“Can’t we just take a picture now and be over with it?” I asked.
“That’s boring,” she whined. “Don’t you want to look like a decent boyfriend? Especially if you’re going to be my fiancé soon?”
I’d completely forgotten that I would have to propose to her eventually. But she was right; this needed to be believable, and we should at least have a single picture eating dinner together.
“I’ll order some take-out for you,” I said. “I’m not hungry, but I’ll pretend to eat when it gets here, and then you can eat the rest.”
“Chinese please,” she requested and took a seat in the living room. I sighed, poured myself
an ounce of whiskey, shot it, and ordered Chinese food on my phone. I didn’t bother asking her what exactly she wanted. She would just have to be happy with whatever I got.
“Oh,” she began. “Do you have that binder with your stories?”
I retrieved it from the closet and handed it to her. “I still can’t believe you remembered it,” I said. She pulled out the story from her purse and put it back into the binder. I held my hand out to take it back, but she began reading the first few stories.
“I didn’t say you could read the rest,” I argued.
“It’s not like I haven’t read them before,” she said and continued. “Oh, I guess there are a few new ones in here.”
I groaned and waited near the front door for the delivery.
“Gavin?” she asked after 10 minutes. “Why did you stop writing?”
I considered her question for a moment. “I just couldn’t do it anymore,” I said. “One morning, I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and I realized that I just didn’t have it in me to type another word.”
“Why though?” She turned toward me. “Were you afraid of failure?”
“Where’s that damn delivery man?” I mumbled. “I guess, I don’t know. I just lost the passion, that’s all.”
“But you were so good at it,” she said. “You probably still are. And if you have a talent for something like this, you shouldn’t just give up.”
“It’s not that easy,” I said. “Some people actually have to give up their dreams and get actual jobs.” I glanced at her. “Not everyone can get a half million dollars for acting.”
She winced and leaned back into the couch. I didn’t particularly care if I offended her, but I noticed that I hit a nerve. Did she feel guilty?
“You’re good enough to make a living,” she said after reading another page. “I’ve wanted to tell you this ever since we were little, but you have a way with words. A way that I can’t explain.”
I glanced at her. She really enjoyed my writing that much?
My phone buzzed, and I opened it to find a notification that the driver had arrived. I opened the door and took the Chinese food while muttering a quick thanks, and threw it on the living room table. It didn’t matter if she made a mess; I’d just make her clean it up.
“Just a quick picture,” she said while setting everything out. She gave me a fork with some fried rice and a piece of bourbon chicken, dipped her spoon into a bowl of soup, and took a picture of us kneeling in front of the table. I glanced at it as she posted it, and even I had to admit it looked like an authentic Chinese food date night between a happy couple.
“Happy?” she asked as she finished posting it.
“Sure,” I said and stood. “Throw whatever you don’t finish in the fridge.”
“You’re not staying?” she asked as I walked away. “Did I do something wrong?”
I wanted to say yes, but instead, I shook my head.
“I’m not hungry,” I said and walked upstairs toward my office. I took out my laptop and set it on my desk, and opened a word processor. I hadn’t written a single creative sentence in more than six years, and I wondered if I still had it in me.
I knew I was going to need at least a few drinks in me before I wrote anything. I returned downstairs, passing Maddie sitting on the couch in the living room as I headed toward the bar. The smell of Chinese food filled my house, and my stomach made an audible growl that Maddie must have heard.
“Just eat with me,” she said. “And maybe pour me a drink too while you’re at it?”
I rolled my eyes and poured her a glass of wine while I readied my drink. I handed it to her and sat on the floor on the other side of the table.