I looked at Gabe. He kept his focus on the TV, the bright glow of it making him seem both younger and older at the same time—the light sinking into the lines around his eyes, while blurring other parts of him.
“This?” I asked.
“This is how it feels,” he said. “Being an actor.”
I didn’t say anything.
“When I’m in front of the camera,” he said, “I know who I am.”
“And when the camera’s gone?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Pathetic, isn’t it?” he asked. “That I’m more comfortable playing pretend than being myself.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think it’s pathetic.”
Gabe didn’t respond.
My eyes wandered. The room was pretty clean considering that it had been full of people a few hours ago. There were some empty cups strewn around, but for the most part, the place was tidy.
Like Gabe’s bedroom, there were piles of books and movies everywhere. A box set of the entirety of Star Trek: The Next Generation was sitting next to the TV alongside some leather-bound books. I would have bet this month’s rent that Lolita was in a pile somewhere.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing to his end table.
I knew what it was, of course. I had a stack of them on my bookshelf. I’d practically memorized the spine.
“Oh, this?” Gabe asked with a grin that indicated that he knew that I knew exactly what it was. “I told you that I did my research.”
“You read it?”
He looked at me. “Yeah,” he said. “Some of them big words were real tough, but I got through it.”
I’d noticed he did that. Put on some slow, hick-like accent any time we circled around the idea of his intelligence.
“I don’t think my parents have read it,” I said.
“Oh,” he said.
I picked up the literary magazine, stroking the front of it like I’d done with the first copy I got in the mail. There was a line on the spine that indicated it had been cracked open, the pages pulled into place. I let it fall open in my lap, balancing it next to the popcorn bowl.
“The Garden” by Chani Horowitz.
“I’m bad with titles,” I said.
“I liked it,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting the dragons, though.”
I flushed.
No one in my grad program had expected them either and considering that this was the only piece of fiction I’d ever managed to get published, I was pretty sure that my tendency to weave fantasy elements into my naturalistic fiction wasn’t something that people were clamoring to read. The piece had been personal—not the way my blog was personal, where I just blurted out details about my private life—but intimate. It was about the way my mind worked—how I thought, how I felt—like sawing open my skull and letting people look inside.
While also writing about dragons.
It was a metaphor.
“I guess I don’t really get it,” Jeremy had said when he first read it.
“It was an experiment,” I told Gabe. “I don’t really write stuff like that anymore.”
“That’s too bad,” he said.
“I’ll probably just stick to nonfiction,” I said.
“I like your nonfiction,” Gabe said. “But I like dragons too.”
I did as well, but they weren’t serious. They weren’t real literature. They weren’t good writing.
At some point while watching Star Trek, we’d moved closer together. I hadn’t noticed—not like I had at the club when I had been almost painfully aware of his proximity at all points. But now, I’d been distracted by talking about the short story, so when Gabe put his hand on my knee, I wasn’t expecting it.
In fact, I was so surprised that I jumped—tossing the magazine and the bowl up off my lap and into the air, spraying popcorn everywhere.
“Oh my god.” I clutched my chest, more out of embarrassment than anything.
“Wow,” Gabe said. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten that reaction before.”
“I’m so sorry.” I got off the couch, gathering up the popcorn kernels I’d thrown across his floor.
“Hey.” Gabe was next to me on his knees, stilling my hand. “Hey. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
We sat back on the couch. My face was hot, and I knew it was probably an extremely unattractive splotchy shade of red. I put my hands against my cheeks.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I said.