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That laughter again, even more awkward, now with a tinge of sympathy. This poor debut author was trying to be funny, but it really wasn’t his forte. It was only his first tour, so they should cut him some slack. Hopefully the actual event would start soon.
“No, really,” he said. “I’m an accountant. I have the math-geek creds to prove it.”
A shot of teenage Chris holding a math award. In it, he looked like the guy in the photo he’d shown her the previous night, gawky and acne-riddled.
“Yep, that’s me,” he said. “High school was not the best years of my life. Weirdly, being a mathlete doesn’t get you invited to a lot of parties.”
“Math is sexy!” someone shouted from the audience.
“Thank you!” Chris said. “I agree. Nothing is sexier than a guy who can save you thousands on your taxes.”
A few whoops from the audience.
“I can do that.” He flipped to a photo of himself holding up a comic book and making a face at whoever was holding the camera. “I can also debate the strengths and weaknesses of all five Hawkman retcons.”
Another couple of whoops.
“But you know what I can’t do?”
He flipped to the viral shot of him facing down the grizzly. Cheers from the audience, along with a few gasps.
“You may have seen this video clip, in which I appear to be single-handedly scaring off a grizzly with the sheer force of my steely gaze. Now here’s the full picture.”
Another click, and the screen filled with a shot Daphne hadn’t seen before. It must have been from the other camera. The angle was from slightly behind the bear, and while Chris was standing in front of it, Daphne was just behind his shoulder, talking, one hand on Tika’s head.
“This is the real story,” he said, “complete with my grizzly-encounter coach, Daphne”—he waved toward her, sitting out of the spotlight—“who is talking me through it, because I nearly walked right into that bear. That was why it walked away. Not my steely gaze, but the fact that Daphne was telling me how to react and standing right there with her dog, the three of us more than the bear cared to tackle.”
“What’s the dog’s name?” someone called.
“Tika. That’s Daphne’s dog. Let’s see her up closer.” A click, and there’s a photo of Daphne bent over, hugging Tika. “Gorgeous, huh?” A beat pause. “The dog’s cute, too.”
Obligatory laughter.
Chris continued, “Why was Daphne telling me how to handle the bear? Because this is where she lives.”
A few quick shots of the Yukon.
“And this is how she lives.”
A montage of shots that had to come from Nia. Daphne doing target practice with her bow. Daphne and Tika ice fishing. Daphne and Tika climbing a mountain. Daphne chopping wood.
“See this picture?” Chris said. The photo showed him with Tika on her property, with the house partly visible through the trees. “Not my dog. Not my house. Not my life. Remember this?” He flipped through the slides of him on his city balcony and in his office. “That’s me.”
Another slide. “This is Daphne.” It was her with her laptop, deep in concentration as she typed. “And this.” Daphne in elementary school, smiling as she held up a first-place award from a short-story contest. “And this.” A shot of Daphne from last week, in her gym-library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
“Okay,” he said. “Actually, that’s something we have in common.” The next slide was Chris with friends, the bookcase behind him equally huge and overstuffed. “We both love reading.”
A louder whoop from the audience.
“But you know what I don’t do?” He looked out at them. “I don’t write. I admire the hell out of anyone who can, and I’m grateful for them, because I want those books, but the only thing I can write well is a balance sheet.”
The room went completely silent. So silent that Daphne’s ears hurt as her throat ached.
“I didn’t write At the Edge of the World,” Chris said, his voice softening. “It’s not just that I don’t write. I don’t know the first thing about that kind of life, hunting, chopping wood, surviving. And I sure as hell don’t know what it’s like to be a teenage girl, with or without a zombie apocalypse.”
He walked to the edge of the stage. “You know where this is going. You know which of us”—he gestured between himself and Daphne—“could have written this book. Which should have written this book. Which did write this book.”
Silence, and in that silence, all Daphne could feel was the audience’s disappointment. She didn’t even dare look into their faces.
