This was probably one of the last questions I would be able to ask him.

“Do you want to hear about the trip we’re planning to Italy?” he asked politely. “I’m taking my whole family—my mom, Lauren, Lena, and my brother-in-law, Spencer. He’s never been out of the country before.”

I knew that’s what every other interviewer would ask him.

“How did you know that you’d become successful?” was what I ended up with.

Of course, it came out all wrong.

I flung it at him, like an accusation. Like I didn’t believe he was successful.

And that’s how he took it.

“You think I could do better than playing James Bond?” Gabe asked.

His tone was light, but it seemed like there was a hint of doubt underneath it.

Ridiculous. Gabe Parker did not need his ego stroked.

And it wasn’t really the question I was asking.

I shook my head. “I’m trying to ask how you knew that it was time to start fulfilling the list?”

It still wasn’t right, but at least it made a kind of sense.

Maybe not.

Gabe looked at me, visibly confused.

“I guess what I’m asking is what makes you—Gabe Parker—feel like a success?” I asked, continuing to blabber when his expression didn’t change. “You know, for some people, success might mean honors and accolades. My ex, for example, said he would never feel like a success unless he’d won a National Book Award or some other big-name award like that.”

“The Novelist,” Gabe said.

There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

I ignored it. “But for me, I mean, I think of success as being able to work whenever and as often as I want. Being able to support myself comfortably just through my writing.”

Gabe leaned back in his chair, the puppy now propped up against his chest, the weirdest and most beautiful version of Madonna and Child that I’d ever seen.

“No one’s ever asked me that,” he said.

“I’m sure they all want to know what’s on the list,” I said.

He nodded. The puppy yawned.

“So?” I asked. “What does success look like to Gabe Parker?”

He looked at me and didn’t say anything for a good long while. If it wasn’t for the unwavering eye contact, I might have thought he’d fallen asleep or something.

But he was over there thinking. Thinking hard.

Then, without looking away, he raised his hand, indicating for the check.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

THE_JAM_DOT_COM.BLOGSPOT.COM

I’M NOT GOOD. I’M NOT BAD. I’M JUST WRITE.

SOMEONE ONCE SAID THAT CHOOSING to be a writer was like choosing to be slapped in the face repeatedly.

Was it Salinger who said it? Hemingway?