“I’ve never been a surprise to anyone. I’m just me.”

“Something tells me that’s not true.”

That smile! Seriously, I’m weak.

“So animation? You gotta tell me more about that,” he says.

I hate talking about my art. It’s like whenever somebody asks me what my vision is, or what my story is about, or my style, I freeze up. I know how to describe it, and I know what I like. I’m a purist, an advocate of 2D hand-drawn animation where you can see the artist, the stroke of their pencil, the imperfect perfection of the brushstrokes, the way the scenery is painted like a Rembrandt. It’s my dream to be the gay twenty-first-century Mary Blair, whose psychedelic pop-arty drawings still inspire Disney animation. I also love when computer technology can be seamlessly integrated into hand-drawn work, like in Paperman. It’s not that I don’t love CGI. I do—or, rather, I can appreciate the artistry—but I love pulling from different styles and periods to come up with something that fits my vision.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Not much to say.”

“Come on.” He’s squinting at me like my lie is drawn all over my face. “Yes, you do.”

Damn. He’s not shy. Clock a bitch, why don’t ya?

“I guess the best way to describe it is love, you know. Every story is a love story of some kind. And that’s what I try to convey with my art. My love for the medium. My love for the characters I’ve created. I want to make what I never had.” My face heats up, and I stop myself because, fuck, it makes me so uncomfortable to talk about myself like this. I don’t want to seem conceited because, believe me, I’m far from the most talented person in the room—I’m just happy to be here. “What about you? Tell me about your writing.”

Jack takes that exact moment to turn away, take his briefs off, and slip into a fresh pair of shorts. I avert my eyes. As much as I can, anyway.

“Now that is personal,” he says, coming up to me and knocking his shoulder into mine. “Maybe once you show me your art, I’ll show you some of my words.”

It’s a big fucking deal to share your work with other people. If I’ve learned anything from workshopping my own art, it’s that it’s a sacred act, one that requires humility and bravery. It’s a lot like being exposed, and even though I’ve already seen a lot more of Jack than I ever thought possible after only a few hours of knowing him, something tells me seeing his naked flesh is nothing compared to reading his heart on the page. And that feels like something I’m not yet ready for. Even though I want to be.

I’m a bit breathless at the thought of this strange, beautiful man even wanting to be so open with me eventually, and it electrifies my body. I wonder if this is what all princesses feel at the start of their fairy tales when they stumble upon their princes. Or if this is just some sort of temporary spell that only fools are susceptible to.