“It needs to be. I overheard you. Thought you were perceptive. Waited until you were alone and asked what you thought of the piece beside it.”
“What did I say?”
“That the artist was trying too hard.”
A surprised laugh escapes her. “That does sound like me.”
“I asked for your number. You made me work for it. Asked me three questions first.”
“What questions?”
“My favorite movie. Whether I believe in second chances. What I’m most afraid of.”
She leans forward, interested now. “And what did you answer?”
“Casablanca. I saw it when it first—” I stop. Recalibrate. “On Criterion. The restoration.”
She tilts her head. The pause didn’t escape her. I can see her noting it, storing it away.
“I do believe in second chances,” I continue, “because people change, and growth deserves recognition.” This, at least, is true. I’ve watched humans transform themselves across decades. Watched them become unrecognizable from who they started as. “And I’m afraid of being forgotten.”
The honesty surprises me. I hadn’t meant to say something so real.
“Casablanca,” she repeats. “Very classic.”
“You disapprove?”
“No. It’s just very...” She gestures with her wine glass. “You.”
“What about our first date?”
“Dinner,” I say. “Somewhere like this. Intimate. I wanted to impress you.” I pause, reaching for a memory before I remember it’s one I shouldn’t have. “There was a place in Beverly Hills. L’Ermitage. The maître d’ knew exactly how I—”
I stop. L’Ermitage closed in the early ’90s. Over thirty years ago. I was careless.
“L’Ermitage?” Poppy frowns, grabbing her phone.
“You wouldn’t have heard of it. Before your time.” The phrase comes out wrong—too old, too distant. I try to recover. “My father used to take me. When I was young. I get nostalgic.”
She’s looking at me strangely. I’ve made too many errors. TheCasablancaslip. Now this.
“We’ll say we went to Providence,” I amend. “The tasting menu. You wore something green. Green suits you.”
“I don’t own anything green.”
“Then you should buy something. For the wedding.”
She watches me, noting the inconsistencies, the strange phrasing, the way I talk about decades-old restaurants like personal memories.
But she doesn’t push. Instead, she takes a sip of her wine and says, “Tell me about my work. What do you think I do?”
“You create content. People watch. They feel connected to you without ever meeting you.” I lean forward, genuinely curious. “How do you do that? Build that type of intimacy with strangers?”
“You say that like it’s a science experiment.”
“Isn’t it? You’ve found a way to make hundreds of thousands of people feel like they know you. That’s not trivial.”
“Most people think it’s just posting selfies.”
