“You hated it,” I say.

I don’t say it out of anger, but out of hurt. I need to understand. Need to know.

“Chani,” he says.

“It was a good article,” I say.

“It was,” he says.

“But you didn’t like it,” I say.

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” Gabe says.

He pauses.

“What, then?” I ask. “Just tell me.”

I’m bracing myself for the truth. Because Jeremy had been perfectly clear what he thought of it.

“I’m a good writer,” I say.

My voice cracks.

Gabe frowns.

“You are,” he says.

I wave my hands in front of my face like I’m a cat that he’s sprayed with water. I want answers and I don’t at the same time.

He comes over and sits on the couch next to me. We sink into the leather, each of us on a separate cushion, a third one in between. I put the magazine down on it.

“I—” He pauses. “I didn’t expect you to write about Sunday.”

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s talking about, and when I do, I feel a roller-coaster rush that leaves me unsteady and breathless.

“I didn’t say anything about…”

But as I’m saying it, I realize that it’s an excuse, not an apology. And as far as excuses go, it’s not a great one.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m grateful you didn’t tell people about my dad and…” He gestures between us. “You know.”

He lets out a breath.

“I’d forgotten that you were writing an article about me,” he says.

Back then, I had thought I was being so benevolent and so clever by writing around our conversation about Gabe’s father. That I’d managed to have my cake and eat it too by including the titillating humble-brag about watching Star Trek with him, not even stopping to consider that it wasn’t just the details about his father he’d hoped to keep private.

“That night, I thought that it was just you and me. Not a reporter interviewing Gabe Parker.” He spreads his hands, as if picturing his name on a marquee.

I look at the magazine, now imagining what it must have been like for him to read it for the first time. To discover that I’d shared something that he had never intended to share with anyone else.

“My team loved the article,” he says. “They were thrilled. And you are a good writer, Chani.”

He drapes his arms over his knees.

“It almost made it worse,” he says. “That you wrote about everything—about that night—in such a way that it made me feel like I was there again. Only, it felt like the whole world was there with us.”

His hand curls into a fist. Not a tight, scary one, but solid. He looks at it.