“I said, fuck Jake Gyllenhaal.” He blinks twice before looking back at the road. “I’m sorry, what?” There’s laughter in his voice, and I wonder if maybe I was wrong about him being my dream man over all these years because this is a serious subject, and he’s brushing it off. Even in pretend, I can’t be with a man who doesn’t understand the direness of how terrible Jake Gyllenhaal is. “Fuck Jake Gyllenhaal. He didn’t even show up at her birthday party.” He keeps staring blankly at me like I’m crazy, alternating between the road and me. “It was her 21st.” “I’m sorry, are you . . . Are you
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