Page 62 of Here for a Good Time
“I wish I’d gone on a girls’ trip with my mom.” My voice turns hoarse, and the back of my eyes begins to sting. “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up and she didn’t have the time because of her work, and when Ididmake a lot of money with my writing and my parents retired,Ibecame too busy. We wanted to go somewhere like Greece, because we both lovedMamma Mia—” I give a wet laugh, remembering how we sang along in the cinema to the utter annoyance of everyone else. When Meryl Streep sang “Slipping Through My Fingers” to Amanda Seyfried, my mom laced her hand in mine and gave it a tight squeeze, saying,I understand what she means. “If I could go back, I’d book us two first-class tickets to Santorini, and we’d go island-hopping and eat seafood until we couldn’t look at another piece of calamari.”
Leila gives me a kind smile. “I’m sure you’ll get to do that once all of this is over.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
There’s a short pause before I realize it’s my turn. “Zwe,” I say, darting the shortest of looks in his direction. “Truth or truth?”
“Truth.”
“Oooh, good choice,” Leila says, rubbing her hands. “Poe, do you have any ideas about—”
“Do you like my book?” Typically, I wouldn’t have asked it outright without any buildup. But typically, Zwe wouldn’t have said to my face that he hated my book. Anger and hurt and confusion and Leila’s voice contextualizingIf this were an end-of-the-world situationhave all swirled together inside me and congealed into a nauseating sensation, one that I can only get rid of by asking a question I am 99 percent certain I don’t want to know the answer to. When Zwe doesn’t reply instantly, that 1 percent of hopeful, delusional doubt flickers out.
He yanks back in surprise. “What? Of course. You know I do. It’s my favorite book.”
But his answer is stilted, each word pricking me like the tip of a very, very sharp pin.
“No.” My voice cracks on the word. “NotGive Me a Reason. My new one. Do you like it?”
“I… haven’t read a single word of it.”
I have a flashback to university, of me insisting to Zwe that I didn’t want to send him the last chapter I’d written for my work in progress because it was stupid and probably not even that good, him telling me that that was impossible. Blind faith, which was so very un-Zwe that I knew what a privilege it was.
“But do you like it? Do you think it’s good? Or that itwillbe a good book?” I ask.
At this, the fold between his brows slowly disappears from view. “What are you doing?”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t know,” he finally says.
“You don’t know,” I repeat, hot tears distorting my voice.
“I don’t—”
“You can’t lie, Zwe. That’s the rule.”
I can see it happening in slow motion, like when you knock over a glass of water and watch every single preceding second in horror, as certain in your knowledge of what’s going to happen (a smashing of shards that fly everywhere) as in your ability to stop it (nonexistent).
As I watch him sit up, shoulders squaring, lips pulling into a taut line, I realize,thisis it. This is when and where and how Zwe Aung Win sucker punches my heart the way only your best friend can.
“No,” he says calmly.
“Have you likedanyof the drafts I’ve shown you?”
“No,” he repeats without any prompting this time.
“You think I’m a bad writer,” I say, unsure whether my response to this is fight or flight. “You think I’ll only ever write one good book.”
“Honestly? At this rate? Maybe,” he scoffs, running a frustrated hand down his face. Each word is a fresh blow to my chest.
“I thought you were my friend!” My voice has raised several octaves, but I can’t give a single fuck about anyone hearing me.
“You know what your problem is?” he snaps. “You’re so obsessed with writing a book that your agent and editors and reviewers and readers will love that you’ve given up on writing a bookyou’lllove. No, I don’t think your book with a time-traveling manhole will be good. Frankly, it makes no sense and sounds boring, andyousound bored when you talk about it. You know why your first book was as fucking good as it was? Because you didn’t give a shit if anyone hated it. All that mattered was thatyouloved it.
“And now, now you’re too busy making up imaginary competitions with authors you’ve never even met! You don’t make time for your parents or Soraya or me or anybody that’s not you. Hell, even right now, you’re thinking about your book, as though there’snothingelse that could be more important. And sorry to break it to you, but your problems aren’t that important in the grand scheme of things. Poor you, with onlyoneinternationally bestselling book. It would sound like a joke if that wasn’t exactly the sob story you’ve been spinning. I don’t recognize you at all anymore. You make having to go back to working at the bookstore sound like hell on earth, when newsflash, that’s whatIdo! I have tried to be understandingand patient, but it’s clear now that I’m waiting around for a version of you that’s long gone.”
Reset,I scream in my head.Reset, reset, reset.
