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Except I replay that kiss in my head over and over and over.
Chris comesinto the kitchen that night while I’m cooking. I look up from the vegetables I’m chopping, watching as he braces himself against the island counter.
“Sara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” His bun is sagging, hair falling loose around his face, signs that he’s been messing with it.
“You didn’t scare me. I’m worried.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and mutters, “Me too.”
I put the knife down and cross my arms. “Let’s talk it out,” I urge. “Maybe I can help.”
Chris lets out a long breath. “Okay.”
I open the fridge. “Wine?” I ask as I pull out a half-drunk bottle of Riesling.
He shakes his head and disappears to the mini bar in the living room. Glasses clink, and he returns with a glass tumbler with an inch of dark liquid and a bottle of whiskey. He straddles the bar stool, and I hold my wine glass up. “Prost.”
“Prost.” He clinks his glass to mine, and while I take a sip, he knocks the whole thing back. I lean against the counter while Chris pours himself another finger of whiskey.
“What’s going on?”
He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer, but then he sighs and confesses. “I’m stuck.”
“I gathered,” I tease, giving him a small smile, but he’s not ready for that yet, so he lets out a noise like a harrumph and looks away.
“I made this thing, and it was so good, and people loved it, and they want more from me, but I don’t know if I have more. Everything I work on is crap now. I’ll just be some guy who did a thing and then disappeared into obscurity again. Not a guy who . . . who . . .”
He fishes around for the right words and says something in German. “I want to be the guy that leaves a mark. I can’t do that if I don’t do more than just this one thing.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What have you done to get yourself out of the rut?”
Chris gestures to the house. “I came here to remove myself from distractions, to get out of the city and . . . I don’t know. Get in a better headspace?”
“It sounds more like you are trying to change who you are. Why do you think you need to change yourself?”
He glares at me. “I just know. I just feel the emptiness inside my brain that tells me I need to change if I want to be good enough for the band.”
Well, that’s a can of worms to open. “Okay, but what did you actually change? You moved your person in regards to space, but you are still the same you. How can you change things up and become a different you?”
“I don’t know!” he says, anger and frustration coloring his voice.
He glares into his drink while I heat a bit of broth in a wok, allowing bubbles to form at the edges before I toss in my vegetables.
“I heard once that impostor syndrome is your brain getting ready to level up,” I tell Chris.
“Impostor syndrome?”
“Yeah, like when you think everything you do is crap and you aren’t a success and nothing’s good enough. It’s just your brain working out how to do things better. Starting over and over again and practicing to get better.”
Chris is quiet, and I let the sizzle of the vegetables be the only noise.
“How do you get out of it?” he asks quietly.
I shrug. “I guess you keep going. Power through. But it doesn’t hurt to change things, right?”
“I don’t know what to change,” he admits.
“Look, I’m going to offer these suggestions because they’re things I can help you with. Maybe the answer is, like, skydiving or fried Twinkies, but you're stuck with me, so I’m going to suggest you try meditation or yoga.”
