“No.” He smiles his benevolent hero smile. I think they’ve given him new teeth. “You were right. We had to get out of there.”

There’s a big difference, I think, between leaving by yourself in an old Mercury with a fistful of tip money and being whisked away in first class by a fairy godmother casting director. Before he was discovered, his dreams were only as big as a double wide and a job at the factory, a child bride to make him venison burgers, finally being old enough to buy beer. The waiter comes with our food, saving me before I say something snotty.

There are different colored sauces swirled on the plates, grill marks on the bread, and green beans in some sort of dressing, stacked like pick-up sticks on the side.

Matthew eats the green beans but leaves his sandwich. His movements are mechanical: take a bite, rest fork on plate, chew, wipe mouth, sip water, wipe condensation on napkin, pick up fork, start again. The stack of beans dwindles slowly. I wonder if someone taught him how to eat. I remember him devouring an entire foot-long sub in nanoseconds, eruptions of shredded lettuce spewing all over the couch.

I try to leave my sandwich too, but I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten more than a street pretzel since I got into New York, and with the exception of a sandwich at the coffeehouse, my meals lately have mostly consisted of Slim Jims and corn nuts. I pull my sleeve over my wrist under the table every time I put my fork down.

“I went home a few weeks ago,” he says between green beans. “I did a signing at the Big M. Crazy. It was mobbed.”

“The women of Little River do love their soaps.”

“Brandy Baker was there, waiting in line for an autograph.”

“Seriously?”

Brandine Baker was head cheerleader and class president, and after being in school with her since kindergarten, she called me June at the homecoming dance when she wanted to borrow my hair spray.

“Man, she peaked in high school.” He laughs and holds his arms out from his sides to show me how she’s gotten fat.

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“She’s already had two kids.”

We would’ve too, I think, and I’m not sure if that would be good or bad anymore. “I hope nobody thinks I peaked in high school,” I say.

“You haven’t peaked yet,” he says, his yellow eyes squinting in the sunlight.

I know he means it as a compliment, but I think I could find an insult in it if I wanted to.

Two women with lots of shopping bags get very close to our table on their way out. “It is him,” one whispers loudly to the other.

Matthew looks up and smiles at them, flashing pearly porcelain teeth.

The women scurry out in a mess of rustling shopping bags and sighs.