I’m still a little salty about that even though I know he’s right.

He reaches over and pats my hand.

“If it makes you feel any better, your questions have gotten a lot better.”

I roll my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say. “I only ask questions for a living.”

Gabe chews. Swallows.

“About that,” he says.

“About how I’m bad at what I do?”

He ignores my goading.

“Whatever happened to the dragons?” he asks.

My hand—which was on a journey from the bag of fries to my mouth—freezes. I know what he’s talking about. The story. The only piece of fiction I’ve ever had published.

Something I’ve been thinking about more and more these days. A certain type of creative torture. Teasing myself with something I can’t have.

“I hate to tell you this…” I try for casual. Light. “Dragons don’t exist.”

“Ha,” he says. “You know what I mean.”

I eat my fries, not really wanting to answer.

“It’s not what people want from me.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks.

“Are you my therapist?” I ask.

The sharp words echo in the amazing acoustics.

“Just someone who thinks you’re talented,” Gabe says, effectively cutting my anger off at its knees.

I breathe out.

“Can you imagine what my agent—what my editor—would say if instead of writing the third collection of essays they’ve been asking for, I told them I wanted to write fiction? Not even literary fiction, but a book about dragons and witches and fairy tales.”

I don’t have to imagine it. I already know their response.

They all thought I’d been joking. So I said that I had.

“I imagine,” Gabe says, “that if they’re the right agent and the right editor for you, then they would at least want to read what you came up with.”

I want to tell Gabe that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. That he doesn’t understand what it’s like to build a career on a certain type of image, and that changing that could mean losing everything.

Except, he does understand.

It isn’t a joke to him.

“Jeremy didn’t think it was a good idea,” I say.

It feels pathetic to say it out loud—that I let my ex-husband tell me what I should—or shouldn’t—do with my career. But no less pathetic than letting anyone tell me what to write.

“Well, if Jeremy didn’t think it was a good idea,” Gabe says.

His tone is as dry as a desert.

“He’s a successful writer,” I say.

“So are you.”

I’m looking at my sandwich as if it might contain the answers to life instead of just turkey, avocado, and cheese.

“I’m scared,” I say.

I’ve never admitted that out loud. Barely admitted it quietly to myself.

“Yeah,” Gabe says. “It’s scary.”