He couldn’t understand that, she thought, because he had no purpose to his life. He was a couch potato. He’d reverted back to childhood. He was a wasteoid. He was the man of her dreams, and she was afraid living with him would be a nightmare. His laziness and lack of motivation would drive her crazy. And what would happen when he frittered away his millions? Sad, she thought. Very sad. She sighed at him and shook her head. “Poor Dave.”

He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t think it sounded good. “Poor Dave?”

“Your life is boring!”

“How can you say that? I bought a train today.”

Kate felt her anger rise. He wasn’t perfect. Dammit. He’d made her care about him, and now he was turning out to have a major character flaw. She’d been daydreaming about him all day. She’d considered a relationship. She’d even thought about marriage. And here he was, playing with trains.

“You know what you’re doing?” she said. “You’re raining on my parade.”

“Want to run that by me again?”

“When are you going to grow up?”

“I am grown-up.”

She stormed off to the bathroom. “You’re not grown-up. You spend your whole day playing.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So do you. You play your cello.”

“Well, of course I play my cello. That’s a different kind of play. That’s a figure of speech,” she sputtered. She locked herself in the bathroom, stripped, and jumped into the shower. Good thing she was late, she thought. If she’d had more time, she’d have burst into tears.

Dave knew she would break their date, but he waited anyway, listening for the sound of her car. She came home a little before twelve and went to her house, not his. He wanted to believe she’d merely gone home to change, but in his heart he knew better. She was angry with him because she thought he lacked ambition. She thought fun was frivolous. She didn’t like trains.

He cringed at the thought of her discovering his attic. His most prized possessions were in the attic, and she’d hate them. She’d think he was a total fruitcake. Upstairs he had: two hundred and twelve issues of Spider-Man comic books; his Spike Jones record collection; his Dick Tracy decoder ring; seventy-three Matchbox cars; a Tonka dump truck and fire engine. And that was just the beginning. He had bubble-gum machines and a pinball machine and WWE action figures.

“Business investments,” he said to his empty house. “Mood music. After all, creative inspiration doesn’t come easy. Some people turn to alcohol, some to drugs… I like toys.”