Chapter 81: The Red Carpet Meeting
April 2010.
The premiere's at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. Red carpet. Flashbulbs. People in suits that cost more than my first shop's monthly rent.
I shouldn't be here.
But my phone rang yesterday. Kevin Feige's assistant.
"Kevin wanted you at the premiere. Industry consultant credit. Plus you know half the crew from set visits."
So here I am. Alone. In a rented tux that actually fits.
The Attractiveness power's doing its thing. I don't look like the old Stuart—the mumbling, slouching guy who'd have melted under this attention. I look like I belong.
"Stuart!" A producer from Marvel spots me. Waves me over. Introduces me to three people whose names I immediately forget.
We talk shop. Comic accuracy in upcoming films. I mention a few continuity concerns. They're taking notes.
This is insane.
Eighteen months ago I was failing at art. Now I'm on a red carpet discussing narrative structure with Hollywood producers.
The memory power whispers: This is just the beginning.
I believe it.
Inside. The lobby's packed. Studio executives, actors, press.
I'm getting a drink when someone backs into me.
Hard.
My gin and tonic goes everywhere. Mostly on her dress.
"Oh my god, I'm so—" She turns. Freezes.
Beautiful. Like unfairly beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes, legs for days.
"I'm so sorry," she finishes. "I wasn't looking. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. You're the one covered in gin."
She looks down. Laughs. "Well. This dress was expensive. Now it's expensive and alcoholic."
"I can pay for dry cleaning."
"Don't worry about it. These things happen at—" She stops. Studies my face. "Have we met?"
"I don't think so. I'd remember."
"Katie Stevens." She extends her hand.
"Stuart Bloom."
We shake. Her grip's confident.
"You're in the film?" I ask.
"Supporting role. The sister who dies tragically in act two."
"Spoilers."
"It's in the trailer." She's still smiling. "What brings you here? You don't look like press."
"Industry consultant. For Marvel."
"Comics?"
"Comics."
"Really?" Her face lights up. "Like actual comics? Not just the movies?"
"Actual comics. I own two shops in LA."
"That's—okay, that's actually cool. Most people here are actors or executives or people pretending to be something. You're just—a comic shop guy."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's the highest compliment I can give."
We talk. Twenty minutes. The premiere's about to start and we're still in the lobby.
She knows comics. Not deeply, but genuinely. Grew up reading X-Men. Loved Storm. Got into acting through community theater in San Diego.
"I should find my seat," she says eventually.
"Yeah. Me too."
"Can I—" She pulls out her phone. "Can I get your number? In case I need comic recommendations."
"That's a line."
"It's a genuine request disguised as a line."
"Even better."
We exchange numbers.
She heads toward the theater. Looks back once. Smiles.
I'm grinning like an idiot.
The film's fine. I barely notice.
My phone buzzes during credits.
Katie: That movie was terrible.
Me: Supporting actress probably shouldn't say that publicly.
Katie: Good thing this is private then.
Me: Fair point.
Katie: So. Comic shop owner. That's a real thing?
Me: Two shops. Opening a third in San Diego this summer.
Katie: San Diego's my hometown.
Me: Convenient.
Katie: Very. You should tell me more about this. Over coffee. Tomorrow?
Me: Tomorrow works.
Katie: Good. I'll text you details.
Katie: Also—you seemed really comfortable on that red carpet. For a "comic shop guy."
Me: I've been to a few of these.
Katie: Marvel's got you going to premieres?
Me: Apparently I'm useful.
Katie: Clearly. See you tomorrow, Stuart Bloom.
I pocket my phone.
Walk to my car through Hollywood streets.
Katie Stevens.
Actress. Beautiful. Genuinely interested in comics.
And she texted first.
The memory tingle's there. Faint. Something about her feels—
Not significant like Emma.
But important anyway.
Maybe this is just dating. Maybe it's more.
Either way—I'm interested.
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