My pulse races, spikes, and crashes every single time, when I realize it’s not him.
Whoever the hell he is. Since I haven’t seen him in real life, I’m clutching at straws. In the photo, he looks tall and solid, a good head above me, but for all I know, he could have been standing on a soapbox. I’m idolizing this nameless, faceless Daredevil.
By the time The Death-Defying Daredevil #360 strolls by in his glossy red and blue suit, I barely spare him a glance. The girls’ energy is also fading, despite the beer fuel.
“Luce,” Priya voices the obvious. “We’ve looped this place five times. Isn’t it time to give up looking for him?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” My shoulders slump.
She’s right. Disappointment settles in, sour in my gut. There is no Daredevil here for me. It’s all just a fantasy conjured up by my stupid, overactive imagination from a single photo. Pathetic.
“Come on,” Libby says. “Let’s grab one last drink then hit the road. We’ll go to your favorite Eritrean restaurant.”
“Thanks, you guys,” I mumble, threading my arms through theirs as we navigate the cosplayers toward the bar.
We snag three stools, squeezed among an assembly of Spider-Men.
Surveying the wild circus of spandex and fake swords, I feel a warm fuzziness-probably the beer. This beats a therapist’s office any day; real-life dramas can’t touch me here. Not the sex shop, Spider, Taylor, or that little thing called amnesia.
Plus, being Miss Nova does wonders for my confidence. I feel utterly content. Invincible, even.