Arun relaxed against the cushions. “I mean, think about it. Your comic goes viral, it’s bought by some hip feminist studio, you might get a bigshot writing gig in LA?”

“She’s supportive.”

“No kidding.” Arun leaned forward, elbows on knees. “But think about it, Leigh. What’s Maggie doing?”

“Right now? Waiting.” I dropped stiffly into a chair. With no one to confide in, I hadn’t faced a hard truth in months.

“No, honey. She quit her job. She’s editing, like, ten pages a week for some startup.”

“But that’s her choice.” That last night of Maggie’s novel, she’d typed feverishly since predawn. She’d requested a stay on dinner, then another. As bedtime approached and we still hadn’t eaten, she shoved her laptop off the couch. “It’s all made up.” Her fingers fluttered on the air. “Completely fake.” Panic flickered in her eyes, but her body sagged in relief. Maggie’s novel was a drug. She’d worked on it constantly, miserably. She was a great writer—this was obvious even from her goofy road trip yarns—but writing made her miserable.

Arun watched me. “Do you really believe she’d give up?”

“It was sad, yeah, but she said she wanted it.” Guilt tugged at me. I suppose I should’ve tried to change her mind. I’d been too relieved to have my girlfriend back.

“Meanwhile, teen girls are coming over your turtles on Snapchat. And she’s doing nothing. You really believe that?”

I should’ve worked through the abandonment of her novel, ascertained Maggie was all right. I should’ve offered to read her book, or at least assured her I believed in her. We hadn’t talked about ourselves in ages. The kid question had subsumed us. If we discussed her novel, or LA, we circled back to kids. But I understood, with Arun’s disapproving gaze settling over me, that I should’ve forced the issue.

“That’s why this is good.” I gestured at Arun, accidentally aiming at his groin. We both grimaced. “Really, though. I’ve done what I wanted to do. And now I can do this.” Instead of this I almost said what Maggie wants to do.

Arun shook his head. “I should shut up.” His face softened like it would at a child. “But she’s still working on her novel, Leigh. She has been all this time.”

My body tightened. “What do you mean.”

“It’s going well,” he whispered. “Really well. So you don’t have to worry.” He leaned back and nodded, as though waiting for me to leap from my chair and dance.

“Oh.” My mouth stayed frozen. Maggie had been lying? Sneaking off to write? When? While I was asleep? When she was pretending to freelance? When I was in LA? I saw her waking at four after I left for a business trip, indulging in fifteen hours of writing, twenty, forsaking meals and snacks and the bathroom, her eyes burning dry, thrilled and alive. I’d understand if the work was going badly, if she wanted to turn the corner before she shared the news. But Maggie couldn’t write around me, couldn’t celebrate. Because of the turtles, or something else. “I knew that.”