Because I want to know. I want to know what happened to the boy I used to fall asleep with on the couch.

“Idle curiosity. I started writing for the first time a few months after.”

Ryan puts the TV on mute. “I started working out a lot. I think people would have been impressed, but I also grew an off-putting beard, so they kind of cancelled each other out.”

“I doubt that,” I say lightly, “I’m pretty sure ninety-eight percent of the dating pool would vote ‘yes’ for a muscular bearded man.”

“No, I’m not talking about a scruffy, emotionally-wounded lumberjack beard. I mean a creepy, belligerent old-fisherman-blacked-out-at-the-end-of-the-bar kind of beard. Think Forrest Gump in the last leg of his cross-country run.”

“Those were highly effective visuals.”

“I try my best. So, yeah, I went through a temporary werewolf metamorphosis while you jump-started your literary career. I guess one of us handled the split better.”

“I think I would have started writing regardless if we broke up or not. You were just the springboard that made me move at a faster pace.”

“How did you decide what to write?” Ryan asks.

I get more comfortable in the chair, pulling a blue fleece blanket up to cover my legs as I lean back into the cushions. We set a timer for the thermostat, so the room is already getting chilly.

“I was sitting on the stoop at my mom’s house one day as I finished reading what felt like my millionth romance novel. I tried to imagine what I would come up with if I were a novelist and decided to write a chapter. I went inside and was done an hour later. I printed it out, gave it to my mom and she liked it.”

“And a writer was born.”

“After that I just kept going. I took it one chapter at a time and gave each one to my mom for feedback. It was nice for us. It was a good distraction from my dad.”

Ryan smiles but it’s not happy. It’s regretful.

“It also felt amazing to have my mom enjoying something I wrote. She’s never thrown a lot of praise my way, so I was basking in it whenever she would read my work.”

“I’m sure she’s proud of you now, though. You’re a successful author, self-made and living in New York City. You’re a great person. She probably brags about you all the time.”

“I doubt it,” I mutter, knowing too well how in her eyes, I still don’t measure up.

“Why would you say that?” Ryan seems genuinely confused and in a strange way, it makes me feel better. He thinks I’m someone worth bragging about.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s just hard to impress.”