Bodie

Phil paced across the waiting room of Avalanche’s headquarters in Midtown, and I stared at my hands clasped between my knees with steam under the collar of my tailored shirt.

Jude seemed completely calm. The subtle façade of not giving a fuck in action. It was for show, though. He was just as nervous as the rest of us were.

We’d presented our demo to a handful of execs, which was weird to say since they were wearing jeans. One guy even had a T-shirt on with a binary joke on it that made me think of Penny. Because even then, even during our presentation, she’d found a way into my head.

I’d done all the talking, and when they had gotten their hands on the controllers and started to play, I’d found hope. Every one of them had gone wide-eyed, and as I’d pitched the story to them, their smiles had brightened just enough to betray their attempts to keep their poker faces on.

It had gone well. Very well.

But I counted on nothing as we waited for them in the lobby of their office.

My palms were damp and nerves shot as our hopes and dreams hung in the balance of a few quiet minutes.

It won’t be the end if they don’t take us, I told myself.

There were dozens more companies we could pitch to if this didn’t work out, especially now that the demo was finished. But this … this was the holy grail, the absolute, the top of the list. The dream. The fact that we’d even gotten a meeting was unreal. The hopes of it getting better than that felt too slim to count on.

The doors to the conference room opened, and we were invited back, so we filed in and took seats. I was so nervous, I thought I might combust. But outwardly, I tried to keep cool, scanning their faces for some hint as to what they’d say.

Paul, the CEO spoke first. “I’d like to start by saying that we don’t make a habit of keeping designers here while we talk, but I have to say — we were impressed.”

Hope sprang, putting out the fear with a sizzle.

“You’ve hit all the high notes. The story is epic, and the twist … the twist just makes the whole thing sweeter. We see a three-game series over the course of six years. Breakneck, I know, but with our team and your brains, I think it’s feasible. That is, if you’re still interested in a partnership with us.”

I blinked, trying to remember to breathe. “Absolutely.”

Paul smiled. “Great. We’ve got to get with our team to put together the numbers, but we’d like to offer you a deal. This is one of the best demos we’ve seen — the hard work you’ve put into it is the real reason we feel comfortable taking the step — so we want you all to come in on lead positions to help us get the game produced just how you want it. You’ll retain a level of control over everything — story, content, gameplay, UI — though it’ll ultimately need approval. But I give you my word; this is your story, your vision, and because we like what we see, we’ll put our trust in you. What do you think?”

I glanced at Phil and Jude, who nodded their approval. And then I smiled back at Paul. “I think you’ve got yourself a deal.”

We beamed as we all shook hands, and with another meeting on the books to discuss details, the three of us headed out of the office. When we made it outside, we broke into jumps and laughter and back-clapping and bro hugs, and I thought my heart might blow from sheer joy. Because we’d done it. The hard work had paid off.

We’d just landed jobs at one of the best game design companies in America.

Once we caught our breaths, Phil pulled out his phone to call Angie, and Jude got his phone out too, wandering off to talk to who knew who.

Before I knew it, my phone was in my hand and my thumb was hovering over Penny’s name.

I’d been so caught up that I’d forgotten we weren’t okay. I’d forgotten I couldn’t just call her, not without answering questions I didn’t have a response for. Not without making a move I didn’t know I was ready to make.

I pictured her face as she’d stood before me on my doormat, the smallness of her in the expanse of the hallway. She was all of a sudden the only person in the world I wanted to talk to, and the last person who I could.

The worst part was that I wasn’t even mad anymore. I was hurt and sad and exhausted by her, but I wasn’t mad. And I missed her.

A sick, masochistic part of me — my heart — wanted to give it another shot, wanted to hear her out and try again. The rest of me — my brain — told me I’d already slammed my hand in the door once, making a point of reliving the pain in an attempt to convince me not to do it again.

In the end, I figured they were probably both wrong. Because either way I looked at it, I was damaged, and I didn’t know how or when I’d recover.