“I’m not saying that you’re proving my point,” Nick says gently. “But you’re staring into the middle distance with a concerned look on your face. What are you thinking about?”
I shake it off. “No, no. This was supposed to help me understandyou.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he says, pointing at William Shatner on the screen. “I’m a Kirk. Loyal to a fault, sometimes too impulsive, lead with my heart, not my head. In too deep, too fast.”
“And kind of a slut?” I say.
“I’ve had my moments.”
“I’m still waiting for the wild stories from the Nickelback tour.”
“I’ve mellowed out since Kira was born. Sometime during the pandemic, I realized that I like staying in. I got really comfortable not meeting people. Too comfortable.” He gestures at the TV. “I’ve been in this sort of…coma.”
“You’vebeen in a coma? Wait till you experience my riveting lifestyle. Oh, that’s right, you’ve alreadyheardthe most enthralling part of my day.”
Nick looks down for a moment, like he’s debating what to say next. “I don’t do this—I never have a reason to do this—but I looked at your Instagram.”
“You stalked me?” I feel myself beaming.
“I quickly glanced at your profile,” he says. “And you obviously had this full life, and you went out and had these friends.”
“In New York. In 2019.” The operative word there ishad.
I’ve barely posted since then. When I do, the posts are kindof vague and existential. I guess I’m operating under the delusion that if I create a veil of mystery around my whereabouts, my internet acquaintances will assume that I’ve been building a real life for the last five years instead of posting selfies. Most of my grad school friends don’t even know that I’m still living in Columbus.
“I get that things have changed,” he says. “I mean, my life used to be so spontaneous. I traveled, I followed jam bands, got my nose broken. I did every kind of mushroom. Fell in lust with every kind of woman.”
“Youarea Kirk!”
“I used to meditate all the time,” he says. “I really thought I was this, like, spiritual guy. I’d do yoga. I went to Burning Man.”
A wild laugh escapes my mouth. “That’s kind of hilarious.”
“Years ago. When it was completely different.”
“Sure.” I nod, fake seriously.
“And now I kind of see all that as pointless bullshit.” He rubs at his shoulder. “Because despite my claims of righteousness, from what I barely remember, I mostly did that stuff to meet girls and do drugs—”
“To be fair, that is the Dream for most people.”
“—and now I’m looking at myself and my life and my gut—”
“I like your dad bod.”
“—and I’m literally this very different person now. I’m afraid to even show you photos of me in my twenties.”
I’m so used to being the mildly self-conscious one I can’t really process this.
“Can I look upthatguy’s Instagram? Or did you have MySpace at that point in history?”
He ignores my dig. “You’ll be, like, ‘What happened? Why did I get the version of this guy with the back that’s always hurting?’ ”
“For some reason, I’m picturing a darker-haired Thor.”
“I’ll let you believe that.”
“Would you rather remain in the coma?” I ask. “Because I can try the Vulcan nerve pinch.”
