Page 30 of Level Up for Love

“You’ve never been to this park before?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I only moved here a couple of months ago.”

“But even in college, you never visited New Haven?” Our college is farther north, but still, New Haven is popular enough to be worth the hour’s drive.

Wesley looks at me sidelong. “I barely left campus. I’m not from here originally.”

“Oh.”

“Massachusetts,” he says.

“Right.” I raise my latte to my lips and take a long drink before narrowing my eyes at him. “Why are you here now? Why New Haven?” It comes out more aggressive than I intend it to, but I don’t take it back.

He tenses. “It seemed as good an option as any when I didn’t have many options at all, after what happened at Hurricane.” He doesn’t bother to clarify, and he’s not wrong to assume I would have heard about such industry-shaking news. “It’s where my friends were. Colin was looking for a roommate, and Arthur hired me for some part-time work fixing his website and picking up shifts at his hardware store.”

Wesley settles a deadpan stare on me, his eyes tight with exasperation. “Can you believe it? When my life fell apart, I didn’t just move here to make yours more complicated.”

Oof.

I let the silence stretch for a few moments, punctuated only by the excited shrieks of playing children and the crunching of leaves underfoot. The air feels colder as the sun slowly dips behind the trees.

“I am sorry,” I say eventually. “About your job.”

“Sorry that I lost it, or sorry that it means I ended up here?”

I release a measured exhale. “I’m sorry your game got shut down. I really am.” I loved playing Legends of Lore in high school, but it’s more than that. Having your game canceled is a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, and Wesley’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to having one of those. It’s an awful reality of the industry. The game dev part of me wants to ask more—how far the game had gotten, what role he’d played in it—but we’re not on that level. I’m not sure we’ll ever be, especially after this conversation. But even so, just between two creators, I know enough to say, “I imagine it meant a lot to you.”

Wesley sighs and looks away. His head bobs in a tiny nod. “Thank you.”

I take another sip of coffee before speaking again. “So,” I say. “What about the game did you want to talk about?”

I can’t for the world imagine why he starts smiling. It’s a half-hearted thing, a hint of amusement that tugs one corner of his mouth upward. When he meets my eyes, I see that his are crinkled in the corners. “Are you having fun?”

I blink. “Am I having fun?”

“Yes, Reagan.” There’s that old impatience. Keep up, his tone says. “Are you even enjoying yourself? I can handle it when you challenge me in-game”—there’s a weighted pause, an unasked Can you?—“but you seem miserable.” He takes a drink from his cup, holding my gaze as he does it. “Some of the other players have asked.”

I exhale a doubting laugh. “They’ve asked whether I’m miserable?”

“No. They’ve asked whether I’m going to keep letting you yell at me at my table.”

I swallow. Here it is. “Are you?” I ask.

“No. Are you going to stop picking fights?”

Are you? I think sourly. I wet my lips before I speak. “I do think it’s bad form to have a player die so early in the campaign.”

“Did Colin seem upset? Did he tell you something he didn’t share with me?”

His tone sounds patient, but I know his questions are rhetorical. Colin is Wesley’s friend, not mine—and no, he hadn’t seemed even a bit perturbed to have his character drained dry.

“I just…it’s not the kind of tone I would want to set for my players right at the beginning,” I say.

He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Are you always the DM in your games?”

“Always,” I confirm. “I’m not used to playing a character.”

“Of course. That makes so much sense for you.” He chuckles under his breath as his pointer finger idly scratches against the wood of the bench’s backrest, only a few inches from my shoulder. I try not to stare at it. “I remember all the books you had back then.”