Jamie gapes at his phone. “This photo must be, what, twenty-five years old? How is it even online?”
“Your high school recently digitized their school newspaper archives.” I shrug. “Wasn’t too difficult to find.”
The photo in question is from the early ’90s when Jamie was a teenager—probably around the age I am now. The photo is old and yellowed and poor quality from being printed on a newspaper, kept in a box for twenty-five years, and then scanned and posted online, but it’s clearly him. He’s standing in a high school hallway wearing a Spider-Man costume, a backpack slung over his shoulder, smiling sheepishly at the camera. The costume looks homemade—blue tights tucked into red high-top Converse, under a red-and-blue T-shirt with an elaborate spiderweb design made with what has to be puff paint. I tweeted the photo with the caption, Once a fan, always a fan. ;)
“So, you really liked Spider-Man, huh?”
“This is ridiculous, I’m not…” Jamie stands up, turns around in place, trying to decide what to do. “I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”
“It’s weird, right? I feel like most kids like Batman the best,” I say, baiting him.
“Batman?! Are you kidding me, that douchebag?” he yells, whirling to face me. “Batman’s just a rich asshole with a fast car. Spider-Man had to work for what he’s got. He was just a scrawny, uncool little weirdo and look at where he is now.”
There it is.
“So he’s like you?”
He huffs through his nose. “I wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider.”
“But otherwise…”
“What, you want me to say it? Okay, yeah,” he admits, “he’s like me.”
“I want you to picture something for a second. Just a thought experiment. I know you feel like an underdog. The unlikely hero, growing up in Ohio, overcoming circumstance through talent and determination. But imagine if you were a teenager again, and instead of being a scrawny, uncool, nerdy kid, you were a scrawny, uncool, nerdy gay kid. Or…” I think of what Tess said to be about being black and queer, about how she has to battle a variety of prejudices. “What if you were all that plus black? Or disabled? Or trans? Or anything? Who would your superheroes be then? What costumes would you wear on Halloween?”
Jamie is shaking his head, already rejecting the premise. “I’d love to see a gay superhero as much as the next person. I hope they make one. I hope they make a bunch of them. But Smokey and Heart are already straight.”
“They don’t have to be. I don’t think they are.”
“If you care about gay characters so much, go make your own TV show.”
“I’d like to, but I’m too busy rewriting yours for you.”
“That’s it, yes! Stick to your fanfic. Love fanfic. Write fanfic. Great compromise.”
“Do you know how many people watch your show?”
“Not enough,” he sneers.
“You have a reach that is so, so much bigger than mine. With fanfic, I’m already preaching to the choir. They know what they’re going to get. But you. You have this opportunity to change everything. You can add more characters of color, more of every kind of diversity, with every new character you introduce. You have that power!” I lean forward and drill into his eyes. “And as for Smokey and Heart? What if you took these tough-guy characters that America thinks they already know, and you flip them upside down? ‘Hey guess what, these dudes were queer the whole time!’ It would be revolutionary! You have the chance to make a difference.”
“Wow,” Jamie says brusquely and stands up abruptly, starting down the row toward me. It’s such a sudden, unprompted move that I’m suspicious.
“Thank you, Claire! There’s so much I didn’t know about myself that I learn from people like you,” he snarks. As he approaches, I go the other way down a different row, keeping chairs between us. “I didn’t know that I was given everything in life, just because I was a straight white man. And here I thought I worked my ass off for it.” He picks up the pace. I start to walk faster, keeping my distance. Is he chasing me? “I didn’t know that I was upholding the patriarchy. I thought I was telling monster stories for an hour a week.”
Unable to catch up to me, he starts literally climbing over rows of chairs.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but he doesn’t stop. I start running down the row away from him, my heart beating.
“It’s people like you who think you own Demon Heart, but you don’t,” he yells.
“Jamie, stop it!” He’s scaring me now. He’s out of control.
He stands on a chair, one foot up on the back and roars, “You don’t get to decide what happens! I DO!”
He stops all of a sudden.
I watch him from two rows away as he steps off the back of a chair. Closes his eyes.
Then turns around and starts walking toward the door.
“Jamie?” I almost whisper.
He keeps walking, doesn’t even look at me.
“Jamie!” I say louder. “Where are you going?”
Still walking.
“I’ll send these tweets if you walk out that door!” The adrenaline is back, racing through my system.
He reaches the door, puts his hand on the handle, and looks back at me.
“I’m going to leave here and call my lawyer, who is going to call Twitter and shut down my account. And then he’s going to ruin you.”
He can’t do that. Call Twitter maybe, but he can’t “ruin me,” whatever that means. Can he?
“Oh, and, Claire?” I look at him from across the empty ballroom, my phone hanging helplessly from my fingers. “SmokeHeart is literally never going to happen.”
Then he leaves, the door closing behind him, and with it, my last chance.
I sit in the ballroom for a long time after that.
Maybe I pushed him too hard, maybe I shouldn’t have stolen his Twitter, maybe I shouldn’t have confronted him directly. It was a pretty extreme idea, I admit. And probably unethical. Boy, the nerd media would have a heyday writing thinkpieces about the entitlement of fans if they ever found out. I go over it in my brain again and again, and I see a million things I could have done differently, but I don’t know if any of them would have worked. Maybe there wasn’t a right answer. Maybe there’s nothing I could have done. Maybe this was all futile.
I open Jamie’s Twitter and consider sending some tweets. But I don’t. I just change the password back to his original one and close out of the app.
I check the time. I have twenty minutes until the finale airs. I should get to the park if I’m going to watch it, but I was going to watch it with Tess, we were going to snuggle under a blanket. I wonder if she’s still going. I wonder if she even ever wants to see me again.
I open up a blank text to her, and I think a long time before deciding what to say. Finally, I text, I’m sorry. I was an ass. and send it.
I stare at my phone, willing the little ellipses to appear. Three minutes later, they do. My heart leaps, and I inch to the edge of my seat, my foot tapping uncontrollably on the carpet as I wait for her message to appear.
Finally, it comes: I was an ass, too. I should never have outed you like that. I’ve been beating myself up over it ever since.
I type back: My mom was chill about it.
Then, because that doesn’t seem like I’m standing up for myself enough, I add: But I’m not, like, ready to make any big declarations about that stuff. Not yet.
I chew on my lower lip as I wait for her to respond. Finally, she writes, My friends were definitely NOT chill.
I wince and type, I’m sorry again.
Then I add, I told Jamie to add some more characters of color fwiw. I’m not telling you in order to get credit or anything, it’s just… you were right. I wasn’t focused on anything but myself.
She writes back, You talked to Jamie???
I type, I have a lot to tell you.
She writes, I wish I could talk, but I’m going over to Harper’s house tonight for an emergen
cy slumber party. Everyone’s coming. We have some stuff to talk out.
My heart sinks. So you’re not coming to the finale watch party? I can’t believe she would miss it. For a slumber party?
Her text comes back. Tell me what happens.
She’s not coming.
It’s fine, though, it’s fine. I’ve watched every other Demon Heart episode alone, I can watch this one alone, too. And I won’t even be alone, I’ll be in a crowd of Demon Heart fans! So it’s fine. I try to tell myself I won’t even miss her, but I know it’s a lie.
The park is packed with people, sitting on lawn chairs and blankets, sharing snacks and bottles of wine and sparkling waters. It’s a cool night, with a breeze coming off Puget Sound, but the skies are clear. The vibe is high energy, everyone’s excited, buzzing for what’s going to happen. Maybe this is too much. I start to wonder if maybe I should just go home and watch it on my hotel TV. What if people talk during it? What if the sound quality is bad? I like to be able to really immerse myself in the episode, and what if I won’t be able to do that here? Also, most of the good watching spots are taken. I start to feel the hollow knot of anxiety building in my chest, and I’m thinking about turning around and running back to the hotel when I hear a voice call out to me.
“Claire, hey!”
I turn around, and a tall guy in a rubber mask is coming up behind me. I frown—I recognize the mask. It’s a replica of an evil alien bounty hunter from Star Command. The guy lifts the mask just enough and I see Rico, grinning at me. He holds a finger to his lips—“Shh”—and drops the mask again. I’m weirdly comforted to see him. A friendly face in this crowd.
“I’m undercover,” he says. “I wanted to come see what the turnout is like. Pretty good crowd. God, I love events like this, don’t you? Can’t you just feel the energy?” He shakes his arms like he’s buzzing with electricity.
I have to laugh. “Yeah, I guess I can.”
He puts a hand on my back, strong and stable, and all I want to do is close my eyes and lean into it. He opens his arms to offer a hug, and I take it, sinking into his body and letting him envelop me, smelling his body through the soft cotton of his flannel shirt, feeling his warmth take off the chill from the wind, his rubber mask bending over the top of my head.
“You’re okay,” he says.
This whole trip has been so many ups and downs, and it’s been easy to forget that I’m just a Demon Heart fan and right now I’m standing in the arms of Heart, feeling his blood pump against my cheek, holding him around his waist, listening to him tell me that I’m going to be okay.
This is the actual, literal fantasy.
“Hey, I gotta get going before someone susses out who I am from the mole on my neck or something,” he says into the top of my head, but he doesn’t let go yet.
“Okay,” I say, and I take a long slow breath in and then let it out and I release him.
“Have fun, Claire. And no matter what happens tonight, remember that you’re doing just fine,” he says, pulling away but letting his arm linger on my back as long as he can before he’s gone.
Then he disappears into the crowd, and I turn back toward the screen and find a place to sit down. The group of friends next to me lend me their extra blanket to sit on and offer me a slice of their pizza. I take it, feeling grateful for the generosity of fans. I wonder what Rico means by “no matter what happens tonight.” What’s going to happen?
The screen comes to life and the crowd cheers. I hear the familiar theme music pick up as the “Previously on…” begins, and I can’t help it. Something in my heart twirls around and those old feelings come right back. Smokey and Heart share a charged moment on-screen, and the whole park cheers and hoots at the pure, unbridled shippiness of the moment.
Just like that, I no longer feel alone. I’m with my people, I’m smiling like a child, I’m right where I should be. And maybe SmokeHeart won’t go canon in this finale, and maybe I didn’t convince Jamie, but maybe I made a dent, and maybe the battle isn’t over yet, as long as the fans love it, and the ratings go up, and Rico is a good person. Maybe there’s hope. There’s always season two.
The titles splash across the giant screen and the crowd cheers, then gets very quiet, because the finale is about to begin, and we’re about to find out how this season ends, and this is the last new Demon Heart we’ll get to watch for a while… or maybe forever.
I wrap my arms around my knees and fall into the story.
WHEN I OPEN the door to his insistent knocking, Jamie storms into my hotel room and paces around the bed, his hands clenched in white knots.
“I’m sorry, Forest, I’m really sorry, but it’s gone too far.”
“What’s going on?” I hang back by the door; his energy is making me nervous.
“Claire,” he says.
Oh. “You don’t have to tell me, man,” I say, closing the door and coming into the room. “I’m pissed at her, too.” I tried to call my agent about that damn fic she wrote about me, but his assistant said he’d have to call me back, he was in the middle of dinner with someone else.
“This goes beyond pissed,” Jamie says. “We have to get these damn rumors off our back.”
He sounds apologetic, but I don’t know why. I don’t really get what this has to do with me. I take a few steps toward him, but he edges back.
A knot starts forming in my stomach. I don’t know why, but this just feels wrong. “I’m on board, man, just tell me what you need me to do.”
When he speaks again, it’s flat, emotionless. “Forest… I don’t have a choice. You know that.”
“What are you saying?”
The knot grows, sucking in all my fears, all my anxieties. I didn’t try hard enough with Claire. I wasn’t good enough on the panels. I’m not funny enough, I don’t work out enough, it was those doughnuts, those damn doughnuts, why did I eat that Dairy Queen? No, it’s my acting. The dailies are terrible, the editors told Jamie that there’s not enough to work with. Or the execs called, told him he made a mistake, hiring me. They all made a mistake. I never should have gotten this job. I’m never going to get another role. I’m not good enough, I’m not good enough, I’m not good enough.
“You know Smokey dies at the end of one-twenty-two. We were going to resurrect you for the season two premiere, if there’s a season two…”
Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
“But I can’t do that anymore. Forest, the only way to get rid of SmokeHeart is to get rid of Smokey. I’m sorry.” He reaches for my shoulder, but I pull away, dazed. I can’t look at him.
Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.
“I’m sorry, Forest. I have to let you go,” Jamie says. “Smokey is dead.”
I don’t even hear him leave.
I don’t even feel it when my knees hit the floor.
Just a haircut with a battle-ax.
WITH MOMENTS LEFT in the finale, the whole crowd is rapt, silent. Smokey and Heart are in a foot chase, working separately, but together, each trying to track down and kill the Commander before he ushers in hell on earth.
Smokey has a lead on him; he chases the Commander through a warehouse district, finally catching up to him in an alley. He thinks he has the Commander trapped, and he pulls out his battle-ax for their final face-off, when a Demidragon emerges from the shadows, and heads straight for Smokey, his sharp claws glimmering in the moonlight.
There’s a collective gasp as Smokey realizes that he’s in some serious hot water. But Heart is nearby, I know he’ll show up and help. He’ll save Smokey. He has to.
The Demidragon and Smokey battle, but it’s not a fair fight. The Demidragon breathes boiling-hot gas and has claws the length of a broadsword. Smokey’s battle-ax is barely enough to defend himself as he dodges clouds of superheated dragon breath.
Finally, Heart rounds the corner of the alley, just in time to see the Demidragon take a final swipe at Smokey, slicing open his torso.
My e
yes are glued to the screen in the dead silence of the park.
The Commander cackles, climbs atop the Demidragon, and flies away on its back, as Heart scrambles down the alley to help Smokey.
But it’s too late. His injuries are too much. Smokey looks up at Heart with weak, dying eyes.
My breathing is shallow, because although I’m terrified for Smokey, this, this right here, is the perfect time for a love confession. On his deathbed, there’s no more time. The truth should come out right here.
But Smokey only says, “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
And Heart scrambles to put pressure on his wound, to stanch the bleeding, telling him, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” getting emotional, realizing the extent of Smokey’s wounds.
And Smokey whispers, “Heart. I’ll be with you…”
And Heart just shakes his head, lip quivering, refusing to say it, because saying it means it’s over.
And the tears are coming to my eyes just as they’re coming to Heart’s.
Smokey grasps his arm, eyes fluttering, and it’s their last chance. “I’ll be with you…” he tries again.
“’Til the dirt hits my chest,” Heart gasps, and Smokey dies in his arms.
And Heart lets out a primal howl that echoes down the alleyway, through the neighborhood, across the city, as the camera cranes up, up, up.
And the screen goes black.
And the credits begin.
And everyone stares, wondering what the fuck just happened.
Okay, okay, I tell myself. It’s okay, they can’t kill Smokey. They’ll bring him back in season two. Heart will go down to hell and get him back himself if he has to. It’s not over. Forest would have said something if he were leaving the show.
I look around the park, and the same conversation is taking place all around me. The volume in the park reaches a frenzied pitch as everyone wonders what just happened. Smokey’s not really dead, no one believes it. It’s just a cliffhanger, is all. Happens all the time on these shows. It doesn’t mean anything.
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