Funny You Should Ask

by Elissa Sussman

But the thought of sitting across from Gabe Parker after all these years, pretending I haven’t replayed that weekend over and over in my head, pretending I don’t still think about the moments we shared, pretending that what I tell everyone is the truth and that nothing really happened between us…

I’m pretty sure that if I were pregnant, my water would have broken at that exact moment.

A part of me had been praying that Gabe Parker’s good looks were mostly manufactured. I was swiftly and immediately proven wrong. He. Was. Glorious.

There was a slight manic quality to him that seemed more noticeable in the car—like he was literally overflowing with excess energy.

“Then maybe you should be worried.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “But just a little.”

I’m single again. I didn’t cry but I did eat a lot of ice cream.

“The Novelist,” Gabe said. There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. I ignored it.

It’s also the reason I’m pretty sure that no one actually chooses to be a writer. It’s a terrible choice.

He laughed. It was a great laugh, all low and dark and rich. If chocolate cake had a laugh, it would be that.

“Chani,” Gabe says. He has a beard now. But he still knows how to say my name.

A combination of that and who he’d been ten years ago. Boyish. Open. Carelessly handsome. He’s still handsome—breathtakingly so—but it isn’t careless anymore.

Contradictory bitch that I am, I prefer this look. I don’t mind that he’s gained weight. Don’t mind that I can see a curl of chest hair peering out from the undone top button of his shirt. Don’t mind that he’s gotten older. I’d seen a hint of what it had cost to look

If I’m not careful, I’ll crack. I’ll smile at him. I’ll melt.

“How does that feel?” I ask instead. Even if I want to know the truth, this isn’t the time. “Maintaining your sobriety for that long?” He leans back. “Honestly?” “Of course,” I say. “It’s the accomplishment I’m proudest of,” he says. “Bond is nothing in comparison.”

It’s not because it’s the one that went viral, and got me an agent and a book deal. It’s because it was special. Because I made it special.

“You moved to New York,” he says. “It’s what writers do.”

“You hate New York,” he says.

We both eat our burgers, and when I’ve finished my fries, I push the remainder of them toward him. He finishes them without a word.

“He’s more forgiving than he should be,” Gabe says. “I don’t know if I’d do the same thing in his shoes.” “Yes, you would,” I say. He smiles. I almost cave—his smile is just that good, that familiar—but

It makes me unbearably sad, the passage of time hitting me like a load of bricks. Ten years. Ten years have passed.

That isn’t true—not exactly. I can’t remember the specific feel of that specific part of Gabe’s body but I do remember that I liked everything that I touched. And I do remember how much I liked it.

“I didn’t expect you to show up at my house with your very big eyes and your bad questions and your smart mouth and…”

“What is this?” I ask again, gesturing emphatically between us. “What do you want from me?” He seems speechless at the question, and I wait for what feels like an eternity for him to answer. “I wanted to see you,” he finally says.

Instead, he did the same thing he’d done when he saw me on the red carpet—a long, agonizingly slow look—from the top of my head to the tips of my aching toes.

All the touching I’d tried to avoid was happening now. From chest to knees. We were pressed up against each other, my hand trapped between us, his palm flat against my lower back. He felt good. He felt incredibly good.

His thumb stroked my clavicle and I sighed. It wasn’t loud enough that he would have heard, but he definitely felt it. I could tell, because he smiled. A slow, wicked smile.

“I could make you happy,” he says. I swallow. Hard. “Yeah?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Show me,” I say.

“I thought we’d established that I’ve read everything you’ve written.” It’s one of the hottest things anyone has ever said to me.

Would I ever know if my work was good enough on its own? Would I ever know if I was good enough?

“It’s true what they say,” he says. “That you can’t get sober for other people. Because if that was true, then I would have been able to do it for them. For him.”

“She’s a teen girl,” I say. “I think their genetic disposition is to be silent and surly for at least two years, maybe three.”

One time I was signing someone’s book for them and they told me I was overrated. A reviewer once wrote that I wasn’t pretty enough to be so angry. My favorite, however, was the ten-paragraph email I got that broke down everything that was wrong with the first essay in my first collection and informed me that I should expect more of the same type of criticism for each following chapter. He had also attached an invoice for the work he’d done and an address where I could send the check.”

All marriages, just like all countries, have conflict. Sometimes patriotism is strong enough to overcome it—weighing what is shared against what could be lost—but sometimes, the conflict highlights that the country itself was founded on unsteady ground.

“It’s kind of charming,” I say. “That you wanted to, but couldn’t.”

We’re older now, and it’s clear that both of us know exactly what we want and there’s something so very hot about that. About that knowledge. That history. That experience.

“I guess I really like dragons, then,” he says. “Because by the time you walked up to my front door, talking to yourself, I think I was already halfway infatuated with you. It wasn’t just the story, I don’t think, though it was good. It was the way you wrote it. The way your brain worked. I liked that. A lot.”

“I love your clever mind. I love your hair and your butt. I love how fucking brilliant you are, how bold and how brave. I love that Teddy loves you. And I’m pretty sure that my family loves you too. I love your ideas, your stories. And mostly I love your very big eyes and your very smart mouth.”