Free Girl Before a Mirror by Liza Palmer

unpack my clothes and hop in the shower before I can think better of it. In what feels like thirty seconds, I’m trudging back down the long hallway, getting our car from the valet, and driving through the dusky streets of Phoenix on the way to something called the Silver Ballroom somewhere in the bowels of the designated RomanceCon hotel for the kick-off toast. This event apparently comes before the Opening Night Bacchanalia. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning, except the remainder of the peanut M&M’s I found in the bottom of my purse—at which point I sadly reacted as though I’d found a million dollars.
    â€œThis kick-off toast better have something to eat on par with this little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place I found online,” I say, waiting at a red light. “I haven’t had good Mexican food since we lived in San Diego.”
    â€œYou lived in San Diego?” Sasha asks, her neck damp with sweat after only two minutes in the 112-degree heat.
    â€œWe lived everywhere. My dad is in the military,” I say.
    â€œLike how many places?” Another red light.
    â€œSeventeen before I graduated from high school,” I say.
    â€œEesh,” Sasha says, propelling me back into the land of now, where sharing isn’t something I usually do. I was lulled into it from starvation and the thought of good Mexican food.
    â€œIt was fine,” I say, wanting to stop this line of questioning immediately.
    â€œBrothers or sisters?”
    â€œFerdie. A brother.”
    â€œFerdie?”
    â€œFerdinand. My mother’s French Canadian.”
    â€œYounger or older?” Is this the world’s longest car ride?
    â€œNine years younger.”
    â€œThat’s a lot of time to be on your own before he came along.”
    The GPS robotically tells me that the RomanceCon hotel— thank God —is just up on the right. With all the excitement, I act like I don’t hear that last comment. Sasha is right, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that. We valet and then run into the hotel so as not to get all sweaty again.
    And then all hell breaks loose.
    RomanceCon explodes all around us. Romance novel covers are everywhere: on people’s room key cards, on the doors to the elevators, and hanging high above the hotel lobby. It’s almost shocking to see a man with a shirt on at this point. Packs of women swirl and detonate all around us. Laughter, hugs, and happy reunions inject every inch of the hotel with an air of excitement.
    â€œMs. Wyatt?” A round woman dressed in full Roman garb approaches me, although she looks like the version of a Roman woman who would festoon a jar of jam.
    â€œYes?” I ask, startled yet somehow comforted.
    â€œI’m Ginny Barton. I’m the president of the League of Romance Novelists.” She looks like she could just as soon offer to help me with my math homework than tell me the lovely story of her heroine’s “mossy grotto” and how it “burns from want.”
    â€œOf course! Thank you so much for everything you’ve done to make this possible. We so appreciate it,” I say.
    â€œWe stuck out that much, did we?” Sasha says with a smile.
    â€œJust a bit,” Ginny says.
    â€œSuch a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Anna Wyatt and this is Sasha Merchant. We are looking forward to working with you,” I say, switching into work mode. Sasha is breathlessly taking it all in, flashing a huge smile for Mrs. Barton.
    â€œGinny Barton,” she repeats, shaking hands with both Sasha and me. “We at the LRN couldn’t be more excited about the prospect of Lumineux soap using one of our heroes. It’s just all so thrilling.” Ginny has led us to a series of escalators and we follow her up, up, and up.
    â€œWe hope it works out. It’s an exciting campaign,” I say. We come to an upper floor and . . .
    â€œWelcome to RomanceCon,