I couldn’t have been more terrified of that day’s dinner if it had been held at a bomb testing facility that exclusively employed clowns. I woke up around four, and three hours still felt like too much time to fill. There was way too much thinking that could happen in three hours. I could still change my mind, I thought frantically. Technically, I don’t have to go. I didn’t sign a contract or anything. I could just stay here. Ted Kaczynski lived in a remote cabin for, like, twenty years. I could probably survive twenty years in a mansion.

That was what I told myself at the moment, but the truth was that if I didn’t go through with the dinner, Damien was going to murder me no matter how big and secure my house was. I sighed and trudged off to the bathroom, fighting the urge to jump back into my warm bed. I always kept it cold in my bedroom because I liked the feeling of being exposed to the elements and somehow beating them. Even though it was December and there was a fine layer of snow on the ground outside, my window was open just a crack, exposing me to a cold that I could flee from. My bed turned into a cozy little haven, a burrow.

It was great to sleep in, but it made kicking off the blankets in the morning an absolute nightmare. Maybe that was why I slept so much. Maybe I just spent a lot of time in bed because of the harsh outdoors.

Yeah, that was it. It couldn’t possibly be the crushing depression. It was just cold. That explanation was as good as any other.

I almost jumped when I saw myself in the mirror. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d actually looked at myself. I kept toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a garbage can to spit into next to my bed so I could avoid mirrors, and on the fairly rare occasion I took a shower, I kept my eyes on the ground. I didn’t even want to see the blurry shape of myself in the fogged mirrors.

Looking at my face in the mirror, it was abundantly clear I hadn’t left the house for a few weeks. I’d been told several times that I inherited my dad’s good looks and strong Greek features—which was all I got from him as my mother made sure I got her last name and as little contact with my dad as possible—but I looked anything but attractive at that moment. My olive skin was pale, and the bags under my deep-green eyes were so dark it looked like I’d been punched. My black curls were usually fluffy and unkempt, but that day they drooped, looking lank and greasy. I thought I detected the beginnings of a frown line between my eyebrows, and my lips were dry and overly red from where I’d plucked at the chapped skin.

I looked dead. And that was putting it nicely.

I forced myself into the shower and let the hot water banish the cold still dribbling in from my bedroom through the cracks in the door. I scrubbed at my skin until it blazed red and tried not to count back to my last shower. I was halfway through when I realized I was showering with something very fruity and floral from Bath and Body Works Tanya had picked up for me, possibly out of a sense of duty tinged with passive aggression. The entire bottom half of my body was already smelling like a sorority before I knew what I was using. The bright pink of the soap should have tipped me off, but of course, I hadn’t been paying attention.

I scrubbed hard at my chest, arms, and face as well, ignoring the warning about using the product near the eyes. As far as masochism goes, I’d done worse things to myself than use body wash on my face. When I reached out and fumbled for the shampoo, I found it was both extremely expensive and smelled like an overwhelmingly fragrant coconut. Great, I thought. I’d been hoping I could cover up the body wash with a strong, masculine scent like Old Spice in my hair, but Tanya wouldn’t even leave me that dignity. I was going to have to get a lot more specific in my shopping lists.

Actually, I was going to have to start making shopping lists.

I realized she probably had a very good reason for the passive aggression.

I spent the next hour putting a great deal of thought into my appearance. This wasn’t something I did, even for special occasions, but at least it was distracting. I was about to go meet a complete  stranger, and a kid at that, and I was going to have to pretend not to be weird. I already smelled like a candle store and hadn’t spoken to anyone other than my editor in over a month. I really, really needed something to help me out.

After staring into the abyss of my closet for a few minutes, I decided to do what I usually did in social situations: do whatever Damien would do. He was my only sort of reference for what was cool. At least, he had been for the past five years. Paul had been extremely cool, often to the point where I wondered why he ever decided to be with me. I had no confirmation that Damien was actually a cool person—in fact, I could point to a lot of reasons why he wasn’t, including his bitter hatred of any technology more advanced than a printer and his well-hidden but near-constant state of neuroticism—but he seemed to be. I’d heard several people describe him as “charming,” and though I couldn’t exactly agree, I could see where they were coming from. He was really good at putting on a happy face when there was a need for it, something I’d never gotten ahold of. I envied him for it, but it seemed the time had come for it to benefit me.

Damien was almost always wearing a suit, and no matter what he was doing, he was at least wearing a component of a suit. I decided to go for his typical casual look: a T-shirt, dark and tight jeans, and a suit jacket. I looked in the mirror and tried to fluff my blow-dried hair. I considered styling it, but then remembered I’d never done that before, and today wasn’t really the day to start trying.

When I went downstairs, I found all of my stuff already packed up, evidently Tanya’s doing. Everything I would need for the trip and Fantasticon itself was in there; she had even gone so far as to pick out a special outfit for my panel. Whatever transgression I made against her that prompted the Bath and Body Works debacle, she apparently forgave me for it before she packed my suitcases. I reminded myself to give her a raise when I got home.

I looked around. There had to be something I’d forgotten. Surely it wasn’t already time to leave. Maybe there were dishes to do, or maybe Tanya had forgotten to pack a toothbrush, or maybe the stove had even been left on.

I checked. Nope, nope, and nope. Everything was perfectly fine. Which meant I had to leave.

Shit.

I always hated driving, especially into the city.

My mother didn’t want me to get my driver’s license until I turned eighteen and my abilities to assess risk were “more advanced,” but I waited until I was a twenty-year-old college dropout to get behind the wheel. I grew up in New York City, so I didn’t imagine it would ever be an issue, but when I bought a manor just outside of the city proper, it quickly became clear I would need all the help I could get just to go around town. In the suburbs, even getting to a grocery store without a personal vehicle was almost impossible.

Still, I had been afraid of it. There was so much that had to go on in your head while driving, and I found that nerve-racking. Keep your hands at ten and two, check all of your mirrors and your speed periodically, keep your eyes on the road in front of you, stay as many car lengths away from the car in front of you as deemed necessary, pull over if you hear a siren, and still keep your destination in mind. That was a lot for anyone, I felt, especially someone like me who came to it so late and was notably terrible at multitasking. When I did something, I became completely consumed by it, which wasn’t something I could fully do with driving. There were too many variables. I never even turned the radio on.

I crept towards the city, watching the minutes tick by on the dashboard clock. The traffic thickened around me as the buildings grew higher and closer together, but not as much as I’d hoped. At this rate, I was going to be early, which carried a whole bundle of problems with it. I would have to talk to the overly enthusiastic staff, be placed at a table too big for one person’s presence, and sip at water while I fiddled around on my phone, pretending to look busy and important. Irritation tickled at the back of my throat as I entered a parking garage and immediately found an excellent spot. New York City was supposed to be crammed to the gills and impossible to navigate, and yet fate had granted me a full half-hour extra.

I never liked being the first person anywhere, mostly because there were too many decisions to make. I didn’t like choosing a section of the restaurant or whether I wanted a table or a booth. I didn’t like giving a drink order while a waiter looked at me with pitying eyes, already assuming that I’d been stood up. The whole ordeal was something I preferred to leave up to my companions, and I made a habit out of being five to ten minutes late for every group meal just to avoid it.

And besides, I was supposed to be the celebrity at this dinner. I wasn’t supposed to be the early one. I was supposed to be fashionably late while the fan sat huddled over the table in eager expectation. It was going to end up looking like I had nothing better to do.

Which, you know, I didn’t, but I didn’t want to look like I didn’t have anything better to do. Getting there early took away valuable time that I could use to pretend to be writing the fifth book.

The moment I walked into the restaurant, I saw why Damien had picked it. He was a fan of the finer things in life, and this seemed to be the finest dining establishment in all of New York. Swaths of rich, crimson velvet cloaked the walls. Gauzy white curtains flowed around select tables for the privacy of those dining within. The chairs looked like they belonged in the study of a rich aristocrat instead of sitting around rich walnut tables. The carpet was so plush that none of the impeccably dressed waiters or waitresses could be heard as they walked by. Every pillar was gilded and shining. It was the sort of place that seemed like it would serve you the cook’s own thigh basted in butter if you had enough money and clout. I actually glanced furtively at a couple of the dishes I saw being carried off to tables, wondering what kind of unique and potentially illegal culinary delights were being kept under the golden cloches balanced on the servers’ fingertips.

Fortunately, Damien had made a reservation under my name, and the hostess recognized me with very little fanfare. I knew I couldn’t be the most famous person in that room. I thought I saw Robert DeNiro somewhere in the back, but that could have just been another man with a large mole.

I took my seat in a tiny nook covered with the flowy gauze. The oversized chair was so comfortable I was suddenly paranoid about spilling food on it. As soon as the hostess turned and disappeared into the ether, a waiter stepped up from behind me, putting a bread basket, a glass, a pitcher of water, and a menu in front of me with alarming speed. I hoped he didn’t notice just how hard I jumped in my seat. “Hello,” he said, running quickly through his no-doubt default speech, “and welcome to Ahmatti. My name is Matthew, and I’ll be your server today. I’ll leave you to check over the menu. If you have any questions, you can ring this bell.” He pointed to a small silver bell he somehow managed to place soundlessly on the table. After that, he turned and sped away, disappearing in a flap of white.

I grabbed the menu—which also had gold filigree around it for whatever reason—and almost groaned looking at the appetizers. It was nice that Damien had gone so far out of his way to get us reservations at such a nice place, but the menu was way too gourmet for me. I couldn’t figure out what half of it was. I wasn’t even the kind of person who had ever tried hummus. How was I supposed to figure out what Hawaiian lumpia with a salmon whip was supposed to be?

I was still going through it, confused, when I heard a ruffle of gauze and a tiny gasp.

I looked up to see the last sort of person I expected. When I’d read the essay, I just assumed the writer was a fairly articulate teenager, but what I got was a fully-grown man.

I couldn’t quite guess his age, but he was clearly out of high school. His thin, angular face was covered in blonde stubble that highlighted his tanned skin nicely, and the way he pushed his skater hair out of his eyes gave me a great view of his lean muscles in motion. He had a thin, almost lanky build covered in tight muscles, which I could see through the thin shirt he wore. I recognized it as a Redbubble shirt someone had sent me with Eli and Elinor smiling at me from the center of the man’s chest. The man didn’t say anything as the curtain dropped behind him once more; instead, he just stared.

I stared as well. What was I supposed to say to someone who looked like this? I’d been developing topics of conversation for weeks, but I realized that “how much high school sucks” and “parents can be weird” and “don’t do drugs” were all wildly inappropriate conversations to have with the adult standing right in front of me.

If he was uncomfortable, he wasn’t showing it. His silence was very clearly out of awe rather than nerves or awkwardness. He stumbled into his massive chair, his eyes never leaving me as the waiter swept back in with more accoutrement. The man half-whispered a thank you after the waiter was already gone.

I cleared my throat. “Um.”

What can I say, I’m a true wordsmith.

“Wow.” His face broke out into a goofy grin. It was almost disproportionately large in relation to his face, but I didn’t mind. I liked it. It made him even cuter.

I had to stop myself from physically shaking my head. I didn’t tend to think about strangers that way, especially not since Paul. Attraction was a luxury I neither needed nor wanted.

Then again, the man sitting across from me had a very small dimple in his strong chin, so it was hardly fair to expect me to think completely pure thoughts.

The guy chuckled, a hand flying up to the back of his neck, rubbing it thoughtfully. He finally tore his eyes away from me, looking down at the menu. He appeared to be blushing. I tried really hard not to be too flattered; he was just a fan, after all. No need to read anything into it.

“Wow.” His dopey, big-toothed grin hadn’t faded at all in what felt like the infinite silence that stretched on while we just sat and stared at each other. He shook his head and laughed, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he thought if he stopped looking at me, I’d disappear and never return. “I just...I can’t believe this. I’m at dinner with Lance Epstein. You have no idea what an honor this is for me.”

He was right. I didn’t have any idea. “Yep, that’s me,” I said lamely. Trying to sound casual, I continued with, “So, you’re Sam, then?”

“Yeah! Sam Lawrence. I wrote the essay.” He put a hand to his heart. “I can’t believe you remember my name!”

“Of course. It was a really beautiful essay.” For a second, I forgot my self-consciousness, slipping back into write mode with ease. “It was incredibly touching. I had no idea my books had that sort of effect on people.”

“Really?” His eyes widened, showing off their electric blue hue. “That’s...wow. You have, like, the most wonderful and dedicated fanbase I’ve ever seen. Seriously. There are whole charities inspired by your books. I don’t think I’ve seen more passionate people anywhere. I checked out a few of the other big series out there right now, but they don’t even begin to hold a candle to your stuff. I missed an exam last semester because I was rereading book three!”

“You’re in college?” And the awkwardness was back. I should have known it wouldn’t be gone long. It was ninety percent of my personality in the first place.

His grin, thankfully, didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. “I am. Why?”

“I just...” I shrugged, feeling helpless. It seemed like anything I could say had the potential to be taken offensively. “I guess I didn’t expect college kids to read my books. I thought they appealed more to the ‘young’ than the ‘adult’ in ‘young adult.’”

He waved the comment away. “Nah. Your books are for people of every age. I’m twenty-three, and I’ve met tons of people who are older than me who love your work. One of my professors is borderline obsessed. The college I go to upstate even teaches a whole class about your series.”

“Really?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Yeah! It’s an amazing class, too. Easily the most fun I’ve ever had in school. It can get pretty heated, especially when we get into the theories and speculation about future books, but that’s part of what makes it so great. People are really passionate about it. I mean, I started reading your stuff when you were still blogging short stories.”

Damn. I hadn’t been a self-conscious-yet-narcissistic short story blogger in a decade. I was still in college when I was doing that. The stories had started as a way for me to avoid writing term papers. Even though Damien discovered me through those stories, it was bizarre to think that anyone else cared enough to read them, especially a random kid.

“So you’ve been reading my stuff for a while,” I said, not sure whether to sound pleased, confused, or a little perturbed.

“I have,” he confirmed. “Your stuff saved me in middle school and high school. I don’t know what I would have done without them.” A very soft blush fell over his cheeks in such a charming way that it was getting harder and harder to not notice. “Sorry, I’m going to stop rambling. You already read the essay. You don’t need to hear more about it.”

“I don’t mind,” I said, the words coming a little too quickly. “I mean, like I said, I loved your essay.” I shrugged. “Plus, this is your party, in a way. I’m here to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

His smile faltered, and I realized how disingenuous I sounded. I wanted to go back and correct myself, but I knew myself well enough to know that I would just end up even deeper in the hole I’d started digging. I considered it a real sign of personal growth that I didn’t start stammering out an explanation.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Sam said, suddenly self-conscious. He seemed to shrink in his seat. “I want you to enjoy yourself too.”

“I will,” I said. I assumed I sounded confident, even though that wasn’t an emotion I’d ever expressed before. “It’s just that it means a lot to me that you have a good time. You did some really good work to get here. All I did was drive here.”

That seemed to perk him up some.

Silence fell. I couldn’t decide whether that was a good or bad thing. My hands were starting to sweat, my fingertips slipping slightly on the laminated menu. As bad as I was at talking, nothing was worse than silence. It always made me feel boring. Paul teased me about that a lot. “I swear, you always have to be miserable about something,” he would say, alternately with fondness and frustration.

I decided to engross myself in the menu. That was something I could do with comfort and confidence. I’d spent a hefty portion of my life ignoring people in favor of reading a good book.

Unfortunately, the menu was less A Farewell to Arms and more Twilight. It reminded me that the biggest reason I never went to big, exceptionally fancy restaurants wasn’t the awkward staff interaction or the fact that I suspected most of the customers would be willing to hunt “the most dangerous game.” What kept me away was the sheer weirdness of the menu options.

I looked up and saw equal bewilderment on Sam’s face.

“So,” I said slowly, “what looks good to you?”

He pulled a convincing poker face. “Haven’t decided yet. What about you?”

“Um.” I looked it over, hoping to find a burger or a grilled cheese or something, but no. The appetizers were all totally unpronounceable. There was a duck filled with a “spiced chicken compote,” something I didn’t know could exist. One of the soups was described as a “four-crab bisque.” How many kinds of crab are there? I wondered. I’d always assumed there was just the one: crab. I felt a pang of irrational anger towards Damien. He knew I was hardly an adventurous eater, given my extremely sensitive stomach, and he sent me to a place that had a menu that sounded like it belonged in Westeros, not modern-day New York. I decided to go safe and looked at the salads, but I found no purchase there, either. “I, uh...”

The silent waiter whirled his way back through the curtain, making me jump and nearly knock over my water glass. “Have you gentlemen made your decisions?” he asked.

This was one of the things I hated most about restaurants: I always felt like I was being pushed by the staff. “Uh, okay,” I fumbled, not wanting to admit I had no clue what I wanted. “Okay, yeah, um, I’ll have the...” I ordered the first thing my eyes landed on. “The fairy’s salad, please.” I frowned when I said it. The fairy’s salad? What the fuck is that?

“Excellent,” he said, writing it down.

I remembered Damien’s many lectures about food safety in restaurants and asked, “Does it have any leafy greens or sprouts in it?”

“The leaf base is an arugula mix, yes,” the waiter said with a slight sniff. I could tell he didn’t approve of me questioning the chef’s choices.

I didn’t care what he thought. After years of my agent sending me articles about salmonella and E. coli infecting leafy greens and alfalfa sprouts in kitchens across the country, I wasn’t going to take my chances, especially not during a meal with a cute fan. “Could I just have it, um, without the leaf base, then?” I asked. Good job, Lance. You’re sounding really confident there.

The waiter nodded curtly, his lips pressed into a thin line. He made a note on his pad and turned to Sam. “And you, sir?”

“I’ll have the...” Sam glanced down at the menu. “Deconstructed Caesar salad.” He didn’t look any more confident in his choice than I was.

“Excellent,” the waiter murmured, then whisked away as quiet and ephemeral as he’d come.

When I was sure the waiter was out of earshot, I asked Sam, “How does someone ‘deconstruct’ a Caesar salad? Isn’t it just lettuce, dressing, and croutons?”

“Yeah. That’s why I thought it was a safe bet,” he admitted. “Maybe it’ll just all be in different bowls or something. What’s a fairy salad?”

“I don’t know. There was no description for anything on the menu.” I frowned, glaring down at my menu. “I feel like this was a bad idea,” I muttered to myself. I forgot for a moment I wasn’t alone. I’d been spending so much time in my bedroom talking to myself that it felt more natural than holding a real conversation with another human being. “I don’t like ordering stuff if I don’t know what’s in it, and he knows that, and he knows I don’t like anything weird or fancy or any of that. I mean I can barely eat Chinese food, for Christ’s sake. And they didn’t mention anything about a gift card or him prepaying anything, so I don’t even know how I’m supposed to pay for this weird salad. And there’s not even going to be lettuce in the damn salad because Damien had to go and ruin that for me too, so now I’m just getting a bowl of mystery toppings!”

I stopped scowling down at my menu long enough to sigh and glance up. The way Sam’s eyebrows crept up his forehead easily reminded me I was, in fact, in another person’s presence.

“Oh,” I said, mortified. I could feel my face burning almost painfully, the sting of the humiliation turning real. “I’m sorry. That probably looked crazy.”

“No,” he said, but it was clearly just to be kind.

“I don’t get out much,” I clarified, probably unnecessarily. “And places like this...Well, they’re not really my thing. I’ve never gotten used to fancy restaurants.”

“Really?” Sam smiled, his unease starting to fade. “That’s actually kind of cool. It’s really rare to find someone who has a lot of money but doesn’t care about throwing it around.”

“Throwing it around is how you lose it,” I said with a shrug. “I may go overboard from time to time, but it’s rare. And it has to be something I know I’ll like. I don’t like feeling unsure, or like there are things that aren’t guaranteed.”

“I’m surprised,” Sam said, and he sounded genuine. Somehow, the awe he surveyed me with hadn’t been completely destroyed. “It seems like most writers would be gambling types. It’s not an easy profession to get into. Not a lot of guarantees in it.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly my choice,” I said. “Or, well, it’s not like I was out there on my grind or anything. I was given an offer and I took it. I never had to be rejected or anything. I didn’t even think people were reading my stuff.” I waved a hand in his direction. “I didn’t even know I had fans back then, much less publishers getting interested.”

“Oh, I checked your blog probably fifty times a day! I could never wait for a new story to come out.” Sam’s eyes glistened in the light of the memory. “I didn’t really have a lot of access to computers at times, at least not wherever I was living, so I’d either stay late in the school computer lab or I’d ride my bike to the library. People practically had to pry me away from the screen.” He chuckled and looked down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. “That probably makes me sound like a total stalker or something.”

I tried not to flinch at that word. Stalker. It was such an easy label to sling around. People rarely thought about its true impact, or what it was really saying. It was just a different word for an invader, someone who tainted everything they touched.

I hated thinking of even the word. It was too evil for the ways it was always used.

“I don’t think you sound strange at all,” I told him. I reached out and grabbed his forearm, and he seemed stunned by the gesture. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was star struck or because my aggressive gaze was seeping into him and making him jittery. “Please don’t ever feel bad for being passionate about something. The world needs more passion in it. We atrophy without it. People like you are the ones who save lives.”

I felt the lean muscles of his arm relax as I spoke, and there was a flit of something in his eyes, something recognizable but impossible to place. As soon as I tried to identify it, it was gone, replaced by a wide grin and the pressure of his hand on mine. My heart skipped weakly, unaccustomed to the feeling of affection. “You save lives too, you know,” he said quietly, and those words alone made me want to cry.

Before I had to come up with a reply, the curtain swished open again, and our waiter came through with a tray topped with two golden cloches. It seemed a little ostentatious for a salad course, but then again, these were the people who developed a chicken compote. Ostentatious was sort of their thing.

Sam and I reflexively pulled away from each other like two embarrassed teenagers found making out in a car. I fixed a smile on my face, as if that might distract everyone involved from the discomfort.

The waiter put Sam’s dish down first. I noticed it was far bigger than mine and was about to be offended when the waiter whipped off the cloche with a flourish.

I had seen a few deconstructed dishes on the Food Network, but I’d never seen it pushed quite so far. In the center of the display was a whole heart of romaine, sitting on a cutting board and accompanied by a large kitchen knife. Bowls surrounded it, each of them containing a different ingredient: lemon juice, olive oil, mustard, garlic—which they had thoughtfully minced before bringing it to the table—an egg yolk, and a bowl of something very slippery and salty-smelling that I slowly realized were whole anchovies. There were also a pair of small salt and pepper grinders and a cup of croutons.

Sam and I stared at it in disbelief. This seemed deeply satisfying to the waiter, who gave us both a smug smile.

The waiter hardly gave us a moment to process before he set my plate before me and pulled off the cloche with a little less panache than he had with Sam’s. It was clear which of the two of us he preferred.

I found myself face to face with a fairly large bowl of what looked like garden trimmings. Whole flowers and flower petals filled it to the brim, violets flashing gleefully up at me, housing carnations, tulip petals, rose petals, and all sorts of bits of flowers my brain was struggling to process. It took me a second to realize the only true vegetables to be seen were small, scant shreds of carrot.

I must have had a strange expression on my face—I know, how unthinkable it would be that being told to graze on flowers would surprise me—because the waiter asked, “Is everything alright, sir?”

It took a second of moving my jaw soundlessly to be able to spit out words in a coherent sentence. “I’m just not sure what this is,” I finally said.

“It’s the fairy’s salad,” the waiter said, sounding impatient. “Normally there would be arugula sprinkled throughout as well, but most of that was replaced by violets.”

I blinked down at my bowl. “So this is...?” I didn’t want to ask the stupid question on my mind: So this is a bowl of flowers?

“This is a variety of edible flowers, accented with shredded carrot and soaked in orange flower water,” the waiter explained, sounding bored with me already. “It was then tossed in raspberry juice. The taste has been described as sweet, herbaceous, and very floral.”

Imagine that, flowers tasting floral. I never would have guessed.

“Is there anything else you gentlemen may require at the moment?” the waiter asked, oblivious to the way I continued to stare down at my bowl in confusion.

Sam looked at me, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Well,” he started, but I cut him off.

“We’re fine, thank you,” I said. My brain kicked into autopilot mode and reminded me I needed to give the sort of response that would be expected of someone living in a society, in spite of the fact that I felt like I was starring in a very avant garde episode of The Twilight Zone.

The waiter seemed satisfied with my response, and he sashayed away, apparently patting himself on the back for a job well-done.

“Why did you tell him everything is okay?” Sam asked, confused. “He just gave you...I mean, I was going to call it rabbit food, but I don’t think even rabbits eat that stuff. He gave you bee food, for crying out loud.”

“And he gave you a cutting board,” I said. “And a mise en place.”

“He gave me a build your own salad,” Sam agreed. “A salad. I mean, it’s not hard to make. Why would they think someone would want this? It’s not like going to a Benihana where you get to juggle your own shrimp.”

“No. They’re charging you an exorbitant price to do something you could do in your own kitchen for maybe ten dollars,” I agreed. “And what are the anchovies for? Is that a part of it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam murmured, his voice hopelessly lost. “I really don’t. I don’t even know what the egg is doing here. Do they usually put eggs in Caesar salads?”

“Don’t ask me. The best meal I can make is toast.”

“I didn’t think I was a slouch in the kitchen, but I’m officially upstaged right now,” Sam said, still baffled. “Shouldn’t they have brought me some instructions or something?”

“I guess they don’t do that here. They must take deconstructed meals very seriously.”

We sat in silence for a couple minutes. Sam poked experimentally at some ingredients with his fork, frowning. I plucked a damp dandelion flower out of the salad and put it into my mouth whole, which I determined was a mistake after I’d started chewing. Unsurprisingly, the word “floral” was the first one to come to mind. That waiter must have known something about his job after all.

As I watched Sam trying to spear a few anchovies while looking extremely ill, I made a decision. “No.” I stood up. “No, this is insane.”

Sam frowned. “Is...lunch over?” he asked. He seemed both devastated to be leaving and a little relieved over not having to construct an entire salad piecemeal.

“It’s not over,” I said. “Well, this portion of it is.” I dug around in my pocket and pulled out my wallet. I couldn’t think of whether or not I’d seen prices on the menu, so I just tossed a hundred on the table. It may have been a bit much, but at that place, it was impossible to tell. “I just...Look, Sam, I didn’t pick this place. And if you want to stay, that’s fine, but I’m supposed to be giving you, like, a true fan experience, right? So it seems like we should be somewhere I would pick.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I mean, if that’s alright.” I had to make a concerted effort not to make it sound like a question.

Sam practically tripped over himself getting to his feet. He wiped off his hands for seemingly no reason and adjusted his T-shirt. “Yeah! That’s—wow, yeah, that’s awesome!” he enthused. “Where would you like to go?

“I have an idea,” I told him, bringing up a map on my phone, “but you have to promise not to judge me.”

I sighed and leaned back, my eyes drifting half-closed with satisfaction. “That was amazing.”

“So incredible.” Sam tried unsuccessfully to hold back a yawn. “I’ve done this a few times before, but that was intense.”

I rubbed at my forehead. “Oh man. I think I’m sweating. Is that weird?”

“Not at all, I think I am too.”

Both of us sighed in contentment at the same time and leaned back in our seats. I surveyed the wreckage of the table before us.

“Endless shrimp is so underrated,” I said. “I mean, criminally so. No one ever wants to come with me to it.”

“Why not?” Sam asked, genuinely surprised. “It’s endless shrimp. Endless. Everything that makes it so great is right in the name. It’s impossible to hate that.”

“That’s what I said!” I agreed. “But my agent refuses to come along! Something about cleaning the shrimp.”

“I’m pretty sure the fine chefs at this establishment know how to devein a shrimp.”

“I know. Damien is kind of neurotic, though. As soon as he found out what the veins are, he swore off shrimp forever. He’s sort of a health nut.” I thought for a second. “Actually, he’s more of a regular nut. But not in a bad way.” Damien would have undoubtedly had something to say about me, of all people, calling him neurotic, but that didn’t make it untrue. I may have been afraid of human interaction, but Damien was afraid of everything. One of the many benefits of being friends with him was that he made me feel moderately normal.

“I could never,” Sam murmured. “Honestly, endless shrimp is such a gift. I can let my fridge go almost completely empty and then just come here and gorge myself on shellfish.”

I frowned, trying to think through the fish-induced fog. “That seems unhealthy.”

He gestured at the empty stacks of plates in front of us. “And this isn’t?”

I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“It’s a nice break from ramen, in any case,” Sam continued. “The meal plan at my school is horrible, so I try to make everything myself.”

“I never really had that experience,” I admitted.

“I know. You left college to write.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I’m a huge fan, remember?” He grinned. “Lots of people have written articles about it and all that. It’s a big deal to quit what you’re doing to pursue your passion.”

I almost laughed at the concept. Writing was my passion, I supposed, but I never really looked at it that way. It was just the only thing I was good at. During my short stint in college, I never established a major. I did well just because writing papers was so simple for me, but it never even occurred to me it was something I could or would ever major in. I’d just been taking random classes so I could keep getting loans and living in a dorm with my boyfriend instead of dealing with my mother every day. There really hadn’t been all that much to quit.

“What...” I cleared my throat and paused, trying to think of the right way to phrase the question. I shifted gingerly in my seat, trying not to put too much pressure on my insanely full stomach. “What are you studying in college, by the way? Are you pursuing your passion?”

He looked down and shrugged shyly. “Passion is a funny thing,” he said vaguely. “You can indulge it without making it your entire life. Most people go forever without being able to do what they want for a living.”

I knew as much, but hearing it still made me feel guilty. My success, after all, was largely due to luck. It wasn’t that my talent had nothing to do with it, but being found by an agent and offered a contract was almost unheard of. I knew how fortunate I was.

I thought back to college, looking around at all of the people who would never be able to be whom or what they wanted to be, and I felt devastated for them.

I felt devastated for Sam.

“Well, what do you want to do?” I asked.

“Honestly? I’ve always liked the idea of writing.” He said it as though he was admitting some scandalous secret. “I know it almost definitely wouldn’t happen, or if it did, nothing would really end up coming of it. But it’s something I’ve always liked doing, and I’ve always liked studying it, too. My mom always liked to brag to people that I was the only kid in middle school who would read Shakespeare for fun.” His smile faded a little. “But it’s not really what I can do with my life, you know. That’s just not realistic.”

“What are you doing instead?”

“I’m actually going into engineering.” His voice was flat, almost robotic. “Engineers make a lot. I know it’s a good job. One of my foster parents was an engineer and made a ton of money. And it doesn’t take nearly as long or accrue as much debt as becoming a doctor or lawyer does. It was the smart decision.”

I thought about that for a moment. The smart decision. I knew that meant I had made the dumb decision. As unfavorable as that sounded, though, it was probably also very true. I’d decided to bank everything on my ability to write stories that people found interesting enough to pay for.

“What was it,” I asked slowly, “that made you go for the smart thing instead of the fun thing?”

“Logic, I guess.” Sam looked back up, quickly adding, “Not that I think your choices were bad or anything. I’m not saying that what you did was illogical or whatever. It was brave, and I really wish I could do it. But I just...can’t.”

“But why?” I pressed. “You said it takes bravery, but honestly, you seem a lot braver than me.”

His eyes widened, and that flattering blush swept back across his cheeks. “No. Really? You think so?” he asked.

“Well, yeah.” I tried not to laugh, but it was strange to hear anyone call me brave. If anything, I was almost always the one who spent all of my time being too scared to actually do any of the things I wanted in life. “And you have talent, something you can only improve on with classes. Why not do the thing you actually want to do?”

Sam blinked at me. I got the distinct impression I’d just said exactly the wrong thing and outed myself as some kind of outsider. A gate was closing behind his eyes, one that was wrought with the word “you don’t understand.” I recognized it because it was the same defense I put up all the time, especially after Paul.

Which made me think Sam was probably right, and I probably didn’t understand.

Sam shrugged awkwardly and poked idly at a shrimp tail on the plate in front of him. “It’s just not...that easy,” he said. “It’s not like I can just choose. It’s not the practical thing to do.” The smile he gave me was sad, even ashamed. “I don’t think I’m as brave as you assume I am.”

I had definitely said the wrong thing. And not only that, I’d done it in a way that made the overblown smile on his face deflate. I had gone into it telling myself I was going to disappoint him, but actually seeing it was far more painful than I could have ever imagined. A deep, desperate part of myself that forgot what it felt like to care so much throbbed.

I didn’t say much as we made our way back to the parking garage where we’d left our cars. I was still too embarrassed by the way I’d judged my biggest fan’s life choices. Sam didn’t say much either; though he still rambled on about how great it was to meet me a few times, it felt more forced, as if he was trying to fill space. I could tell he felt ashamed. I felt ashamed for making him feel that way. Neither of us knew how to fix it.

I drove as slowly as possible towards the hotel we were staying at, even though the streets were completely clear. I just didn’t want to have to see Sam’s sad, closed eyes again that night. Still, we somehow managed to pull in and park right beside each other at the same time.

We entered the massive hotel with its Roman-inspired columns and marble floor. Sam gawked around at the atrium while I got our room keys. I handed his off to him, hoping this would be our final interaction of the night, but then Sam’s face lit up and he said, “Oh, hey! Our rooms are right next to each other!”

Holding in a sigh, I got into the elevator with him and rode silently up to our floor.

We ambled down the hall to our respective rooms. I inserted the key card into the lock on the door, and I was startled when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” Sam said, withdrawing his hand in mild panic. “Sorry. I just wanted to say, before the end of the night...” He trailed off and bit at his lip, looking nervous.

Oh, here it was. This was going to be it, the conversation where he told me I was a complete dick and an offensive asshole for judging his life choices when I’d had everything handed to me on a silver platter by either Damien or my well-off mother or a society that preferred me for being white, educated, and well-to-do. I stiffened my resolve and told myself I wouldn’t run or argue, and that if he decided to punch me in the face, I would take it as graciously as I could.

As usual, whatever my idiot brain assumed was going to happen in the next few minutes never transpired. Instead, Sam looked me dead in the eye—and at that moment I realized how tall he was, and how strong his shoulders looked even though he was slim and how his eyes practically glowed green behind his glasses—and he said, serious as could be, “Meeting you tonight has been the greatest experience of my life, Lance. I can’t tell you what it means. I’ve looked up to you since I was a kid, and I know people always say that you shouldn’t meet your heroes, but this has been incredible. So, thank you for that.”

Before I could reply, he hustled into his own hotel room and shut the door swiftly behind him, leaving me to stand in my own stunned, stupid shock.