Two years ago, half-joking after a few beers, he’d sent three of my old stories to an agent friend of a coworker, expecting nothing. Priya wrote back within a week, asking who “Emily R.” was and whether she had more.
“I should have told you the second she replied,” he said, rubbing both hands over his face. “I know that. I told myself I’d stop the moment it started feeling real, and then it kept almost being real, and I kept thinking — one more step, and then I’ll tell her. I finished the two stories you never finished because I knew how you wanted them to end, Em, I’d heard you talk about them for years. I signed for you because Priya needed something on file before your birthday, and I panicked, and I forged four letters of your name in a hotel lobby feeling like the worst person alive the entire time.”
