“One reviewer just... tore it apart.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Like maybe they saw what my dad sees—that I’m just fooling myself about being good at this.”
“One review doesn’t define your work.”
“But what if it’s the honest one? What if everyone else is just being nice?” He finally looks up. “My dad texted me after that review came in, like he couldsenseit. Said he’s ‘concerned about my future’ and wants to discuss ‘backup plans’ over spring break.”
“Ethan—” I take his hand across the table. “Your dad’s wrong.”
His eyes flick down to my hand on his.
I jerk it away.
“Is he though? Because sometimes I wonder if I gave up everything just to prove I could. Like maybe this whole game design thing is just me being stubborn.” His eyebrows crease together. “What if that’s all I am? Some ex-jock pretending to be an artist?”
“Stop. You’re not pretending anything.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am sure. The way you talk about storytelling, the way you see the world... that’s real talent.”
He squeezes my hand. “This is why I need honesty, Pip. Even when it hurts. Because the not knowing, the secrets—that’s what really messes with my head. Makes me doubt everything.”
“I get that.”
“Do you?” His eyes search mine. “Because after Paige, after realizing everyone knew the truth but me... Ican’tdo that again. I’d rather have brutal honesty than comfortable lies. At least, that way I know what’s real.”
I understand what he means.
“My dad wants me to know I can still come home. Work at the hardware store. ‘Learn the value of honest work,’” he quotes bitterly. “Like what I’m doing isn’t honest. Like creating something from nothing isn’t real work just because it might fail.”
“You’re not going to fail.” I am so sure of it.
“That reviewer seemed pretty sure I already had.” He tries for a smile. “Sorry. I’m being too heavy. Just... sometimes, I feel like I’m constantly trying to prove I made the right choice, and everyone’s just waiting for me to admit I didn’t.”
“I promise,” I say. “You can trust me. No comfortable lies.”
“Thank you.” He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles gently. “I know I’m probably too sensitive about this stuff. But when you’ve spent your whole life being told you’re one thing, trying to be something else feels like... like betraying everyone who believed in you.”
“Orlike finally being honest about who you are.”
“Maybe.” He looks at me with such vulnerability. “I just hope I’m good enough at this to make it worth disappointing him.”
The weight of his confession hangs between us for a moment too long. I can see him starting to retreat, that vulnerability shuttering behind his usual defenses.
“Wow,” he says suddenly, forcing a grin. “Way to makecoffee traumatic. Next I’ll be telling you about my recurring nightmare where Greg leaves me for a succulent.”
“Ethan—”
“No, seriously. He packs his little plant bags, says something about needing ‘less needy foliage,’ and just walks out. Roots and all.” He’s fully committed to the bit now, hands gesturing wildly. “I wake up in a cold sweat every time.”
I want to call him on the deflection, but I can see he needs this. Needs to retreat from that raw place he just showed me. So I play along.
“Greg would never. You’re clearly his soulmate.”
“You think?” His grin turns more genuine. “Even though I sometimes forget to rotate him so he grows evenly?”
“Especially then.”
“I am very lovable,” he agrees, but his eyes are saying thank you for letting him dodge.
