readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess it’s one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah. Come back, Marietta. Its so much more fun when I’m not the only one getting embarrassed. The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a beaming smile on her freckled face. “Oh my god, it’s so awesome to meet you!” she exclaims, nearly shoving the book in my face. Totally a me move. I smile wide and gently take the book. “It’s awesome to meet you, too,” I return. “And hey, Team Freckles,” I tack on, waving my forefinger between her face and mine. She gives a bit of an awkward laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. “What’s your name?” I rush out, before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions. Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass. “Megan,” she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirety of my existence. I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile. As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring at me. But that’s a fucking stupid thought because everyone is staring at me. I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin while a torch is being held to my flesh. It’s... it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a bright red. Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while the other half is on the crowd. My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it obvious. My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man. The crowd shrouds the majority of his body, only bits of his face peeking through the gaps between people’s heads. But what I do see has my hand stilling, mid-write. His eyes. One so dark and bottomless, it feels like staring into a well. And the other, an ice blue so light, it’s nearly white, reminding me of a husky’s eyes. A scar slashes straight down through the discolored eye, as if it didn’t already demand attention. When a throat clears, I jump, snatching my eyes away and looking back to the book. My sharpie has been resting in the same spot, creating a big black ink dot. “Sorry,” I mutter, finishing off my signature. I reach over and snag a bookmark, sign that too, and tuck it in the book as an apology.